Dinner with a Methane chaser...

So, last week, most of our original improv cohort from Dad's Garage got together for dinner at Jeff's new apartment. Although we are all still connected in various contexts, it was great to see everyone all at once. Jeff's apartment is kickass, and dinner was an excellent assortment of his surprisingly delicious cooking and items everyone brung (most of which I had to forgo because of the aforementioned sugar/white flour hiatus). The new IKEA dining table, which we all helped fund (I think we probably contributed, like, two legs) was very comfortable, though lacking in adequate chairs... thus, various coolers, crates and even the coffee table were enlisted to provide the missing seats. The best part was looking at Kevin sitting about a foot lower than everyone else on a plastic storage bin -- his chin was almost resting on the table. Hilarious.

Anyway, we're all having a good time, chattering away, when Katie, in her typically dramatic fashion, says "Oh my god, y'all..." and proceeds to tell us, in highly graphic detail, how she recently read about a new teenage "getting high" fad that consists of (I shall be clinical) collecting human excrement into a bottle and leaving it out in the sun for a few days to ferment... at which point in the story I exclaimed, "Please, Katie, I am eating here!" to which she replied, "It's okay, it's okay.... they don't eat the poop!" and then went on to explain that they inhale the fumes, pass out for awhile, then wake up utterly hallucinogenic and, as Kevin so punfully described, "sh*t-faced." Katie's closing remarks consisted of an enthusiastic speculation about how crazed drug-addicts would desperately seek out people with the worst eating habits, who would thus, presumably, produce the most noxious/potent poop (again, I have edited for decorum). Here I pushed my plate away.

I love my friends. I truly love them.