Yeşil çayı Cehennemden.

"The green tea from Hell."

So: yesterday, I and my partner-in-crime Brooke from the Front Desk (Go Phi Delta Gamma!) decided that, after our one shared shift a week, we would retire to the nearby Chow Bar for sustenance, as we are wont to do. Brooke got some pork noodle soup to soothe her scratchy throat, and I got the Indonesian fried rice, which I got apparently because I had a need to immediately clear my sinuses. To further her campaign to keep from becoming ill, Brooke also ordered a pot of "hot" tea as opposed to the "green" tea. When it came, the tea was, indeed, green: sticks and leaves and grass-clippings and weeds and marine algae held court in the six-thousand-degree water. We looked at it with apprehension, but they were busy, and the tea had already come much later than the food, so Brooke poured herself a cup. She remarked that it tasted like the nori seaweed wrappers that come with sushi, but kept drinking. I got a cup and began to drink as well.

After two cups to my one, Brooke started to act funny. She began to stare into space and her jaw slackened a little. Her eyes began to lose focus. I continued to eat my rice, laden as it was with death-fire-pepper, and then, just as I was about to finish, I thought: why can't I grip my spoon?
Also: do I still have legs? Am I saying either of these things out loud?

I alerted Brooke to the fact that I was not doing so well. We described our symptoms to each other and quickly determined that the only explanation possible was that the tea, which was the "hot" as opposed to the "green" despite the color was nothing more than opium bong-water.

We left hastily before we could drink anymore of the tea, yet I will be the first to admit it: I looked at that little white teapot longingly as I left. In Mandarin-accented English, it sang to me:

Hear the night music playing? don’t you know what it’s saying?
We should feel it together forever
Feel the beat and just hold on to the sweet midnight flowing
Feel the music inside you, I’ll be there too
Now’s the time that our dreams are finally coming true
Feels so good we’re crying
Now’s the time when it’s down to me and you
Spread these wings - we’ll be flying

Don’t you know what the night can do?
Don’t you know when it’s touching you?
Don’t you know what the night can do?

The damn evil teapot knew it: it knew of my weakness for Steve Winwood. Like sirens luring Odysseus to his death on the rocks, the teapot knew I could scarcely resist his song. The cold rain outside, though, brought me forth from my trance and we began to walk, and then I saw it:

It was a ten pound squirrel.

So, since I didn't have the mental capacity to say, "Furry gray mammal, member of the rodentia phylum, clearly engorged before his winter's hibernation period", I shouted "Oh my GOD look at that fat squirrel!" About that simple comment, we laughed for about ten minutes until I felt the gorge come to the top of my throat. I was pretty much baked until I showered when I got home. That was a good thing: I later on that evening went to meet a new buddy for dinner, and it just doesn't do to make THAT kind of impression.

So, if you are reading this and are thinking about getting the "hot" tea at Chow Bar, think carefully.

Are you, or might you become, heavy with child?

Are you currently on another controlled substance that might, in tandem, make you think you are the rightful incarnation of the Dalai Lama?

Do you have a job that requires urine samples?

Are you Asian?

Do you have megalomaniac thoughts that preoccupy your mind?

But hey, if it's your bag, God speed. I am sure someone's ready and willing to scoop heroin into opium-water for ya when you get there.

Those Jesus-freaks are protesting outside the Sample Gates again, and thankfully my bladder's full. Let's see if the God's Golden Children will take heartily to a "golden shower."

Have a great one, Bloomington.

Dom