Sometimes I’m afraid that someone will break into the house and rub raw chicken on stuff.
Last night, the Homosexual-Lifetime-Companion-Partner and I finally arrived home from our Sunday adventures. Me, I was at my coffee shop exploring he wonderful and wacky world of Martin Luther, he was roaming the countryside with his homies. Around eight, with our guts rumbling, we sought out food. This is why we found ourselves at the local Chinese restaurant. We ordered take-out and sat in the designated waiting area. I was sporting running shorts, sans undergarments, and he sported sweats and a T-shirt. A shirt embellished with his life’s motto: I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS?
Time stopped. We waited.
After a long line of local towns people paraded past us, most our antagonist declaring his shorn balls knew, we still have not received our Asian themed feast. Hunger and impatience turned the two of us in to the local gay troublemakers.
“Sometimes I’m afraid that someone will break into the house and rub raw chicken on stuff!” My Partner declared to me in a loud and concerned tone. This is an actual line from the TV show, Obsessed. A young girl was so concerned with food contamination that she would padlock her bedroom door in fear that someone would break into her house and rub raw chicken on her things.
Seriously. Raw chicken.
We now use this line as a term of endearment. I turned back and loudly said, “I know, we’ll be home soon and you can bleach everything before you go back into your box.” After a couple more cutting comments about how much he hated raw chicken the tiny girl behind the kitchen dropped her pen, ran back to the kitchen and emerged with our order.
As she rung us up, she made of point of saying that she had not, at any time handled chicken, cooked or raw.
“Good! It will kill you!”
Last night, the Homosexual-Lifetime-Companion-Partner and I finally arrived home from our Sunday adventures. Me, I was at my coffee shop exploring he wonderful and wacky world of Martin Luther, he was roaming the countryside with his homies. Around eight, with our guts rumbling, we sought out food. This is why we found ourselves at the local Chinese restaurant. We ordered take-out and sat in the designated waiting area. I was sporting running shorts, sans undergarments, and he sported sweats and a T-shirt. A shirt embellished with his life’s motto: I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS?
Time stopped. We waited.
After a long line of local towns people paraded past us, most our antagonist declaring his shorn balls knew, we still have not received our Asian themed feast. Hunger and impatience turned the two of us in to the local gay troublemakers.
Seriously. Raw chicken.
We now use this line as a term of endearment. I turned back and loudly said, “I know, we’ll be home soon and you can bleach everything before you go back into your box.” After a couple more cutting comments about how much he hated raw chicken the tiny girl behind the kitchen dropped her pen, ran back to the kitchen and emerged with our order.
As she rung us up, she made of point of saying that she had not, at any time handled chicken, cooked or raw.
“Good! It will kill you!”
Nothing brings my innate passive-aggressive tendencies to the surface like the dangerous combination of low blood sugar and slow service.
ReplyDeleteSome ideas for next time: Say you wish you would have brought reading material, then ask for a copy of their latest health department inspection score to peruse while you're waiting.
Casually mention that you hope your buddies waiting for you at the annual INS pot-luck won't be too upset that you're late.
Loudly ask whatever happened to all those cute little possums you saw cavorting in their dumpster just yesterday.
Someday a romance novelist will steal this story and write a best seller.
ReplyDeletestay away from the raw chicken
ReplyDeleteBut... was the chicken choked first?
ReplyDelete