Lying in bed, he awakens and gingerly opens one eye to see the sunlight filtering through the slats of the venetian blinds. Oh boy. The dread and anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of one too many beers, vodkas, and prairie fires sets in - wait for it, he thinks. It's coming. But as his one opened eye gauges the surroundings, all is as should be for a mid-Saturday morning. His head isn't being used by amazon women as war drums, and his stomach only churns like the delicates cycle rather than the usual heavy soil cycle of the laundry machine. That's odd, he thinks, but he also knows better than to believe this mirage. The hangover train can be stealthy, and it is likely hiding under the bed, waiting to give him the shit kicking of a lifetime the minute he foolishly attempts to sit up. And so he lays there, one eye opening and closing every few minutes in a continual attempt to refresh his status - has it arrived yet? Nope. How about now? Nope. And so after a good 20 minutes of this, he mounts the courage to truly awaken, only to find that by some miraculous act of every deity known to man, he really is NOT hung the eff over. Life, she truly does work in mysterious ways.
Rewind to last night - Tytus' 30th Birthday Party, subtitled A Fistful of Testicles. It was a joke we'd come up with last week during lunch when we thought it would be hilarious to find some balls, and cook em up during his BBQ. Little did we know that Lizzy would actually follow through on our crazy scheme and actually go out to buy (pardon the pun) a bagful. And so after an evening fuelled by the beers Asahi, Zywiec, Tyskie, Mississippi Mud, Chang, Singha, PC Honey Red, followed by Zubrowka vodka, some five dollar tequila for prairie fires, and homebrewed wine, we fired up the barbie and got our festival of testicles on. They were lamb balls, and they, surprisingly, weren't as disgusting as I would've imagined. I was given the task of preparing them - which involves slicing them in half lengthwise, and then de-skinning them. I'll let the photos tell the rest of the story.
Notice the blood running down Tytus' finger. Awesome!
This is like the equivalent of circumcising a nut.
Shake 'n' Bake, or as Tytus called it: "Crunchy Sauce".
I love the look of horror and disgust on Kathleen's face.
And because Liz wasn't able to actually come to the party, we saved one for her too.
Birthday boy had a bit of a run in with the knife earlier.
There are a couple hilarious videos, which I haven't quite figured how to resize down to something that would be web friendly, and also more photos, but I'll leave those for facebook. Happy Saturday everybody.
-Nut Sous-Chef G