Mean Gene

A Brief Stroll Down Nausea Lane

My computer grows ever more senile, to the point where it takes me an average of 20 minutes to get online from the time I sit down at my desk. The damn thing froze every time I tried to shut down, so I'd have to hit the power switch when I was done, and then go through the whole "scanning for errors" deal every time I wanted to use it. That takes a good five minutes. And then Windows has to load and after that I'd have to go into my system tray and shut down a dozen or so programs and/or spyware that I can't get rid of. Thence to actually log on, only to have my system lock up at least half the time before I so much as checked my email. Digital age my ass.

Well, I've read a few folks who use Firefox as their browser, not IE or Netscape, and since IE has given me so many headaches I need a CAT scan I decided to give it a try. And I like it. Like the tabs function. Like how easy it is to sort bookmarks, compared to IE's Jurassic method. And--here's the really good part--my computer actually now goes into standby mode. I can turn my laptop off, hit the power switch, and it comes to life raring to go. And this past weekend it only crashed once instead of 7 or 8 times. This will literally save me three or four hours of me raging against my machine.

During this happy online time I watched a bit of the final WSOP satellite, and congrats to Joe, who will be wearing his WPBT Hoop T-shirt at the table. That's the shirt I'm thinking of getting (yes, I haven't shopped at Maudie's yet) and it seems to bring good fortune. Yes, I think that's the one for me.

Let's see, what else. Oh, yes, my friends Matt and Kris celebrated their...seventh wedding anniversary yesterday? Congratulations. Though I must say that what I remember most about that day was eating the second most disgusting meal of my life. Oh, not at the reception, the grub there was fine. No, I mean what we groomsmen ate (or tried to eat) beforehand.

Picture five guys in tuxedos trying to look suave and debonair. We were about an hour away from leaving for the church and we were hanging around the house Matt had just bought, b.s.ing and drinking, but just a little. It slowly dawned on us that we were all hungry, and that we wouldn't be eating for another 4 hours at least. What to do?

Matt had only been living in the house a short while, and as he and his bride would be in Hawaii for 2 weeks he hadn't stocked the larder. The pickins were slim, unless you like drinking salad dressing out of the bottle or really savor good tap water. Ordering pizza was out, as we'd probably have to leave before delivery. Again, what to do?

I think it was Scott who burrowed into the freezer, and came up with a box. A box of something. A box of something covered with frost that, when you shook it, made some noise. Food! A quick glance revealed that it was frozen fish patties. I forget the brand, and even if I knew it I probably wouldn't reveal it for fear of ending up in litigation, but I believe the box was yellow. Anyway, fish is food. Fish is good food. We put those patties on a sheet and stuck them in the oven, despite Matt's reservations. The fish was pretty old, he warned and had been inexplicably moved from apartment to house, meaning it might not be at the peak of freshness. Or the trough of contamination. We pressed on.

If I recall, I did not take the first bite. That was Scott. He took a bite, made a Scott face, and expectorated into a napkin. "That's SO bad," he said. Everyone tried except me, and everyone thought it was hideous. Matt came up with a brillant idea--put barbacue sauce on it. That's Matt's solution to any culinary challenge, bring on the BBQ, and nine times out of ten his move is sound. Not this time. I selected an isoceles triangle of fish, sauced it, and took a bite.

Without a doubt, the most vile, disgusting thing I have ever had in my mouth. The fish was not so much fish as a vaguely aquatic jelly; the breading tasted as though the filets had been dipped into the dust that once filled Tutankhamen's sarcophgus. The sauce tasted fine--that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the sauce, combined with the gelantinous goo and the ultra-dry breading, turned what was in my mouth into what I can only describe as a "clot".

Swallowing was not an option, and I spat the horrid mess into a paper towel. "I need to shave my tongue," I groaned. We threw the rest of the mess in the trash (no biohazard container was handy) and went back to listening to our tummies grumble.

Somehow we made it to the reception, I making an attempt to ease my hunger by getting three helpings of Communion (just kidding). I do recall that when we got to the reception we groomsmen hit the cookie table, and we hit that cookie table hard.

You may be asking what my most disgusting meal might have been, but that's a story I'm going to save for another day. My digestive system can only take so much nostalgia at one time.

<< Home