Tuesday, April 05, 2005


A chicken drumstick lay waiting on the table when I got home from overtime work. The Mongolian beef bowl dinner I had a few hours before was long gone. The chicken. Well. It seemed like such a good idea.

My rumbling gut agreed.

Now, anyone who has any idea how I eat would know I would use a fork even for chicken wings. Not because I'm punctilious about table manners and cleanliness. It's actually the opposite, really: I'm too fucking lazy to wash my hands.

But not this night.

Without bothering to sit down before the table, I grabbed the chicken with my paw. The first bite made me grin as fowl-flesh touched my tongue. As grease warmed my mouth and my hand.

When I took the second bite, from across the millennia my cave-dwelling ancestors squatting before their fire grunted and nodded in approval.

Oooga booga.

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