I went to dinner at a friend’s house last night and brought some hamburger meat and Italian sausage for him to cook on his Big Green Egg. The dude loves to grill and I was more than happy to indulge him.
When I make hamburgers, I buy the cheap stuff because it’s cheap and it’s hamburgers. I’m not interested in the fat content…just the price. Apparently, I’d bought the Rosie O’Donnell of hamburger meat because that crap was loaded with fat. And as all good grilling men will tell you, burning fat smokes like a mother.
Anyway…as the burgers were cooking, the smoker was spewing so much smoke that it looked like the house was on fire. As we stood outside amidst the smoke, staring at the grill like men do, my friend commented that his wife will make him bathe before bed because he smelled like the inside of a smokehouse. I just nodded, mesmerized by the sound of cooking meat.
When we went back in the house, my buddy picked up his guitar and started strumming. We took guitar lessons together last year and have remained about the same level, in my humble opinion. It was at this time that the following exchange took place:
Friend (while playing the guitar and sniffing his shirt): Man, I stink.
Howard: Yeah, thatís why I quit playing. I just didnít feel like I was getting any better.
Friend: Uh, I was talking about my shirt.