OH, TO BE YOUNG AND THIN AGAIN
Ode to a Roasted Chicken
Harris does accents. Trump serves fries. I can do both. Vote for me and let’s be done with this election for God’s sake. I’m sick of the whole thing.
I’m also hungry. Very, very hungry. This is good because it means maybe, just maybe, for the very first time in close to two years, I’ll be able to tuck my shirt into my pants. But it’s bad because as we all know, when one is hungry one becomes short-tempered, jittery, hangry. Willing to risk jail time for the comfort of a warm, roasted chicken snatched and scarfed down right in the middle of Safeway. Or Publix. Or Wegmans. Or even Walmart. Hey, I’ve had some pretty good roasted chickens from Walmart. Just…not…recently.
To distract myself from my hunger I do all kinds of fun things. I spray self-tanner on my face. This is good for the first day or so. Then by the 400th spray I look like an orange. An orange that went bad three weeks ago. And still, in my starving state, I would eat it. My face, not so much. Though I think Hannibal Lecter might like it.
I do laundry. I even throw it in the dryer. When the buzzer buzzes, I race to the dryer hangry it’s not the microwave signaling that something hot and delicious awaits me, and fling the contents on the bed. (But only because our washer and dryer are in the closet of our bedroom…
