Rescue me my lord, for I am in Hell.
My Brother asks me to organize the BBQ at his party tonight. Henry says he will get it all done. An hour later we wonder why the meat is hardly cooking and I notice half the burners are not on. Henry moves like a madman, turning things over and over and over with only moments between, then jabs, prods and cuts the steaks to death. In his bid to discover if they are cooked enough he has sliced three steaks into eight pieces, and they are still only half done. As a past drug addict I wonder what destructive chemical cocktails he took that has so wrangled his manly God given instinctive understanding of BBQ finesse, that all other men share an unspoken understanding of. Behind me someone asks for the tomato sauce, Tim completely assures them we have some, I know that not to be true…
I stare at a mangled piece of meat, sagging in the corner, and realize that it is me. Feed me to the dog, I am done.
Amen
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