"Wtf?" you may be asking yourself, and for good reason. I asked myself the same damn thing this morning.
So here goes: last night St Patricus and I decided to go out to dinner. The restaurant in question shall remain nameless, because every other thing I've ever had there has been wonderful, and I don't think this horrid boar thing was their fault.
We went and mostly ordered our usual favorite things, but since the beef tenderloin I'd originally wanted had a sauce with Chianti in it and I didn't want to accidentally kill myself, I decided to order something else. The Saint thought he'd remembered eating their wild boar tenderloin before, and believed it was tasty, so I decided to give it a try.
Word to the wise: don't ever eat wild boar. It is not good. It tastes like a mixture of blood, beer, and dirty, sweaty socks. I ate the damn thing anyway, because the sauce was pretty good, and I didn't want to be rude. I know, bad idea.
Incidentally, we looked this stanky boar thing up afterward, and it turns out that unless the boar is castrated shortly after birth, his boary male hormones make the meat taste kind of horrible. So unless you are willing to demand of your waiter whether the boar you are contemplating dining on has been a eunuch for a very long time, I suggest avoiding it altogether.
It was damn cold out, and while I'd gone in to grab the table, poor St Patricus had been searching for a parking spot. He finally found one half a mile away (I am not making this up), and eventually hiked over to the restaurant. I felt like an asshole. Next time I will not care whether we get a table or not. I will just stay with him.
So, of course, when the meal was over we had to hike the half mile back to the car. SO COLD. Fortunately I was wearing wool socks and hiking boots. My stomach started feeling unsettled from the damn boar taint (that is actually what it's called, which didn't make me feel any better), and I was like oh no, now I'm going to get to taste this effing boar all over again, except WORSE.
We got home without any vomiting incidents, but I felt more and more icky, and finally just decided the boar had to go. I closed St Patricus in our bedroom so he couldn't hear my boar hurl, and then proceeded to evacuate the lot, which was really a pity because the rest of dinner had been excellent. But what are you going to do? Live with boar taint? Even tiramisu couldn't get rid of that rank taste.
SO. That was done. I took my stupid handful of pills, including Attempt #2 of Restoril, after brushing my teeth to get the taste of puked up boar stink out, and got into bed. This was around 10pm. About midnight I was feeling sleepy, but also curiously like I needed more books.
This will become interesting later, I promise.
I fell asleep and woke up around noon with the strangest feeling that I had mysteriously acquired a bunch of books. I pulled my Kindle up in front of me and turned it on. Dear God. Yeah, apparently I needed books. I think I bought like 10 of them while only semi-conscious. I guess this is better than like sleep-driving to Idaho and ending up in the drunk tank or something, but I still feel bad about it.
Anyway, the aptly named St Patricus says he does not mind that I drug-bought a bunch of books, so I will try to stop feeling guilty about it. Stupid drugs. Maybe tonight I will put my Kindle in the other room when I sleep, just in case.
I can't believe I threw up a wild boar and then drug-bought like 15 lbs of books. What a weekend. Anyone else have any exciting tales?
So here goes: last night St Patricus and I decided to go out to dinner. The restaurant in question shall remain nameless, because every other thing I've ever had there has been wonderful, and I don't think this horrid boar thing was their fault.
We went and mostly ordered our usual favorite things, but since the beef tenderloin I'd originally wanted had a sauce with Chianti in it and I didn't want to accidentally kill myself, I decided to order something else. The Saint thought he'd remembered eating their wild boar tenderloin before, and believed it was tasty, so I decided to give it a try.
Word to the wise: don't ever eat wild boar. It is not good. It tastes like a mixture of blood, beer, and dirty, sweaty socks. I ate the damn thing anyway, because the sauce was pretty good, and I didn't want to be rude. I know, bad idea.
Incidentally, we looked this stanky boar thing up afterward, and it turns out that unless the boar is castrated shortly after birth, his boary male hormones make the meat taste kind of horrible. So unless you are willing to demand of your waiter whether the boar you are contemplating dining on has been a eunuch for a very long time, I suggest avoiding it altogether.
It was damn cold out, and while I'd gone in to grab the table, poor St Patricus had been searching for a parking spot. He finally found one half a mile away (I am not making this up), and eventually hiked over to the restaurant. I felt like an asshole. Next time I will not care whether we get a table or not. I will just stay with him.
So, of course, when the meal was over we had to hike the half mile back to the car. SO COLD. Fortunately I was wearing wool socks and hiking boots. My stomach started feeling unsettled from the damn boar taint (that is actually what it's called, which didn't make me feel any better), and I was like oh no, now I'm going to get to taste this effing boar all over again, except WORSE.
We got home without any vomiting incidents, but I felt more and more icky, and finally just decided the boar had to go. I closed St Patricus in our bedroom so he couldn't hear my boar hurl, and then proceeded to evacuate the lot, which was really a pity because the rest of dinner had been excellent. But what are you going to do? Live with boar taint? Even tiramisu couldn't get rid of that rank taste.
SO. That was done. I took my stupid handful of pills, including Attempt #2 of Restoril, after brushing my teeth to get the taste of puked up boar stink out, and got into bed. This was around 10pm. About midnight I was feeling sleepy, but also curiously like I needed more books.
This will become interesting later, I promise.
I fell asleep and woke up around noon with the strangest feeling that I had mysteriously acquired a bunch of books. I pulled my Kindle up in front of me and turned it on. Dear God. Yeah, apparently I needed books. I think I bought like 10 of them while only semi-conscious. I guess this is better than like sleep-driving to Idaho and ending up in the drunk tank or something, but I still feel bad about it.
Anyway, the aptly named St Patricus says he does not mind that I drug-bought a bunch of books, so I will try to stop feeling guilty about it. Stupid drugs. Maybe tonight I will put my Kindle in the other room when I sleep, just in case.
I can't believe I threw up a wild boar and then drug-bought like 15 lbs of books. What a weekend. Anyone else have any exciting tales?