Grilled warfare

I bought a grill about five days ago. Since then I have gorged myself on brats and cheeseburgers. I think my stomach will stage a violent protest if I attempt to stuff any more grease bombs into it. Mr. Belly has already expressed its displeasure with my dietary choices.

The kicker to my situation is that none of those brats or burgers were prepared on my new grill. They came from restaurants, fair vendors and a graduation party.

Now I am the monkey in the middle of battle between my grill and my digestive system. I'd like to hide under my bed covers, but my will is weaker than the forces now facing off in my life.

Let me say right now that Colonel Grill will likely win.

He's a small contraption. The kind of grill most men would hide in their two-car garage behind the untouched fishing gear and a polished turn-on-a-dime riding lawn mower. There's not a piece of stainless steal on this poor excuse for cooker. Target didn't even put it on display by the other grills, the "real" ones. I had to look on a shelf in the back of the store.

But, hey, it's a gas grill. It only cost me $25. And it's going to win.

There's a piece of chicken thawing in my kitchen right now begging to be barbecued and smothered with a delicious coating of Sweet Baby Ray's Honey Barbecue Sauce.

Too bad my landlord doesn't allow me to grill on the deck of my second floor apartment...