Thursday, January 20, 2005
Penis soup, that's what.
Last night I went to my sister's to lend a hand with the Did and the Goat while her husband was out of town on business. I love my sister. I love her kids. What I do NOT love is her cooking. Not even close... Granted, she made a prime rib for Christmas dinner to rival my mother's, but for all intents and purposes, my sister CANNOT cook. This is somewhat of a running joke in our family. In fact, the last time I went over when Sis needed a hand with the Little Terrorists, she made tacos. I consumed two of said tacos. And for exactly two days I experienced what is scientifically referred to as "Butt Lava". No good, dat. And 'nuff sed 'bout Sis' cookin'....
***
I pulled into the garage last night, schlepped my laundry into the laundry room and stepped into the kitchen. No screaming kids. No irate sister. Pure calm. Coast clear. And then I saw it. Then smelled it. IT. My intestinal nemesis... a big ol' skillet of bubbling, nasty taco meat (translate: ground beef mixed with a can o' refried beans and some Ortega hell) simmering silently whilst permeating the air with its vile essence.
"!!WAHN-UH, WAHN-UH!!" the red flashing lights located somewhere in my GI tract were screaming at me: "Your sister is about to serve you up your own ass on a tarnished silver platter!"
Fast forward to dinner time... the kids subsist (at least every time I've been there) on quesadillas (of the cheese variety with a side of sour cream), mac 'n cheese, or mystery meat (translate: hot dogs, chicken tenders or bologna). Let's at least get the two major food groups represented: Those That Bind and Those That Do Not Bind (on a dietary basis, they cancel each other out...).
Sis makes up a 'taco' for herself: soft shell laden with The Taco Gack and sprinkled with cheese, sliced green onions (white parts only, thank you very much) and salsa. I try to make a mostly cheesey taco thang with some of her 'cooking'. Tell ya whut... that damn taco meat could double as a denture fixitive. The Gack was sticking to my ORTEGA taco shell like dried boogers on nose hair. Ugh. Yeah... and then I ate it (but I wanted the kids' food). So shut up.
***
Bath time for the Bonzos. Aaaah yes... a blessed half hour of quiet (amidst my stomach grumblings) while the Did and the Goat play at cleaning in the jacuzzi. Sis and I are lying in the king size bed smokin' cigs and having our Grown-Up Conversation, which consisted mostly about how much we loathe our respective vehicles. She wants the new Subaru SUV that comes out in '06; I want tire cleats. And then, peace interrupted...
"Mooooommy! (The Did) jus' hit my peenits!!!!" I left 'Mommy' to smoke and went into the master bath. Never have I seen an entire tea set afloat in bath water. Amazing sight, that.
Cooter: "(Did), don't hit your brother in the penis."
Did: "But he spwashed watuh in my eyes."
Cooter: "That doesn't make it ok to hit."
Did: "Well, he onDly washes his peenits, Auntie Ang!"
At this point, the Goat proffers to me, the Cooter, a plastic bowlful of tub water.
Goat: "Andy Antchy, I made oooo sumthang!"
Cooter: "Hmm... what IS this, (Goat)?"
Goat: "Peenits soooop!!"
Kids'll say the damnedest thangs....
***
Fast forward. Again. Sorry (I know how much you'd all like to live vicariously through each and every second of my exciting life...)
I woke up in my sister's bed with the Did entwined around me like bittersweet on an old farm fence, snoring lightly. (I had no idea the Scooby Doo movie would bore me so righteously as to lull me into a dead-on hittin'-that-REM-funk 45-minute snooze). Stealth-like disentanglingishment, followed by creeping down the hall to the Goat's room to rouse the sis ensues. Geesh. I always forget what a chore it is to get. these. children. to. go. to. sleep. The Goat had asked me earlier, "Andy Antchy, wiwl you put me down?" I asked him, "What? Is your leg broken?" Humor is lost on the young...
***
The long and short (ok, mostly loooong) of it is, I got out of there at 9:20. And about two thirds of the way down Highway 6, the tacos. HIT. Discomfort is a word for prolapse. What I felt might have been akin to giving birth to septuplets THROUGH MY TEAR DUCT. Alas, I made it home. I had planned on meeting the Rog for a nightcap (in my case, a digestif), but upon unfurling my legs (and, by proxy, my lower intestine), I decided it might be a better idea to just go straight on home. To the terlet. Roger (and the bar) was spared. They owe me. Big.
***
So, Gentle Readers, do you think this is where the story ends? If so, you are sadly mistaken. (I'm sorry)...
After an hour or so of playing with the poog, I needed (yes, NEEDED) to go curl around some pillows. Gus got a prime rib bone. I got myself to bed.
Somewhere around half past the twitchin' hour or so, my eyes popped open. **Blink... blink** The bedside lamp was on. The latest Carl Hiaasen book was lodged firmly in my left armpit. **blink, blink** What woke me up? **sigh** Oh, wait... it's coming to me... it was...a... FART. Judging by the smell emanating from the fleecey goodness of my blankey, this puppy must've registered 'bout 5.4 on the Richter scale o' farts. Yes, it is true: My own butt rumblin' WOKE. ME. THE. FUCK. UP.
Big deal, you think. Alas, this happened again at 3:17 and at 4:42. Aftershocks, I guess. But still enough to wake me up. And once again, you think this is where the story ends. Suckas... not quite yet...
***
I awoke this morning full of vim and vigor. Oh wait. That's not really what it was... After the morning tenure on the porcelain goddess, I groggily looked upon my pathetic reflection in the mirror. Right eye. Check. Left eye. Check. Wait... omigod... it's all bloodshot and whiney lookin'. Holy shit... and what's that?!! A bindu? No. It's just a giant zit erupting from that lonely singular spot directly 'twixt my eyes.
Diagnosis: Extreme taco gack gaseousness trying to escape from the confines of my body (and thrice succeeding through my BUTT) took more drastic measures (aka 'The Wrong Turn at Albuquerque') and ended up in my body's equivalent of Bombay and Warangal.
Treatment: Next time, opt for the peenits soup.
Who dat snappin' back? |
***
I pulled into the garage last night, schlepped my laundry into the laundry room and stepped into the kitchen. No screaming kids. No irate sister. Pure calm. Coast clear. And then I saw it. Then smelled it. IT. My intestinal nemesis... a big ol' skillet of bubbling, nasty taco meat (translate: ground beef mixed with a can o' refried beans and some Ortega hell) simmering silently whilst permeating the air with its vile essence.
"!!WAHN-UH, WAHN-UH!!" the red flashing lights located somewhere in my GI tract were screaming at me: "Your sister is about to serve you up your own ass on a tarnished silver platter!"
Fast forward to dinner time... the kids subsist (at least every time I've been there) on quesadillas (of the cheese variety with a side of sour cream), mac 'n cheese, or mystery meat (translate: hot dogs, chicken tenders or bologna). Let's at least get the two major food groups represented: Those That Bind and Those That Do Not Bind (on a dietary basis, they cancel each other out...).
Sis makes up a 'taco' for herself: soft shell laden with The Taco Gack and sprinkled with cheese, sliced green onions (white parts only, thank you very much) and salsa. I try to make a mostly cheesey taco thang with some of her 'cooking'. Tell ya whut... that damn taco meat could double as a denture fixitive. The Gack was sticking to my ORTEGA taco shell like dried boogers on nose hair. Ugh. Yeah... and then I ate it (but I wanted the kids' food). So shut up.
***
Bath time for the Bonzos. Aaaah yes... a blessed half hour of quiet (amidst my stomach grumblings) while the Did and the Goat play at cleaning in the jacuzzi. Sis and I are lying in the king size bed smokin' cigs and having our Grown-Up Conversation, which consisted mostly about how much we loathe our respective vehicles. She wants the new Subaru SUV that comes out in '06; I want tire cleats. And then, peace interrupted...
"Mooooommy! (The Did) jus' hit my peenits!!!!" I left 'Mommy' to smoke and went into the master bath. Never have I seen an entire tea set afloat in bath water. Amazing sight, that.
Cooter: "(Did), don't hit your brother in the penis."
Did: "But he spwashed watuh in my eyes."
Cooter: "That doesn't make it ok to hit."
Did: "Well, he onDly washes his peenits, Auntie Ang!"
At this point, the Goat proffers to me, the Cooter, a plastic bowlful of tub water.
Goat: "Andy Antchy, I made oooo sumthang!"
Cooter: "Hmm... what IS this, (Goat)?"
Goat: "Peenits soooop!!"
Kids'll say the damnedest thangs....
***
Fast forward. Again. Sorry (I know how much you'd all like to live vicariously through each and every second of my exciting life...)
I woke up in my sister's bed with the Did entwined around me like bittersweet on an old farm fence, snoring lightly. (I had no idea the Scooby Doo movie would bore me so righteously as to lull me into a dead-on hittin'-that-REM-funk 45-minute snooze). Stealth-like disentanglingishment, followed by creeping down the hall to the Goat's room to rouse the sis ensues. Geesh. I always forget what a chore it is to get. these. children. to. go. to. sleep. The Goat had asked me earlier, "Andy Antchy, wiwl you put me down?" I asked him, "What? Is your leg broken?" Humor is lost on the young...
***
The long and short (ok, mostly loooong) of it is, I got out of there at 9:20. And about two thirds of the way down Highway 6, the tacos. HIT. Discomfort is a word for prolapse. What I felt might have been akin to giving birth to septuplets THROUGH MY TEAR DUCT. Alas, I made it home. I had planned on meeting the Rog for a nightcap (in my case, a digestif), but upon unfurling my legs (and, by proxy, my lower intestine), I decided it might be a better idea to just go straight on home. To the terlet. Roger (and the bar) was spared. They owe me. Big.
***
So, Gentle Readers, do you think this is where the story ends? If so, you are sadly mistaken. (I'm sorry)...
After an hour or so of playing with the poog, I needed (yes, NEEDED) to go curl around some pillows. Gus got a prime rib bone. I got myself to bed.
Somewhere around half past the twitchin' hour or so, my eyes popped open. **Blink... blink** The bedside lamp was on. The latest Carl Hiaasen book was lodged firmly in my left armpit. **blink, blink** What woke me up? **sigh** Oh, wait... it's coming to me... it was...a... FART. Judging by the smell emanating from the fleecey goodness of my blankey, this puppy must've registered 'bout 5.4 on the Richter scale o' farts. Yes, it is true: My own butt rumblin' WOKE. ME. THE. FUCK. UP.
Big deal, you think. Alas, this happened again at 3:17 and at 4:42. Aftershocks, I guess. But still enough to wake me up. And once again, you think this is where the story ends. Suckas... not quite yet...
***
I awoke this morning full of vim and vigor. Oh wait. That's not really what it was... After the morning tenure on the porcelain goddess, I groggily looked upon my pathetic reflection in the mirror. Right eye. Check. Left eye. Check. Wait... omigod... it's all bloodshot and whiney lookin'. Holy shit... and what's that?!! A bindu? No. It's just a giant zit erupting from that lonely singular spot directly 'twixt my eyes.
Diagnosis: Extreme taco gack gaseousness trying to escape from the confines of my body (and thrice succeeding through my BUTT) took more drastic measures (aka 'The Wrong Turn at Albuquerque') and ended up in my body's equivalent of Bombay and Warangal.
Treatment: Next time, opt for the peenits soup.
