Recently, I wanted a bacon cheeseburger.
It went like this:
Me: Let's grab a bite after practice, I don't feel like cooking.
Sky King: Sounds good. Where?
Me: Ummm, I REALLY want a burger. But, I should be good. So how about Elephant Bar? I could have the ahi.
SK: Buuuurrrrrgggggeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrsssssssssssssss. Yeah, Elephant Bar is fine.
SK: Can we go to red Robin? The kids'll love it. And I REALLY want a burger now, too. And those fries. Good God, those glorious fries.... (or maybe I said that part..)
Me: Okay. I deserve a burger. On lettuce. :::frowny face:::
Later that night...
Me: Yes, I would like a Bacon Burger. Protein style, no mayo, fries with no season salt.
Server Dude: Would you like cheese on that?
Me: (Should I? Gosh, that sounds good-one slice of cheese is so small, and it will be so yummy---hey, is that drool?) Um, yes please. American. No, Cheddar. Arrrggghhh!!!! Pepper jack. YES!!!! PEPPER JACK!!!!!
Server Dude:mmmm-kay. (Wow, no more cocktails for this freak....)
I enjoyed said cheeseburger, with aforementioned pepper jack. Much like a man in the desert would appreciate a glass of water. Let's face it, there is no alternative for cheese. If you think there is, you never liked cheese to begin with, you sick, sick bastard. How DARE YOU besmirch the name of cheese. Just look:
See???? All that glorious cheese. I LOVE cheese. I have REALLY had a hard time adjusting to like without cheese. :::sob:::
The next day, however, I was reminded that dairy products are not for me. Or for the ozone layer. Bad, bad, bad. For those that are squeamish, let's just say that my tummy was not feeling very well, and I will leave it at that.
Goodbye, so long, TTYL.
For the not-so-squeamish:
Holy Shit-on-a-stick! My stomach made noises like the next apocalypse, and my only rival for bathroom damage could possibly be Ace Ventura. I had demonic green clouds spewing from me for THREE FULL DAYS. Paint peeled, children scattered, husbands avoided me. I even got to the point that I disgusted myself, multiple times. I only wish we had a dog I could blame some of these horrible atomic butt bombs on.
There is a light at the end of this gas-filled tunnel. My acupuncturist, Dr. G, claims to have something that will allow me to "cheat" periodically. I'm sure at this point, Sky King would sell a child to make sure my gastrointestinal distress NEVER happens again.