OTL: Sao Paulo Vol II - Fogo your Face

Last night, we slapped our wallets inside the original Fogo de Chao and got fucking Diesel'd on warm cachaca and bacon wrapped llama thyroid. If you've been to the Fogo on Westheimer, then you know it's the eatery equivalent to a day spent at SplashtownUSA on Beatles-grade angel dust. It's the same in SP, only buffed with Amazonian goodness and more skewered meat than a New York prison shower.

Pie Charts ooze credibility.

Our general safety concerns were expressed among the table, retorted by a Latin colleague who compared all things Brazil, which frighten our blood flow into a red steam, against a Venezuelan baseline. If we fear the taxis, abductions, lengthy eye contact, packs of bloodlusting dogs or gunshots up ahead, we'd never make in Maracaibo where they brand "VEAL" on your pickled face at immigration.

We sat enchanted by tales of the doorknob ease one could sequester the facility of a genuine transvestite at any hour AND the intimate details by which our host coworkers knew of this apparently habitual delicacy other travelling Eurostaff partake in regularly. We felt the belt of our job security tighten a notch with each senior manager's name revealed as we cleared our glistening plates of peppered marmoset heart and bathed under a shower of golden Caipirinhas.*

........................................................................................

The brain stem refuses all requests this morning, no matter how trite or necessary. We would have accused you a liar if you claimed one could vomit chunky brown via the eyesocket. "Not possible, couchfucker," we'd declare with assertion. Today... we witness the truth.

CO92 sets sail at nine tonight and we'd like to think this bull got tamed domestic, but we know it's us who felt its unruly horn.

*We have no clue what a Caipirinha is, but we know for a fact it IS NOT Portuguese for tranny urine. Putting that shit to bed.