The Chicken Wing Incident

Sometimes you just don't know when to stop.

Let me amend that. Sometimes I don't know when to stop. This happens most frequently when I'm presented with a buffet. Pizza, family-style, Swedish smorgasbord, it doesn't matter. I tend to eat until medical attention is required.

Such was the case today, on a trip to the local Chinese buffet. I already forget the name of it, and wouldn't include it even if I did remember as they have not purchased any advertising in my well read virtuapages. Nevertheless, I did as I always do when perusing the Chinese buffet for delicacies that will remind me of that far away, oriental, mystical, Eastern, Asian, Chinalytical taste that no other restaurant can replace: I headed straight for the fried chicken wings. I piled them high on my plate until I could barely see where I was going. Several waitresses eyed me with a look that suggested I was breaching the customs of their ancient land.

Quite aware that I was pushing my luck, I balanced my mountain of chicken wings in my right hand and attempted to carefully ladle a generous helping of pink sweet and sour sauce over my precious pyramid. In doing so, however, I accidentally put my hand in something labeled "trukey dressing". I recoiled instinctively and this reaction caused my plate of authentic Chinawings to escape my possession, teetering and tottering--particularly tottering--until they fell on the floor. 26 separate chicken wings, scattered all over the thin Asian carpet.

Several people gasped in horror. One of them, I'm quite certain, was me.

I noticed that one wing had not fallen to the floor, but instead had tumbled into what looked like brown mashed potatoes. That doesn't have anything to do with anything, but it was what I thought of later more than anything else. It just looked so...pathetic...lying there in that goop. Like, get a life, chicken wing.

I dropped to my knees, avoiding the temptation to cry out in horror like that guy at the end of Platoon. I started picking up the wings, hoping they would be salvageable. I knew without a doubt I would not be permitted to refill my plate with fresh wings. Knowing this, I was aghast to find my chicken wings covered in dog fur. I looked around. The entire floor was covered in fine, white dog hairs. No dog was present; I could only assume he traveled the floor after hours.

I sighed and abandoned my chicken wings. I know a losing battle when I see one.

To make a long story short, my chicken wings could have easily been saved had the proprietors of this restaurant used the Petco Dog Hair Pick-Up Mitt.



It works like this: you put the mitt on your hand and then you get down on your knees and slowly rub it over your entire carpet. It picks up the dog fur like magic. One might even say it picks up the dog fur like oriental magic. You can also remove fur directly from the dog, rubbing and rubbing until he is naked. Get one today at Petco's website or at a Petco retailer near you! Don't let a chicken wing tragedy happen at your home.

An Afternoon at Grandpa's

I was sitting on the back porch with my Grandpa, rocking back and forth in wicker chairs he had lovingly crafted with his bare hands. I was thirteen years old. The sun was setting gently in the west, casting an orange glow across Lake Kenisawa. A bird chirped in the distance and I looked at my Grandpa, and he looked at me. We shared a silent moment of appreciation and then turned back to enjoy the scenery.

"Lovely evening," Grandpa said.

"The loveliest," I agreed.

I sipped on my iced tea, which had been brewed and left to sit on the windowsill, soaking up the sun's rays on that hot July afternoon. I hoped that Grandpa would tell me a story about his days as a traveling salesman in the 40s, or maybe a tale regarding the time he and Ken McCullum tried to start that vegetable stand. I'd heard that latter one about twenty times, but it never got old.

Instead, Grandma appeared at the screen door and asked if either of us was getting hungry. I glanced over at Grandpa and, predictably, his face darkened at her interruption.

"If I was hungry, woman, I'd get something to eat, now wouldn't I?" he said, his eyes remaining steadfastly fixed on the backyard.

"You got a big mouth when the boy's here, don't you, you big man," she remarked. "That's fine. How about you, Shawn, are you hungry?"

"No, ma'am," I said. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Grandpa said. "He's hungry, I'm hungry, now quit wasting time and just go get us something to eat."

I sipped my tea and tried to blend into my chair.

Grandma walked back into the kitchen and there I heard her getting some plates from the cabinet. A small rabbit hopped across the backyard, stopping every so often to look around before hopping on his way. Presently, Grandma came back with two plates and handed one to each of us. On my plate was a tube of Crest toothpaste. On Grandpa's plate was a handful of pennies. I bit my lip nervously and muttered, "Thanks."

"What the hell is this, woman? Pennies?" Grandpa yelled. He tossed the plate on the wooden floor of the porch, where it did not shatter, but, improbably, turned sideways and slipped through the slats to the earth below. The pennies went everywhere.

"You eat your pennies and you LIKE IT!" Grandma screamed.

Grandpa slapped his hands down on the arms of his rocker, fetched a deep sigh, and then said simply, "Well, that's it then." He stood, grabbed the shovel that was leaning against the house, and proceeded to bludgeon his wife of forty years to death right there on the porch. I ate my toothpaste silently, a lone tear streaming down my cheek.

The point of the story is this: when someone asks for something to eat, or if you yourself are hungry, don't put pennies or toothpaste on a plate and call it a meal. Use food. Food is great for cooking, and it's great for eating. It has lots of nutrients, and plenty of calories for energy. When it comes to satisfying your hunger, nothing does the job quite like food.