Sizzlin' Salmonella

Let's begin this post on a positive note, as I don't wish any of our fan base to become disillusioned about the greatness of our lives, and by natural extension, their very own.

'Can we go to Sizzler please?'

Yes, we can, fuck you very much. The Sizzler is a great place; with such a delectable palate for its customers to peruse at leisure, it's no wonder the franchise has become an international corporation. You want fried chicken? They've got it. What's that, you want some egg, bacon, and potato salad to go along with those wings? Got you covered, baby. Hold on! You just can't live without a massive, daily dosage of chocolate ice cream? Throw it on the same plate, and don't forget to lather all this food with cheese sauce. Mix it up as much as you like. Some folks prefer the soup selection, whereas I particularly enjoy the taco bar. Rumor has it that Psychedelic Kimchi's very own illustrious Mr. T has his own Sizzler ritual, one that involves two bottles of the finest merlot, a cup of chocolate syrup, an exposed navel, a waitress named Flo*, and a bunch of flatulence. While I shall leave the erotic details up to your imagination, let it suffice to say that A) At the Sizzler, what the customer wants, the customer gets, and B) The Salad Bar gets a whole lot sloppier.

Sizzler in Korea is no different, and make no mistake, I have no intention of disparaging the franchise. As a foreigner, I am expected to eat at such restaurants on a monthly basis, and who am I to resist? So yeah, I went to one of the many friendly locations within the greater Seoul area on Wednesday night, accompanied by two of my peers -five year old girls, you guessed it- and proceeded to gorge upon the feast presented to me. Each of our trio ordered a chicken entree. That was an awesome idea.

Let's skip ahead, to Thursday evening. (As little as anyone may care about food poisoning, they should care even less about my day at work, after all.) I headed to the gym, intent upon blasting my abdominal muscles into ribbed perfection**, and while there, I took note of a slight pain in the aforementioned muscle group. I was working out though, so I erroneously presumed that I was 'feeling the burn!' of a solid session.

Speaking of solid sessions***, let's discuss what I had a lack of. Around three in the morning, I was aroused from slumber by a sharp pain in my gut. My initial fear was that I had become the expatriate equivalent of John Hurt, minus the whole chest bursting thing****. After rolling down the steps of my swanky Officetel -that's office + hotel to those beyond the grasp of the Korean peninsula- with a lit cigarette held gingerly between my lips, I contemplated my next move. Nausea was slapping me around like a bitch, but the stomach pains were far worse, and to top it all off, I really felt the need to excrete some unwanted materials. Choices, choices had to be made. I cast my lot with the final option.

Made my way to the bathroom, accompanied by the soothing beat of Radiohead's Exit Music (for a film) -eerily appropriate, perhaps, but I'd like to think of it as karma in effect- playing on my computer, and took a seat, but not before popping the remnants of my cigarette into the bowl. I wasn't delirious, you know. As a veritable deluge of bile burst forth from the nether regions, I cast a wavering glance at the weathered copy of Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho -now a major motion picture!- that serves as diversionary reading material when a brother needs to get some work down on paper, and could scarcely refrain from contemplating 'What would Patrick Bateman do at a time like this', but it was less a query than an affirmation of the inevitable. Patrick Bateman would convulsively vomit upon himself and his clothes, while hunched over in fecal agony. Actually, that may be what Sean Bateman would do. Tough call, really, but I'm neither, so I just did something with a decidedly Korean twist.
Momentary Rewind: Around midnight, before going to bed, I had devoured a plate of kimchi bokumbap and a side of gogi mandu*****. Ironically, it's just as viciously delicious coming up as it is going down, albeit partially digested, and sticky like duct tape. Bits of kim and rice were strewn about haphazardly, and while the situation was deplorable, the festive decorations have, in hindsight, improved the quality of Mr. Ellis' novel considerably. I spent the next hour sitting upon the bathroom tile, shower running full blast, mainly to wash myself and the surrounding locale, but mostly due to the fact that I was continuously emitting noxious fluids from every cavity of a shell once proclaimed a body******. Hare Krishna.

After that, it was a jerky, abrasive upward spiral. I slept in short, beloved bursts, replete with febrile dreams. One of them was rather curious, involving actress Amy Steel. I'd like to expound upon the contents of this peculiar hallucination, but I'll need the prior approval of Señor Sparkles, as it may somehow conflict/compete with the sacrosanct image of P.J. Soles.

As I am still comparatively ill, and possibly rabid with hysteria, let me summarize the main points of tonight's post:
1) Visit the Sizzler for a good meal.
2) Tarnish any available copy of American Psycho.
3) Check my toilet if you'd like to know the current whereabouts of Marky Mark's Funky Bunch.
4) Krishna won't help a man in need.
5) What's with the picture? Well, that's what my bathroom looked like in the wake of Behemoth's rage.

Finally, I'm just glad that I hadn't ingested several bananas before the food poisoning took effect, like an unlucky coworker did. Brutal, man.

Hati

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* The actual name of a waitress may vary, but Sizzler cares about their customers enough to supply Mr. T with the requested name tag.

** Put one of those annoying dogs (you know, the kind that every unmarried Korean woman carries within her purse, and dresses up like a miniature proctologist, pop singer, etc.) in a mesh sack, and then drug it. As it sleeps the rest of the day away, take note of the shape. That's what my stomach will look like in three months, god willing.

*** The official theme to Psychedelic Kimchi's Greatest Bowel Movements

**** Imagine a smaller dog in a sack once again, but this time zap it with a tazer and then watch its body bounce around spasmodically. That's what my stomach looked like at the time in question. I don't condone violence toward annoying dogs, unless they're dressed like Gene Siskel. Fuck, that pisses me off to no end.

***** The keyboard on my laptop does not employ hangeul. The travesty. Kmart/Hati hwighting!

****** To rephrase: I felt as lame as Zach de la Rocha's solo career. No joke.