Can We Say Trichinosis Boys And Girls?

04 May 2013

Story #665

R. Linda:

I had lunch with the young whippersnapper yesterday, and he was all gloomy because he does not understand why his wife is upset with his arse.

I asked what had upset her exactly, and he said (and I'll write this in English), "Well, the other day I had class (he's taking a computer class -- WHY? He's a hacker, and HE'S taking a computer class -- I ask ya what is this world coming too?), then I went to play footy (he is on a recreational soccer team) and after that, I had another game of footy (this time with his friends), and after that, we went for drinks. Manda said, "I never see you anymore." And that's not true. I was standing there right in front of her."

Oi! Really, dude? He wants a single life and a married one, but on his own terms, all at the same time. If I was on the other end of that relationship, I'd be upset, too! He has two kiddos and a wife he leaves with the kids so he can travel and take himself off for skiing and snowboarding in Colorado, then he's off to Boston occasionally to do the town up drinking at all the pubs with his friends who live there. He's up here causing havoc with me in New Hampshire, and meanwhile, the poor suffering wife is back home at Wuthering Heights by her lonesome, bringing up two of the most rambunctious kiddos on the planet. Is it any wonder she's upset?

Why she hasn't -- A. divorced his squirrelly arse, B. locked him in the cellar, or C. put an end to his sorry arse, I have notta clue.

That aside, it was where to go for lunch. Time out of his busy schedule of volunteer work in Boston. Sigh.

Again, I am writing this in English to make it easy for both of us.

He said, "A friend of mine is from South Carolina and told me about a honking barbecue joint. Let's go there."

Okay, I am not a fan of barbecue, let alone "honking" barbecue, but I bit the bullet, and off we went someplace outside of Boston. I have no clue where the hell we were. So we got out, and there were only a few cars in the parking lot, and it was 12:15, which made me suspicious the food wasn't so great. But I didn't know. Lunch in those parts will be later, erm . . . earlier. We go inside, and there are lots of staff, so I think, okay, we be early. So this young thing asks us, "booth or table?" Booth says I, because the tables are really out in the open, it's noisy, and I want to be able to hear meself think, so a booth it is.

The menu is packed with drinks, such as a Jalapeno Margarita—seriously, not for this boyo. I ordered a beer. Not Weasil. He ordered a Slathering Slinging Slammah, which was orange juice mixed with whipped cream and olive juice with a healthy dose of gin. UGH! And it looked as disgusting as it sounded.

Appetizers included Hog Tied Pau Pau Platta, Baconony Mac and Chaz with caramelised onions and a list of other things that sounded just as gross and barf-worthy. We passed on the appetisers.

Weasil ordered the Hog Heaven Spare Ribs with collard greens, baked beans, and crisps (potato chips). I ordered the pulled pork with two ribs, collard greens, cornbread and coleslaw.

The food came, and it was mediocre at best. Everything, including the collard greens, tasted the same. Blindfold me, and I would have said I had an entire plate of pork with spicy sauce. It was like everything was cooked together. As to Weasil, it was an exciting meal for the young whippersnapper. I thought that all that time spent in New Orleans eating craw daddies, dirty rice, and what have you that crawls on the ground would have perfected his palate for American southern cuisine.

"This is pink, but it still tastes like pig, and it's raw," he said as I examined the rib he held up for me to look at. Honestly, I couldn't tell because it had Carolina Red Sauce on it, so the entire thing was pink/red. Here, see for yourself.

Mind you, he had eaten all the ribs when he thought they were all RAW!

"If it falls off the bone, then it's cooked," I said, using Tonya's rule of thumb with spare ribs.

"It does, but it looks raw," but he continued to eat those ribs despite what he thought. "This is my last meal, probably," he sighed. "My tongue feels funny."

"Ohhh, that's the first sign of raw meat and a hospital trip coming on," I said, joking.

"AND that's not all; probably, this will be the last time you see me after ya drop me at the hospital. I think I might be getting trichinosis from eating raw pork."

"Oh yeah, that's right. Talk yourself into it," I said, sipping the iced tea I ordered since I was having no part of a Jalapeno Margarita or Weasil's Slammah.

"Yuppers Gabbie, this be the last time you'll have my wonderful company. You know that new watch I told ya I ordered? Have it buried with me when it gets here."

"I will if it arrives in time," I said, finishing me lunch.

"You should probably run across the street to that insurance company and take out some life insurance on me because it be a sure thing I'm gonna die from eating raw pork."

"Nah, I'll just go directly to the lawyers and sue this place for killing me, best bud," I said, wiping me mouth.

"Take a picture of this spare rib for evidence, " he said, pushing the half-eaten rib toward me. But I gave him me phone, and he took it.

The cheery waitress arrived and asked if we'd like dessert.  The dying man had to have his last dessert, so he ordered a bourbon pecan pie we could share. Before he could ask for coffee, she had probably told the rest of the staff that the two gay men would share a piece of pie. I have given up on getting upset with Weasil; it just isn't worth explaining.

"And you know the last thing I will remember on me deathbed Gabbie?"

"Okay, I'll bite what?"

"Steven Tyler. And you know what else? He ruined my last meal."

I was totally clueless, but Weasil pointed to the wall behind me, and there was Tyler looking rather vampirish. It wasn't exactly the kind of picture I'd put in an eating establishment, but there it was. And here it is for you.

 Weasil had a point on this.

"Yuppers, raw porkie, trichinosis and Stevie Tyler," Weasil sighed.

Oh my. I looked at Tyler and then turned back to Weasil.

"Looks like Tyler is saying the word trichinosis." I nodded at Weasil with a smile.

"Yeah, does. The best part of lunch was this," he said, dragging the Lay's Potato chips where I could see them.

                                                                                   

Yee-ah
 

I paid since he was too busy convincing himself he was dying. He gave me his last will and testament during the entire drive back to Boston. He wanted to be buried in my backyard because that would keep him near his "bestest bud in the whole wide whorl," and Tonya could use his grave as a garden of sorts, plant flowers over the top of it as long as they weren't bluebells because they made him sneeze. Yup, he said that, and I did tell him if he was dead, he needn't fear that. He also wanted me to put the new watch (if it arrived after burial) in a watertight box and bury it near where his head would be so he could tell what time it was!

Yes, I listened for the entire ride home, which was no short ride. I was half crazed about finishing him off meself- he does that to me! When we got into Brookline, I asked him what hospital he wanted me to drop him off at. Yes, I did. I couldn't take it anymore. He told me he'd go back to where I picked him up and keep me informed when his "lastie hours are." So I dropped his arse off, and all afternoon, I'd get ten-minute updates. Yes, I did, they said things like:

"Ima still here."

"The pig disease hasn't set in yet, but I feelies it."

"Can ya git salmonella from trichinosis? Cuz I thinkies Iz got boff."

"Prolly THIS iz me last Tweet."

"Start digging dat hole cuz Ima cumin!"

"An' dunt forgit bout dose stupid sneezy flowers!"

"I feel 1% bettah."

"No, I think the trichinosis is setting in me tongue; it's sore."

You get the idea. As of this morning, after a million Tweets last night, I see he is still among the living . . . barely.

Gabe
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