Quiz/Show

You're Thailand!

Calmer and more staunchly independent than almost all those around you, you have a long history of rising above adversity.  Recent adversity has led to questions about your sexual promiscuity and the threat of disease, but you still manage to attract a number of tourists and admirers.  And despite any setbacks, you can really cook a good meal whenever it's called for.  Good enough to make people cry.
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Well, there is very little left to say about this. The name of my fantasy football team is "Yum Yum Pussy." And this anecdote has Thai references: Years ago, when I had first moved to NYC, my friend Wayne came to visit from Dallas. While sitting around my apartment one night, I suggested Thai food. Wayne and I are both from Texas; you could inject us with habanera sauce and our blood pressure might go up a point or two. So, the transition from Tex-Mex to Thai was obvious. For me. Wayne, on the other hand, is a social moderate, and an individual ultra-conversative. He doesn't like something unless he's convinced that he's going to like it. (A lot of people in Slovenia share this aspect with Wayne, but that's another discussion.) Here's basically how our dialogue went:

Me: Wayne, let's get Thai tonight.
W: Um, I don't know about that.
Me: Why not? What's wrong with Thai?
W: I don't like it.
Me: Why don't you like Thai food?
W: Well, I don't think I like it.
Me: Have you ever had it?
W: No.
Me: Well, then let's get it.
W: But, am I gonna like it?!!

Needless to say, Wayne now likes Thai food. Wayne's no dummy. Wayne likes Thai food so much he had his 10th wedding anniversary party at a Thai restaurant. This is Wayne's overarching approach to anything taken in by his senses; when he likes something, he likes the motherfucking shit out of that thing. This makes Wayne an easy friend to have. It also makes Wayne a pain in the ass to be around food with. Either food has been ordered or prepared in just utterly overwhelming proportions, ie:

Me: Wayne, there's too much food here.
W: We'll eat it.
Me: You'll eat it.
W: I'll eat it.

Or, you hunch over your food like some lioness with a five cub litter, protecting it from a one-man pack of hyaenas. He doesn't eat off other people's plates much these days. But you can tell he still wants to. At Wayne's wedding rehearsal, he ate my dinner. He later accused me of fucking shit up by ordering something I wasn't going to eat. (Luckily, Wayne was there to correct that problem.) It's too bad for the drug dealers in NYC that Wayne doesn't know he likes cocaine or hombre or MDMA. Because, fuck.