Big Dipper, Little Dipper.
OK, we were a little drunk at the time and I was curious as hell because I know GG enjoys it on some weird id level and good god, I was just curious as all gettout. So we bought some mint Skoal and a six pack of Woodchuck to wash it down (and recycle the bottles as spittoons).
GG, I love you, but the dippin' just ain't for me. As you could probably tell when I got so dizzy from the teensy weensy piece I placed in my mouth and couldn't open my eyes for 15 minutes straight because I seriously thought I was going to puke or pass out.
But really the worst part of it is the disposal. GG insisted we use cups that we could throw out because chewed up dip is just about one of the nastiest substances on earth. And this morning I found a dried up piece of it on my couch, so trust me on this, she's 100% correct.
And on another note, Mr. Turkey, one of my boyfriends from the turkey sandwich shop, sent one of his very South Philly coworkers over to The Canary to ask me for my number. Ouch! Unfortunately for him, I flat out refused. Poor bastard. All day long he was asking me weird questions and acting very possessive. It creeped me out to no end. Not that I would ever in a million years give Mr. Turkey my number, but his creepiness came out in full force today. Oops. I don't think I'm going to be getting free stuffing anymore.