Yard Bird

Man, there's jut something about fried chicken that speaks to my soul. I wonder how popular the first fellow in the tribe was once he realized that hot grease and a bird could be the next best thing to sliced bread, or biscuit, or next to some mashed potatoes, or coleslaw, perhaps.

Tribe?

Grease?

I know it doesn’t make much sense. Hell, even grilled chicken hits the lovin’ spot on a Sunday morn. I guess I just have a hankering for some foul in general.

Anyway…

I often hear the question, “If you could meet anyone, living or dead... blah, blah…” and then I think, “Fuck, I’d rather see the human animal in its true sense.”

I want to meet the boy that saw the first fire on Earth, which he made himself, and put some lower, dumber, slower animal on it. I wanna’ shake his hand.

It had to go somethin’ like, “I’mo catch this somebitch, and then watch this shit…”

Either that or, “Ooga booga ba-ha-ha-ha”

The first chef.

I wonder what he used for seasoning…

…probably not 11 original herbs and spices.

Maybe he slapped a few boogers on it, or something queer like that, apply some spit, perhaps. God knows evolution hasn’t porked the urge to spit on food out of us. Just go to work at your local Silly’s or Crapplebee’s and you’ll find some under-paid, over-cranked, rarely-bathed chump coughing his loogie in your special sauce, and toasting your bread in his buns.

Believe that.

I’ve seen this happen.

I mean some really rotten shit.

“How ‘bout a nice warm Band-Aid from the fresh cut on my finger in your salad?”

“No thanks, I’ll have the fried chicken.”

I guess it’s hard to fuck up frying chicken…

Jeebus, cooking at home seems so much safer, but screw it; Popeye’s is just easier…

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