Fried chicken makes Eagan cry, how can you vote for such a wimpy guy?
God I hated when we got fried chicken for dinner. What is with that stuff? It’s bad enough that there’s more fried batter than chicken and that I can never seem to find any substantial mouthfuls of meat (despite my sharp teeth), but even worse was when dad got it from Albertson’s deli. There was always hair in it. And not just one, either. You’d find three or four per person by the end of the meal if you were paying any attention at all. People from other families that just read that part are going, “What? You didn’t stop after the first hair?” That’s what we did at the Rosenwinkel’s when one measly hair was unearthed from the casserole. Well not at the Heath’s. My mom just bid us to “pick it out” and keep going. Again, I emphasize that this was not just once. Albertson’s hairy fried chicken became part of our bi-weekly dinner rotation. Pizza, hamburger, tacos, and then some lil’ ol’ hair chicken from Albertson’s. Thanks, guy at the deli. A wonder that he still had any left at a certain point. The hair was always dark and of medium length, but I couldn’t really tell how curly it had originally been because the hot grease seemed to wither it a little.
Well, one night I just couldn’t take it any more. I only wanted some of the deli-made fries, even though those had hair in them, too. Dad said I needed some chicken though, so he served me up. One of the frickin’ breasts, too, not just a little wing like I usually took. I still don’t know how to find the meat in those damn things. Every now and then ya get surprised by a little white, but mostly it’s just biting into bones wrapped in old people skin.
Sure enough, as everybody finished their nasty meal and as dad was clearing the table, I was still “working on my chicken,” which I’d scarcely started. Finally, after an unconscionably long time of me just sitting there facing off with that chicken breast, dad offered what he thought was a fair compromise. I could be excused to go do my homework provided I take the chicken to school tomorrow in a plastic baggy and-here’s the clincher-bring back the bones as proof that I’d eaten it.
I was in about second grade at the time, so I was probably supposed to be learning to read and crap when I went to school the next morning, but all I could think about was the chicken! How was I going to eat that thing? Why couldn’t I just get a peanut butter sandwich like every other day? I remember actually reaching up to feel sweat on my forehead-I’m not kidding!
Around the time we had morning fruit break I considered starting on the damn thing, thinking that between then, lunch and after school I could probably choke most of it down. Then it hit me: just dig the bones out and toss the remains (looking as they surely would like some kind of aged scrotum sack). I’d go pretty hungry-as dad had made sure mom didn’t pack too much else to sustain me-but it would be worth it.
Lunchtime came, and while my peers were happy as could be eating their normal kid lunches, I was content to dine on what I considered a cleverness surpassing my father’s. Everyone finished their meals and I sat there with that unappetizing baggy of chicken. Finally, lunch ended; we could get up to clear our trays and whatnot. I dug my fingers into that greasy and mostly untouched chicken breast and eventually pried loose a few bones. I placed them back in the baggy, as was coercively agreed upon. As I did so, someone asked me what the hell I was doing. And they were right. What the hell was I doing?
Well, one night I just couldn’t take it any more. I only wanted some of the deli-made fries, even though those had hair in them, too. Dad said I needed some chicken though, so he served me up. One of the frickin’ breasts, too, not just a little wing like I usually took. I still don’t know how to find the meat in those damn things. Every now and then ya get surprised by a little white, but mostly it’s just biting into bones wrapped in old people skin.
Sure enough, as everybody finished their nasty meal and as dad was clearing the table, I was still “working on my chicken,” which I’d scarcely started. Finally, after an unconscionably long time of me just sitting there facing off with that chicken breast, dad offered what he thought was a fair compromise. I could be excused to go do my homework provided I take the chicken to school tomorrow in a plastic baggy and-here’s the clincher-bring back the bones as proof that I’d eaten it.
I was in about second grade at the time, so I was probably supposed to be learning to read and crap when I went to school the next morning, but all I could think about was the chicken! How was I going to eat that thing? Why couldn’t I just get a peanut butter sandwich like every other day? I remember actually reaching up to feel sweat on my forehead-I’m not kidding!
Around the time we had morning fruit break I considered starting on the damn thing, thinking that between then, lunch and after school I could probably choke most of it down. Then it hit me: just dig the bones out and toss the remains (looking as they surely would like some kind of aged scrotum sack). I’d go pretty hungry-as dad had made sure mom didn’t pack too much else to sustain me-but it would be worth it.
Lunchtime came, and while my peers were happy as could be eating their normal kid lunches, I was content to dine on what I considered a cleverness surpassing my father’s. Everyone finished their meals and I sat there with that unappetizing baggy of chicken. Finally, lunch ended; we could get up to clear our trays and whatnot. I dug my fingers into that greasy and mostly untouched chicken breast and eventually pried loose a few bones. I placed them back in the baggy, as was coercively agreed upon. As I did so, someone asked me what the hell I was doing. And they were right. What the hell was I doing?