Many years ago my friends Ken and Lori invited me over for dinner. We were going to have grilled beef shish-kebabs. I am so there, guys.
I came over a little early and the grill wasn't even fired up. Lori was making about a dozen beautiful beef kebabs. When she was done she stacked them on a plate and put them in the bottom of the fridge.
Ken and I grabbed a couple of beers and went out to start the grill. After a while we came in, got more beer and hung out.
They had this small dog, about a 10-pound spitz. We noticed it walking around listlessly, refusing to lie or sit and generally looking sicker than shit. We had no idea what was wrong with him.
A bit later, Lori was in the kitchen and screamed "Oh my God!". We ran in and Lori said the dog had just puked up something strange. We looked closer and it was an intact 10-inch wooden skewer, covered in semi-digested grayish meat. Someone had left the refrigerator door open and he had snagged one whole.
The dog turned out OK. I consoled them with this observation: "Hey, at least we don't have to
cook that one!"
