Picky Eaters
An old, old friend of mine will not eat/drink any hot liquid. Tea, coffee, soup etc do not pass his lips.
Which would be odd enough if he wasn't in the Army. He managed to survive a tour of duty in the Serbian mountains in winter without a brew.
Who's the pickiest eater you know? How annoying is it? Is it you?
( , Thu 1 Mar 2007, 13:11)
An old, old friend of mine will not eat/drink any hot liquid. Tea, coffee, soup etc do not pass his lips.
Which would be odd enough if he wasn't in the Army. He managed to survive a tour of duty in the Serbian mountains in winter without a brew.
Who's the pickiest eater you know? How annoying is it? Is it you?
( , Thu 1 Mar 2007, 13:11)
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Another road trip
This time in northern Greece. Stopped of for a bite to eat with my female travelling companion and we espied a traditional estiatorio - the kind of place where the food sits in heated vats and you just point to what you want. So we ate heartily (although the food was a little lukewarm) and retired to the hotel for some action.
Cue foreboding thunder from our stomachs and an impending sense of the liquid squits. In a flash, I was sitting on the bog and pebble-dashing the pan with an oxtail soup of evil-smelling shite. She didn't have the squits, though. No - SHE needed to vomit. So we took it in turns - me waddling off the toilet and her lunging into the crap-smeared hole to puke her guts up, then me waddling back for more spraying etc.
At one point she was puking between my legs as I was dribbling the last rank dregs from an exhausted a-hole. There was no action after that. And we agreed we wouldn't eat at an estiatorio again.
Call that picky if you like.
( , Thu 8 Mar 2007, 9:41, Reply)
This time in northern Greece. Stopped of for a bite to eat with my female travelling companion and we espied a traditional estiatorio - the kind of place where the food sits in heated vats and you just point to what you want. So we ate heartily (although the food was a little lukewarm) and retired to the hotel for some action.
Cue foreboding thunder from our stomachs and an impending sense of the liquid squits. In a flash, I was sitting on the bog and pebble-dashing the pan with an oxtail soup of evil-smelling shite. She didn't have the squits, though. No - SHE needed to vomit. So we took it in turns - me waddling off the toilet and her lunging into the crap-smeared hole to puke her guts up, then me waddling back for more spraying etc.
At one point she was puking between my legs as I was dribbling the last rank dregs from an exhausted a-hole. There was no action after that. And we agreed we wouldn't eat at an estiatorio again.
Call that picky if you like.
( , Thu 8 Mar 2007, 9:41, Reply)
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