In Which mrpeenee Learns Not to Eat a Dead Cow.

This is not me, it's just a picture I found. Bitch.

That pervasive low, moaning sound? That is not Nicole Kidman attempting to "act." That is mrpeenee reacting to his barbecue bacchanal yesterday. Lord honey, I spent all night last night like a beached whale, wondering if pulling my spleen out would be worth it if it just made a little interior room.

It was not my fault. In the first place, that barbecue was good, and I speak as a Texas boy who knows from good seared cow flesh. And good barbecue out here, in the land of precious food stuffs is painfully rare. What could I do? In the second place, when faced with a platter of ribs, I instinctively react the same as I did when I was teenager in the swamps outside of Houston: I tuck in. Voraciously.

Of course, eating as one did when one was a skinny 16 year old turns out to not be all that great an idea (I always got the three meat combo platter with a side chopped beef sandwich. I never understood why anyone didn't, there are three meats there, why deny yourself? And nobody said a sandwich wasn't a side. Duh.)

I was lying in bed, dully resigned to dying of a potato salad and brisket overdose. My only concern was that if my previously expressed wish of being cremated were carried out, the resulting grease fire could have taken out the west side of San Francisco. That's just me, always thinking of others, even as my enormous intake made the bed slats creak underneath me.

Ooh, also, we had homemade (by me) brownies with ice cream and homemade (also by me) hot fudge sauce. So, ok, maybe it was my fault, but maybe it was all worth it.