Social Obligation Requires It

Had a B-A-D night last night. Doncha hate it when you (reluctantly) accept a dinner invitation to try someone ELSE’s favorite restaurant, when your entire intuitive being is SCREAMING “DON’T GO!”

But you go — social obligation requires it.

A quick scan of the menu reviews NOTHING that you WANT to order; subsequent reviews of EACH & EVERY menu item in lurid detail confirms same — leading to detailed review of menu items — Pass #3 — in a desperate attempt to “settle” on SOMETHING that you might half-heartedly be able to resign yourself into some vague display of enthusiasm for its arrival in front of you.

My consolation prize was an overpriced, undersized, raw-on-the-inside, black-on-the-outside filet mignon, replete with suspicious “whip marks”, which was (unbeknownst to this writer) secretly laced with a powerful “horse physic”.

After quitting this charade of a restaurant and upon retiring, the writer awoke from a seemingly fitful slumber due to the visitation of some evil ingested demon, summoning visions of the alien-exploding-from-the-thorax scene from “Alien” in said writer’s overly active imagination.

As the creature rapidly made its way, aided by ramped-up peristalsis, through this writer’s GI tract, it announced itself by violent kicking and thrashing, and an odd sensation of itching all over by the unwitting victim. Was it due to recent memories of the $178.00 check that the PDB (Poor Dumb Bastard) had to hand over to the nefarious proprietors of the “Doctors of Doom Inne & Vomitorium”?

Perhaps; as likely, an anaphylactic reaction to the poison vitriol propellant that the creature was undoubtedly releasing on his reckless journey through PDB’s entrails. Finally, after 6 urgent bowel movements and 152 gallons of flushed toilet water, PDB settled into a few merciful hours of respite…

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