Monday, March 14, 2016

Like Sizzler's self soft serve

IBS is kind of like roadworks in progress, there's a slowing zone and then you speed up.

In the glorious '90s and '00s in Canberra there existed Sizzler, the steak and salads chain. There were two of them, one in the north and another in the south. First the south went, then the north. Part of their charm was all you can eat dessert and that included self soft serve ice-cream, vanilla or chocolate.

So this morning, it's been like that, the last one, curling out. 

I can't believe you read your way through that. I bet that's thirty seconds of your life you'd want back. 

That's how I feel when it's going it—it's not going with ease, it's going with distress, on me, the self soft serve machine that's clearly in need of maintenance as it mechanically rocks, groaning and grunting.

See? Always below the navel. My mother was right. 

Anyway, reverse PAG blows goats; I have proof (points to tummy).

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