Forget the Bouquet, Throw Me the Red Meat
I’m fresh back from the wedding, just out of the shower (had to get the smell of cowboys and sausage out of my hair (did you just read naughty things into that?! get your mind out of the fucking gutter. pervert), and I flew straight to my computer for a quickie.
I had a great time. I ate so much red meat. The wedding was good too, but OH MY GOD I’m so glad you vegetarians are out there because that means more meat for me. I mean, WOW. The rehearsel dinner had ribs for appetizers (and cauliflower and fruit and shit, but who wants to eat that shit when you’re in Cowtown, Texas? (no, NOT real name. goober. did you know “gullible” is not in the dictionary? seriously, go look RIGHT NOW), then the dinner options were: ribeye, sirloin, BBQ shrimp, half-rack of ribs, full rack of ribs, and oh yeah, BBQ chicken. That’s right, no vegetarian options. Not P.C, but jesus H.* christ, as far as I heard no one gave a crap because the ribs were SO FUCKING GOOD that I actually heard a woman say she had just agreed to sell her child on eBay to hide the evidence that he outted her on her low-protein diet. Besides, as far as Texans are concerned, chicken is the vegetarian option.
Over the course of Friday night through Sunday afternoon, I ate 16 ribs (big mama meaty ribs, the cows here must be raised on fucking weight-gain protein shakes), a hamburger the size of my head, 11″ of sausage (mmmmmm…. I am SO going there in my head….), and a half-pound of BBQ brisket. And chili on the drive home. It was sooooooooo good. But for the past couple hours BF and I have been moaning and rubbing our bellies and cursing each other for not packing Tums or Alka Seltzer or at least a bottle of tequila to ease our red-meat-eating woes. I can feel the huge pile of red meat weighing down my stomach, expanding into territory normally reserved for my left kidney or hopelessly-hopeful baby hatch (ie uterus), and holding ground for an extended period of time to make sure I think about what I did so I don’t do this to myself again. But shit, the ribs were SO FUCKING GOOD I would have whisked away the entire tray of ribs and run off to Vegas with it to make sure no one else got to enjoy my beloved before I did.
–rubbing belly, moaning, thinking fondly back to lunch’s BBQ brisket, and rubbing belly with affection–
I’m tired, hung-over, bloated, burpy, and sleep-deprived, so I’m going to have to wait until tomorrow morning to write out the proper post dedicated to the wedding. That I think I may have semi-ruined. Well, ruined is a strong word. I think I merely got a little carried away in my family role of comic relief… as I was going over some of the snappy one-liners with BF in the car he kept saying “uh, no, actually that’s NOT what happened, christ how much did you drink?? you don’t remember flashing the groom’s parents?” so we’ve got some goodies. Including a fuzzy-face photograph of me in a bridesmaid dress wearing cowboy boots and slamming back the margaritas. Oh, and I finally got my just-had-sex-with-boyfriend-when-dad-came-in-and-saw-me-naked story that it seems everyone acquires by the age of nineteen, so stay tuned for all forms of OEN lovin’.
*the “H” stands for HOLY FUCKING SHIT. I swear. Google it.**
**not only is “gullible” not in the dictionary, but neither is “moron.” My daddy told me so and he knows everything.
