I need another fix...
I've come to the conclusion that the Orange Chicken at Panda Express is made out of crack.
There's a Panda Express restaurant in the food court at school, and every time I walk in the door to get a bite to eat, I tell myself, "No orange chicken today, Jamie." And yet, every single damn time I get within a 100-yard radius of its delicious, orange warmth, I am drawn to it; much like Eddie Murphy is drawn to transexual hookers, or my brother driving my car is drawn to a turtle and then blindsided by a minivan.
The thing is, I know the minivan is coming... I just don't know when. Again and again, day in and day out, I am drawn in by the delicious siren song of the turtle, but in the back of my mind I know... The van is on its way. And when it arrives, It won't be pretty.
The other day, while chewing on a particularly delicious selection of such orange chicken, I began to notice that many of the pieces I was enjoying contained no chicken at all, but instead seemed to be composed of nothing more than empty batter and orange chicken sauce. And beyond that, they were crunchy.
Not "Lucky Charms" crunchy, mind you... more like "cockroaches" crunchy.
I'm fairly certain now that lurking deep beneath that deliciously sticky, orange exterior was something sinister. Perhaps even something... evil. As I pondered this thought, I continued, almost subconsciously, to bring piece after delicious piece of roach-(probably)-infested orange sustenance to my lips, just staring straight ahead, listening to the sound of their frail insect bodies crunching mercilessly beneath my teeth, as more of that soothing, spicy, orange perfection flowed over my taste buds, disguising even a hint of what I was actually devouring.
It was at this point in time when I realized that these communist bastards could put virtually anything in this sauce and call it "Orange Chicken" ...Yes, even crack. I thought back over the many, many times I had been unwittingly drawn to it; the hours of my life I had spent waiting in that line, in hopes of catching just few more precious bites of that orange goodness. I realized at that moment that I was addicted.
But to what? Chicken? Unllikely.
So now I ask you: what substance could those nefarious Chinese (or in this case, Mexicans) possibly be putting in there that would keep me coming back to them more than Whitney to Bobby Brown, even after the realization that I had been eating insects?*
*Hint: Not chicken.
I think the answer is an obvious one. I'm afraid that in my hasty and delicious indescression, I may have inadvertently acquired an addiction to what I believe to be crack cocaine.
I ate cockroaches for them... and I loved every minute of it. This is indeed a sad, sad day for America.
So, in conclusion:
...My only regret is getting myself hopelessly addicted to crack.
PS- If anyone wants to get some lunch, I'll be at Panda Express, pressing my face against the glass and drooling uncontrollably, shaking like a Polaroid picture of Michael J. Fox.
I CAN STOP ANYTIME I WANT!
There's a Panda Express restaurant in the food court at school, and every time I walk in the door to get a bite to eat, I tell myself, "No orange chicken today, Jamie." And yet, every single damn time I get within a 100-yard radius of its delicious, orange warmth, I am drawn to it; much like Eddie Murphy is drawn to transexual hookers, or my brother driving my car is drawn to a turtle and then blindsided by a minivan.
The thing is, I know the minivan is coming... I just don't know when. Again and again, day in and day out, I am drawn in by the delicious siren song of the turtle, but in the back of my mind I know... The van is on its way. And when it arrives, It won't be pretty.
The other day, while chewing on a particularly delicious selection of such orange chicken, I began to notice that many of the pieces I was enjoying contained no chicken at all, but instead seemed to be composed of nothing more than empty batter and orange chicken sauce. And beyond that, they were crunchy.
Not "Lucky Charms" crunchy, mind you... more like "cockroaches" crunchy.
I'm fairly certain now that lurking deep beneath that deliciously sticky, orange exterior was something sinister. Perhaps even something... evil. As I pondered this thought, I continued, almost subconsciously, to bring piece after delicious piece of roach-(probably)-infested orange sustenance to my lips, just staring straight ahead, listening to the sound of their frail insect bodies crunching mercilessly beneath my teeth, as more of that soothing, spicy, orange perfection flowed over my taste buds, disguising even a hint of what I was actually devouring.
It was at this point in time when I realized that these communist bastards could put virtually anything in this sauce and call it "Orange Chicken" ...Yes, even crack. I thought back over the many, many times I had been unwittingly drawn to it; the hours of my life I had spent waiting in that line, in hopes of catching just few more precious bites of that orange goodness. I realized at that moment that I was addicted.
But to what? Chicken? Unllikely.
So now I ask you: what substance could those nefarious Chinese (or in this case, Mexicans) possibly be putting in there that would keep me coming back to them more than Whitney to Bobby Brown, even after the realization that I had been eating insects?*
*Hint: Not chicken.
I think the answer is an obvious one. I'm afraid that in my hasty and delicious indescression, I may have inadvertently acquired an addiction to what I believe to be crack cocaine.
I ate cockroaches for them... and I loved every minute of it. This is indeed a sad, sad day for America.
So, in conclusion:
...My only regret is getting myself hopelessly addicted to crack.
PS- If anyone wants to get some lunch, I'll be at Panda Express, pressing my face against the glass and drooling uncontrollably, shaking like a Polaroid picture of Michael J. Fox.
I CAN STOP ANYTIME I WANT!