71. Termites, chicken feet, and mountain oysters


Erica and Monique were old school friends. Great friends until… Erica married a red-blooded meat-eating professional rugby player, and Monique married an almost-vegetarian industrial chemist’s laboratory assistant. Not that there was anything wrong with either job; one took a lot of skill, and the other raked in a lot of money. The trouble was, the food. What to eat when the two couples dined out together? Where to dine out in the first place?

Anyway, let’s face it, the two men had little in common. The industrial chemist’s laboratory assistant found it difficult to use the word “fuck” more than eight times in a single sentence, and the red-blooded meat-eating professional rugby player didn’t give a hoot, darling, about what the sodium molecule did to the clorine. (Assault – if you must know).

It came as little surprise, therefore, when the two men got into an almost fist-a-cuffs argument in a restaurant, and the skinny industrial chemist’s laboratory assistant told the muscle-bound professional rugby player that no rugby player would have the guts to eat fried termites.

“Well, fuck you,” said the rugby player, ordering the fried termite hors d’oeuvre and stuffing it into his mouth. “Try eating chicken feet, scrawny boy.”

Chicken feet were right down the industrial chemist’s laboratory technician’s alley. He ordered braised chicken feet in a black bean sauce. “You won’t have the balls for mountain oysters,” he said.

“Eat dirt, scrawny boy,” said the rugby player, ordering mountain oysters and bolting them down.

On the way home, as his wife drove, the rugby player asked, “What the hell are mountain oysters?”

The next morning, as he went to his car, he noticed technicolored chunder all down the side of the passenger door.

I delight in having my dull life coloured by your intelligent perceptions, your wit, and your vivacity.

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