Yikes! Time for a cautionary tale: DO NOT EAT AT THE RAY’S PIZZA ON EIGHTH AVENUE.
Bobby and I have just conferenced and revealed that we both got explosive diarrhea after eating our post-”workout” slices of pizza. (Wow, the fact that I just typed “explosive diarrhea” on my blog that some of my mom’s co-workers read emboldens me).
We noticed the bathroom door at Ray’s had an “Out of Order” sign on it, so Bobby had no qualms about sitting at the table nearest the loo. But as we were eating, the very man who served us our pizza went to the bathroom, presumably cleaned it up and/or fixed the toilet, and then made his way back to the counter to serve up more hot, cheesy pizza to the unknowing public. Eww, eww, eww.
So we finished up our slices, went our separate ways, and the eBOWLa hit us. Bobby said he barely survived the train ride back to Inwood and had to scramble like mad to get upstairs to his apartment. I had a much shorter trip, so I was already home before my long intestine tried to strangle itself.
I’m just glad we didn’t work out after all. Imagine the horrid scene that might have unfolded on the elliptical machine…
