THE ROSTI EFFECT

So, you know I’ve been on this diet thing for a while now.  Or should I say; revised lifestyle plan. *rolls eyes*

Anyway, in the past, my usual breakfast on the way to work would involve a pit-stop at Macca’s.  I was tempted by McMuffins, NYC Bagels (oh that hollandaise sauce…) or my ultimate favourite: the Rosti Breaky Wrap.  Need I mention the copious amounts of hash browns I have consumed in my life?

I became an expert on hash browns.  I expect a certain standard, and don’t appreciate anything that falls below it.  Don’t serve up any soggy crap; I’ll throw it straight back at you.  Don’t give my stuff that’s been blasted with a flame thrower on the outside, but is a gluggy, uncooked mess in the middle.  Don’t crucify them like the chicks in the BP servo in Kilmore do (they’re all just crispy deepfriedness – not potato).

No; I like the crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.  It’s really not that hard, people.  Show some respect.

But those Rosti Wraps….. oh sweet Lord how I love those Rosti Wraps…. *starts salivating*  God I wish I lived closer to a McDonalds right now.  Possibly a good thing I don’t…

But I gave them all up in pursuit of a healthier lifestyle.  *sigh* Apparently.

So it’s fair to say that it’s been some months since I’ve indulged in one of these babies.  Several.  Long.  Months.

However, the other morning, I committed the ultimate sin: I left the house without having breakfast. 

I slept in, and as a result, rushed around so much, that I simply didn’t have time to stop and eat.

Don’t stress!  I told myself.  You deserve a treat! You get your arse into Macca’s, and you have yourself a Rosti Wrap and a hashie.  Yeah!

I swear to you, I broke the land speed record on the drive from Tooborac to Tullamarine.  I’m sure I got there in an hour (instead of an hour and a half); I was so fucken excited for this wrap.

*Christ I need to get a life.*

I’m literally salivating at the memory of it.

Now, I’ve noticed that the quality of said wraps varies from restaurant to restaurant.  You think that they’d all make them the same; but they don’t.  From different arrangements of the ingredients inside the wrap, to how their folded; all different.

Yes; it is pathetic that I’ve noticed that.

So, I receive my order, and pull up in the car par to hoe into my wrap.  I can quite confidently say, it was the best rosti wrap I have ever had.  It was loaded with bacon and sauce, and the rosti seemed huge! It was just sensational!

I ate every last crumb of it, and I’m not ashamed to say, I licked the fucken sauce of the wrapper, it was that good.  I even sat there sniffing the empty wrapper for a while, basking in the memory of the yummy wrap… *drools*

What I didn’t plan on, was the effect this wrap would have on a body that’s simply not use to eating that kind of stuff any more.

Within the half hour it took me to drive from Tullamarine to my Sunshine office, it hit me.  Hard.

The Rosti Breaky Wrap was about to deliver a huge reminder as to why I shouldn’t eat this stuff.

As I sped along the Ring Road (yes, sometimes the traffic is really good on the Ring Road), my stomach started to gurgle.  My heart skipped a beat; it recognised the sign straight away.  Oh no….

My body was not happy with the bacon, egg and potato combo, and wanted to evacuate it as quickly as possible from its dysfunctional fucking system.

Crap.  Literally.

I know, from this point, that it’s about ten minutes to work, and I pray to Christ that there’s no traffic ahead of me, so I can fly straight to the office (and the toilet).

Stupid fucken body.

However, the God’s of Diet must have been watching me ‘sin’, and as I rounded the final bend toward the Boundary Road turn off, there it all is in front of me.  The fucken traffic is banked back from the Westgate Freeway, and I’m stuck at the tail end of it.

There’s nowhere for me to go.  Literally.

Great.  This is going to test the power of my fucken bowels (an anus). 

I can hold a pee for hours.  I’m use to that from driving so far for work every day, and being too much of a lazy moo to stop the car and go to a public toilet somewhere (you know my views on public toilets).

However, and upset digestive system and a bowel that’s all too willing to support it, is a completely different matter.

As the traffic moves slower than Iris at a fast walking pace, my stomach really starts to gurgle and churn, and wind stabs away at me, doubling me over a little in the driver’s seat.

Sweet Jesus…. I start wondering if it will be acceptable to wear my gym clothes all day at the office, considering I’m about to shit myself.

The $100 jeans I’m wearing, that are virtually new, are suddenly sacrificial, because if I have an accident in them, they’re going into a garbage bag, and into the dumpster.  If I could flush them, I possibly would.

Finally, I get a break, and fly down the Boundary Road off ramp, cut off a semi-trailer, and fly along the back streets of Sunshine West, toward the office.

In what seems like three hours, but in reality was only about five minutes, and after dodging every truck, ute, delivery van and fuckwit in the Western Suburbs to get there, I fly into the communal driveway of our industrial estate, and hurtle toward the office, only to find some fucker has taken my car space.

You’re fucken kidding me.

Fuck you.  Assuming it’s one of the clowns from next door, who continually park in our spaces just to fucken shit us, I double park behind him; blocking him in.

I grab the keys to the front door, and as I fumble with the locks, I curse the bosses for putting extra security on the front door that only allows fucken key access.  Faaarrrkkk!!

As I finally fling the door open, I shove two of the boys out of the way as I stumble toward the toilets.

‘In a hurry Lee…’ one of the voices follows me down the corridor as I run for my life, at the same time thinking, ‘how am I going to ask them to get my change of clothes out of the car when I shit myself?  How’s that gonna roll?’

Five minutes later, and somewhat considerably relieved, I stroll out of the toilets and wash my hands.

‘What the fuck mate?’ asks my boss.

‘Just busting, boss.’ I smile simply.  ‘Just busting.’

‘I figured.’ He laughed, and wandered out to the warehouse.

As I walk back into the reception area, I can see a guy standing beside his car, which is blocked in by my own.  I wander out there and apologise.  ‘I’ll move my car for you mate.’

‘Sorry I parked here.  I didn’t realise that I was in the wrong space…’ he offered simply.

‘We’ve told you guys a million times not to park here.  That’s why we have numbers on the spaces, champ.’ I replied, climbing into my car.

He mumbles a weak apology, and quickly leaves, allowing me to slip back into my space.

I sit there for a moment, gathering myself, and reflecting on my near miss.   The savoury fragrance of the wrap is still lingering in my car.  I can smell the bacon… nearly taste the sauce… and my stomach starts rumbling again… hungry for another wrap…

How the fuck can I possibly be hungry? 

Simple: the wrap didn’t last too long in my system, now did it?  Mmmm… I could really go another one….

Peace out.