Alrighty, so I’ve been a little more than slack in updating. It seems the only way I’ll ever update more often is by writing shorter posts.
Adam and I have always firmly believed that Indian food is extremely similar to any Melbourne Comedy Festival TV Gala: smells like something freaking amazing, but upon consumption, you layer the wall with upchuck. (Isn’t that always the one time of year you realise there’s comedians worse than Rove McManus out there? And why do these specific comedy acts always involve acoustic guitars and an absolutely devastating lack of actual humour? When the fuck did the Scared Weird Little Guys become inspiration for the comedians of tomorrow?! Fuck off back to your shitty Channel 31 cuntbuckets of shows!)
We’ve long actually avoided buying Indian food – whenever we walk past an Indian takeaway, we’ll be hypnotised by the smell, yet continue to defiantly walk up the road in search of something else.
After hearing an (admittedly drunken) mate bang on endlessly about how fantastic one of the Indian places on Oxford Street is, we decided to give it a shot. What a revelation! I think I was more concerned about everything being ridiculously, volcanicly hot – instead, I find something that’s no spicier than Foxtel porn (which reminds me, is another tale I’ll have to bring up soon).
So now, no matter which far-flung bar of Sydney we’re getting tanked in on a weekend, Adam now insists on hurling us back to this Oxford Street Indian place, as if being strung back in by some intercontinental, sitar-riddled, far-too-overly-furnished-with-fake-gold magnetic force.
In addition to a curry, Adam will also purchase these little chickeny things, as he’s a bit of a chicken conniseur (Adam is famously the man who I have to arrange an actual birthday chicken for – candles and everything – rather than a birthday cake).
So, two weekends ago, he seemed to have encountered a particularly salivating piece of marinated chicken. After standing in the middle of this takeaway, hoovering his chicken up before they’d even finished preparing the rest of his order, what does he briskly spin around and bark at me, in front of a crowd of at least 20?
This chicken tastes better than your cock.
Clearly, tasting like chicken isn’t enough. Now, my cock needs to BE chicken if I’m to get any action.