We began with sushi. Sort of. It was the lazy version, where everyone compiles their own hand-rolls made to suit their own specific specifications at the table. It's delicious, unless you ask Bill. He's not really a seafood fan. Also, he seems to have had the misconception that wasabi is just another version of hot sauce. Because he loaded his sushi down with it, and when we warned him of the dangers he was about to consume, waved us off with, "No, no. It's solid".
Moments later he was gagging over my kitchen sink. He dropped out of the dinner marathon shortly thereafter.
As Matt, Gerritt and I continued to stuff our guts with raw salmon and mahi, Ein determined it would be appropriate to barf at our feet. She was quickly stuffed into a crate to do her business over a towel, and dinner continued.
Bill settled on the couch and began perusing Thisiswhyyourefat.com for the first time. His less than appetizing descriptions of burgers topped with burgers, spam cakes filled with bacon and pizzas topped with mayonnaise and cholesterol were quickly interrupted by the scent of poo wafting through the dining room. Matt assessed the situation and determined that it was Ein's spew that had begun to stink. Like poo. I was left struggling to support a wine refrigerator while the crate was removed from under it and exiled to another room.
It was then that Matt discovered the true source of poo smell...actual poo.
In the hallway.
Yesterday or the day before, I can't remember which, Bill switched his dog back to an Iams (read trashcan) diet after over a year of feeding strictly raw meat. Because, in Alaska, you apparently can't find raw meat at reasonable prices, and no one sells high quality commercial dog food either. So Sammers is much like a junkie coming down off the smack, and chose to let loose his bowels all over my carpet. It was sort of like that horrifying scene in Trainspotting, where Spud ruins his girlfriend's sheets and then coats her entire family in his mess as they're sitting together at the breakfast table. Only no one got splashed in this instance.
Dinner came to a close accompanied by the sounds and smells of a steam cleaner sucking brown mooshies out of my rug, and received a final rating of "Socialite Fail".