Sunday evening Mark took me out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just the Mexican place that I've been going to for the last twenty five years. I used to like that place, but I think it's time for me to move on. I need change, a new Mexican restaurant. That's the problem, they haven't changed anything in the last twenty five years. Everything is the same. The same tables, the same chairs, the same bar, and I'll bet that in the kitchen they're using exactly the same equipment that they had back in 1990. I say that about the kitchen because as of lately the food has a certain flavor about it, as if it had been prepared on an old stove that has years of grease and charred meat fused to it. The food tastes like they cooked it yesterday and put it under a heat lamp until I came in. Meanwhile, out in the dining room they still have the same tables and booths that I first sat in back in 1990. When you touch them they aren't sticky so much as gummy from all the years of grease. Anyway that was Sunday. On Monday I paid for that Mexican dinner in the worst way possible. I paid with my guts and spent a lot of time in the bathroom. Every time I thought it was over, it wasn't. There is a tried and true method of measuring just how bad a case of food poisoning is, and that is on the little dispenser next to the toilet. I went through one and a half rolls of Scot Tissue, the ones with a thousand sheets per roll. So there is that, and then there is the jalapeño pepper, bunghole heat index. I'd put mine at around seven right now. That would be on a scale of one to ten, with one being no pain and ten being a glowing red, charcoal briquet.