So on Thursday night, I decided to get clever and invite Daniel and Supa over for dinner. My sister came, too, after work. Regular readers will be unsurprised to discover that I served a lamb roast–in fact, I am so predictable now that my friends dubbed me a Lambitarian. I think I’m going to use that excuse to befuddle people. “Dude, get those fucking chicken fingers away from me, you know I’m a LAMBITARIAN. Proper.”

Figure 1: This viognier complemented THE SHIT out of the taleggio.

So Thursday became sort of an informal housewarming. I didn’t know we were entitled to another one, since we have moved three times in as many years, but that didn’t stop Supa from bringing me a beautiful cyclamen plant, which she said reminded her of my old hair color. IT’S THE TITS.

Figure 2: THE TITS.

Here are my friends looking innocuous. They got crazier later. My sister challenged Daniel to a mad rhyming smackdown. You wouldn’t even know that later a person who shall remain nameless revealed that they had both bumped rails off of someone and had rails bumped off them. No guessing, either, because that would just be uncouth. (It’s not me, so stow that forthwithly.)

Figures 3 & 4: Daniel tells a story about drunkenly painting the basement of a party which he crashed. Naked. Wearing an eyepatch. Everyone feigns interest politely.

For those who don’t know, Daniel rocks the braids, and Supa is pink, and my sister is purple right now. Companion is wearing his customary stripes.

In Other News: Yet More Piggery

And tonight, to end my week-long fun orgy, Supa and I skipped off to the newish Moroccan restaurant in Crown Hill, my Ye Olde Gheetto Enclave. I felt a little jumpy at first, like I was waiting for SeaFed to pop out of one of the palms or something (since he still lurks in that crappity old house where the chickens were), but he didn’t.

And we had the most awesome meal. Everyone who can, should try Moroccan once. It’s not spicy or fried or any of those things that can scare people off. It’s meat falling off bones and delicious bean soups and chicken b’stila, which is a chicken-egg-almond mixture inside of puff pastry with sugar on top. Oh my jesus.

Supa pointed out that for once I got my wish of having a jiggly bikini girl around, because behold, it was Saturday night and there was a belly dancer. I even got to tip her, OH HO HO I am such a pimp. We were lucky that we had her, too, because we looked at the wall roster of belly dancers, and, frankly, one of them was pretty, well, cross-eyed. But I’m sure she is talented. And to eat we had, um…not lamb. OKAY, we had lamb, you caught me!

And now Supa is taking a vacation to San Francisco for two weeks, and when she comes back we are going to look into kickboxing classes, so when I say Do I Have To Slap A Bitch? I can really mean it. Supa gone…sad panda.