Puking sometimes almost makes sense ...

     Let's talk about old friend Jerry, Queens native and first owner of my morbidly obese cat "Calogero" AKA "C." Its a Bronx Tale reference; Jerry was practically my roommate for a while in the boogie down. For the record, I didn't make the cat fat, like Jerry would claim. "C" is just big boned! And if "C" ever dropped the weight Jerry would still give me crap about it. Jerry is the biggest ball buster I know, he is a human vacuum, meaning he will suck in large quantities of any food you put in front of his mouth no matter how inedible, and the last time we hung out he shocked his balls with a dog shock collar. He has the scars to prove it if you want to see.
    Jerry disgraced his identity and moved to New Jersey. Gross! But he does have a nice place there with the best cat I ever met ever and he lives near a rock climbing gym. Fun! So he took me out there for a day of "bouldering." It was super hard. I was sore for days. As an aside: ladies, if you want to pick up, hit up a rock climbing gym. There were a lot of cuties there. And there is virtually no competition because most of the girls who rock climb are lesbians, with the exception of me, of course. And once my hair grows out (and I sell that Subaru Outback) hopefully all the rumors will stop!

    Everyone warned me not to go to New Jersey that day because of the Puerto Rican Day Parade in Midtown. Puerto Ricans are some of my favorite people, and despite the parade's spotty groping past, I was not worried about being caught in a mob of drunken men. There was zero traffic and I even scored an awesome flag!

    Rock climbing was really challenging and I want to do it again, but next time outside on real rocks where you are meant to rock climb. And after a good hard day of wearing the most uncomfortable shoes ever and Jerry taking the liberty to purposefully crash me into the wall while he was "belaying" me to then just leave me hanging from my crotch a few centimeters off the ground for his own entertainment, we needed a good meal. I had duck eggs and wanted to make Duck Egg Pasta Carbonara again, but this time get it right.

    Jerry is also a great chef. He is very inventive, always coming up with new and sometimes strange concoctions. I figured he would appreciate the duck egg and be able to help me properly temper the egg white to create a creamy cheesy sauce rather than scrambled eggs which is what I ended up with last time. Then to be fancy we reserved the yoke to add on top of the pasta raw, thats how Mario Batali does it. It made for a mighty fine photo.
    The pasta was perfectly al dente, the sauce really rich and creamy. We paired it with Jerry's homemade beer. The pasta came out perfectly, but while I was eating it something was wrong. I may be small but I proudly can consume large quantities of pasta and that day I just could not eat that pasta. My stomach was telling me no. But of course, I can fight the irrational whims of my body and I ended up woofing it.

    Afterward, both Jerry and I started to feel funny. Things just weren't sitting right. I drove home, no traffic, and was talking on the phone when all of a sudden: HURL! I NEVER PUKE! (from food.) My body had spoken to me, "don't eat the duck egg pasta you moron!" but I did not listen. Weird. I am not sure what it was: the golf ball size raw duck egg yoke or maybe it was just the proper way to end a day with Jerry. It was the same sensation I felt last time we hung out and I saw him hook up electrodes to his testicles. Same feeling precisely.

   Sadly, I think I am through with duck eggs. Turkey's, get ready!