Swordfish

The menu of Seattle's famed restaurant, The Pink Door, loomed large. A restaurant known for it's decedent fare and ornate atmosphere was just the location to celebrate our friend's 23rd birthday. But what to have? What to have? The Lasagna Pink Door? Naw...too common. Boar Stew? Pass. Don and Joe's Sweet Italian Sausages. Too much innuendo.

"I'll have the swordfish, please."

Swordfish happened to be the special of the day, and as I'd never tasted the fencer fish, this occasion seemed perfect.

When the plate arrived, I was faced with a precisely cut, beautifully pink, slice of swordfish. The meat was lightly drizzled with a sweet sauce and accompanied by a forest of tender asparagus. The first fork-full of the flaky fish filled my mouth with a burst of flavor. The texture was a melt-in-your-mouth experience. Delicious. Exquisite. Succulent. I savored the fish, enjoying the steak slowly so as to appreciate the tasty experience of each bite.

Regrettably, the meal came to an end. The fish was devoured, and it was time for our party to change venues. To the bars! The name and location of the bar escapes me, as do many other details of the evening past that point. We drank. Heavily. Mixing beers and liquors without hesitation. My stomach became a gurgling ocean of brews, spirits, and fish bits.

We were all feeling the sauce when the party bounced yet again. Dancing. There is no hope of escaping the call of the dance at a young female's birthday celebration. Even if I had been in a condition to object, I would have been overruled.

Fortunately, it turns out I am a remarkably rhythmic individual when highly intoxicated. Exceptional moves. Legitimate confidence. Impressive tempo. Descriptors a sober ShavedGolf may only dream of.

Motion of my fancy feet kicked the churning of the aforementioned stomach ocean into high gear. The contents were colliding like drunk twenty-somethings on a dance floor. My stomach groaned. I was doing the Charleston when I let the first one slip.

*phssssssssssssssssssssssssssss*

Light and airy with little force behind it. While the flatulence had lasted longer than the norm, I gave it little thought and had no personal qualm with my dancing crop-dust of the floor and the individuals on it.

BOOM. Like an explosion had occurred in the middle of the packed dance floor, party-goers vacated the area of egg lay with haste. The floor was shoulder-to-shoulder, but somehow they sardined into the corners in an effort to escape the noxious fumes that had taken center stage.

*phsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss*

I let another go. This time on the other side of the dance floor. Longer and potentially with greater potency. Lingering in the vicinity for far too long, I caught wiff of my handiwork. It was vile. It was putrid. It was awesome.

*phsssssssssssssssssssssssss*

The flatulence had become a maleficent game of gas-and-run. With intoxicants fueling my brain and innocent victims swirling unsuspectingly before me, I released the furry of the swordfish upon them.

*phsssssssssssssssssss*

Pure panic. Dancers couldn't escape fast enough. Huge holes would open on the floor wherever I'd been.

*phsssssssssssssss*

It was simple. Dancing crowd. Insidious asshole. Comedic relief.

*phsssssssssssssssssssssssssssss*


*phssssssss*



*phsss* *phssss* *phssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss*



....



*phss*

The control. The power. It was...intoxicating. But all good tyrants eventually fall. After twenty minutes of episodic flatulence, my stomach finished processing the fish stomach stew, and my intestines refused to back me in my attempts at clearing the floor.

I haven't had swordfish since. Not out of desire to avoid the possible aftermath, but merely because I have not happened upon a menu graced with the farty fish. If I could do it all over again, I would.

So my advice. Avoid the pedestrian lasagna. Order the swordfish. Go dance.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf