Death by barbecue sandwich

I'm not generally a big fan of barbecue (which is blasphemy, since I live in barbecue city), but I had a lovely smoked/pulled chicken bbq sandwich with cole slaw and beans. And now I think I am going to die. It's sitting in my stomach like an anvil out of a Roadrunner episode. In fact, I've felt this way several times over the past few weeks. Buying a house will do that.

If I were an overweight, older man, I would wonder if I was about to have a heart attack. Which reminds me that last weekend I made a terrible social faux pas by asking my friend if he'd had his cholesterol checked. While we were eating dinner. While he was eating a big steak.

It's not like I think he's going to keel over. He's very fit and usually keeps a semi-vegetarian diet (which made my bringing it up while he was eating steak all the more jarring), but he has, as they say, "risk factors." He probably didn't appreciate the reminder that he's nearing middle age, either. He countered that he was more likely to meet his maker in some freak home accident, like electrocution while installing a ceiling fan.

It's probably true; he's a bit of a kamikaze carpenter.