Revenge of the Aussie

Last Friday, I had the dubious honour of dinner with family friends. Staying with these friends are two lovely young exchange students, one from Venezuela and one from Australia.

Since my Spanish is as good as my Martian, I elected not to pick on the girl from Venezuala. She might weigh 100 lbs, but I have a feeling she'd be able to Judo my ass into next week. Instead, I asked another Aussie, Miss Milk, about things that I shouldn't (should, hehehe) say to Australians. Miss Milk was nice enough to dedicate an entire blog to it, which you can read here.

Spazoid: So, Miss Aussie, I know someone who's an Australian and...
Miss Aussie rolls eyes
Spazoid: Anyways, she said that there's a word that
Miss Aussie pulls out a dagger
Spazoid: ...that might mean
Miss Aussie pulls back her jacket to reveal fully loaded .45
Spazoid: something different to you than it does to us.
Miss Aussie: What's that?
Spazoid: Fanny pack?
Miss Aussie: Never heard of it.

Thanks Miss Milk!

So instead I did a horrible impression of the crocodile hunter and she told me I sounded British. Figures.

I thought it was over. Miss Aussie had other plans. Later on in the evening, she went to her room and brought back something called vegemite. I've heard of it before, but only in passing. Apparently, vegemite is an Australian staple, something like peanut butter is here.

Let me assure you folks, it was NOTHING like peanut butter. NOTHING. Have a look:

We have something similar here in Canada. It's called AXLE GREASE. That's about the colour and consistency of this stuff. It also smells like death.

The Australians spread it thinly over large hunks of bread and pile cheese on top of it to hide the god aweful smell and flavour of this stuff. I didn't know that. All I remember is Miss Aussie handing me a small spoonful of it to try.

Being the guy I am, I shoved it in my mouth. I went through three different stages of reactions as three separate tastes bombarded my mouth.

Stage one: Salt.
Stage two: The taste of deathStage three: The aftertaste that wants to party past closing time.
After a gallon of water and the iron will not to projectile vomit the contents of my dinner all over Miss Aussies nice clean white sweater, the taste finally went away. I thought that the vegemite was done with me. I was wrong.

See, vegemite is not food. Vegemite is the result of a yeast culture. That's right people, vegemite is plain, pure, simple, unadulterated micro-organism. Let me tell you, it's one hell of a STRONG micro-organism too. The vegemite goal was control over my small intestine, and they were determined to oust the e.coli that resided there. Unknown to me, the battle raged between two strong opponents, pictured below.

The battlefield was my small intestine. As with any war, there was collateral damage to the war field.

When I woke up the next morning, my sphincter was on FIRE! I thought it was because of the unusually large and rich meal I had the night before. I ran to the bathroom and several kilos of raging hot lava erupted into the porcelain bowl, registering somewhere between a fat peoples Pilate's class and Godzilla on the Richter scale.

I thought it was over. The vegemite had other ideas.

I had to drive into the big city that day. I'm the best man in a friends wedding, and we were going to get fitted for tuxedo's. I was to meet him at his house by 9 am. The drive was about an hours long, and half way through my gut started to gurgle.

Gurgle gurgle gurgle. And my foot pressed the accelerator. The speedometer read 110.

Gurgle gurgle gurgle. 115.

Gurgle gurgle. 120.

I got to his house a full half hour earlier than was expected.

Spazoid: Rings doorbell.
Nothing.
Spazoid: Rings door bell again.
Nothing.
Spazoid: Frantically pounds on the door.
Friends finance: You're early! We're still sleeping! Come back later!
Spazoid: Pounding on the door hard enough to make the brick walls buckle
Friend: Opens door... Hey Buddy! Glad you could....
Spazoid: NO TIME!
Friend: Nodding knowingly I'll go get the Lysol air spray. Tp's under the sink.

In the end, the battle raged until Monday. The vegemites put up a fierce battle, but one of their own, a disgruntled traitor that was tired of tasting like death, showed my army of E.Coli another path through the spleen. In the end, the mighty vegemite was defeated, but not before costing me $83.00 in toilet paper.

The moral of the story? If you annoy a teenaged Australian girl, don't accept any food from her.

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