Ooh...the title sounds a bit misogynistic. I can assure you that I am not...I just wrote that for "effect" or “pizzazz”. The stories I write in my blog are usually boring. And today’s entry is no different. The title is all I got.
Chicken Story:
I went to a local deli to get some food today. There are a lot of delis where live, and I find myself frequenting many of them these days. They're nothing special in my opinion, because they all serve pretty much the same damn thing: Sandwiches with a hint of italian/everything.
Now, I have nothing against sandwiches or pseudo-italian food, but where I come from, when I go out to eat, I usually visit establishments that serve food of unique origin (aka ethnic food). I don't go out to smorgasbord food joints unless it's a buffet (and there are no buffets around here...or at least the kind of buffets that i'm used to where it's "all you can eat" for a set price). I like to eat Mexican, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Italian, French, Hawaiian, "American", Indian, etc. and I like to visit places where they serve those particular flavors in joints that specializes in said ethnic-ality. Sandwiches, i suppose, can be argued as a specialty, but I don't think of that as unique unless they serve something like...say Vietnamese-Sandwich-with-that-cilantro-thing.
I looked around to see what I could eat for sustenance. As an aside, in college, I used to eat for pleasure since I enjoyed the company of my friends, and it was a grand affair celebrating the great sin of gluttony, enjoying the great flavors of the world. Now, I just eat to pass the time and survive. I have no time to enjoy culinary delights. I also don't have the means (money) to do so.
After spending a minute or so, I found myself disgusted by the poor selection and my lack of appetite. Although hungry, I didn’t want to eat anything there. Everything looked bland and disgusting. There were sandwiches, some pedestrian pasta, some fried things, and some more fried things. Under the heat lamp though, there were some roasted chicken. It didn’t look too appetizing, but there were only 2 left so I suppose someone must like them enough to maintain the demand.
There were 4 people in the deli with me, and they all seemed to be in the same boat I was in…looking to settle for something somewhat palatable to satiate hunger. It was a weird experience because all of us were wandering aimlessly through the store, trying to figure out what to eat, much like the zombies in those horror movies looking for a delectable brain to munch on. 5 minutes go by and I don’t see anything appetizing. I realized that the best thing I could do was to buy that roasted chicken. I decided that, like most things in life, I needed to settle for the lesser of two…errr evil foodstuffs.
The interesting thing though, was that all four of us came to the same conclusion at the same time. I found myself heading toward the roasted chicken at about the same time everyone else headed toward those disgusting heat lamp apparatus holding our chicken things.
We were all adults so I didn’t think any one of us was going to run after it. But there was an understanding that two chicken baskets were not going to satisfy all four of us. The race was on. You could see the bodies tense up, ready to fight for that nasty chicken. Well, now that other people wanted it and because there was a limited supply, suddenly the look of the chicken seemed to go from nasty to palatable.
I am no competitor, but I’m also lazy as hell. I didn’t want to visit another establishment to find another alternative to dinner, going through the process of thinking all over again. So, I started to walk briskly toward the goal. As soon as I did that, everyone else started walking a little faster. Oh baby, it was on. We didn’t want to cause a scene but we also didn’t want to lose either. The pace picked up. I knew that at that point, I needed to pull some serious maneuvers to achieve victory. I decided to go for a shortcut through the big stack of Pepsi and around the coffee cart. There wasn’t much space but I managed to pull it off. I have the edge! I reached for the chicken. Success!! I clutched the chicken basket close to my chest, protecting it from the other predators. I swung around and headed for the cash register. The second competitor grabbed the second chicken and followed suit. The two losers stopped in their tracks, with faces showing great disappointment.
I got home excited about the victory. I opened up the basket to smell my glorious success. Gross. I took a bite. Nasty. I had hoped that the sweetness of my success would make the chicken more palatable. I was wrong. I wasted 6 bucks on a piece of shit. Sigh…story of my life. Well…at least I…err…won.
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Steak story:
I was driving today when I saw a girl with an interesting shirt. Across her big breasts, the words “STEAK” was written on it. I didn’t understand the point of that shirt. Maybe the point is that there is no point. Steak is a metaphor for a lot of things, including but not limited to a man’s genitalia, an attractive male, and ribeye. Steak could not have referred to her breasts. Usually, they’re usually referred to as gozangas, boobs, melons, rack, airbags, tits, man-bottle, etc. but never “steak”. It’s a mystery.
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Bitch Story:
Acutally, there is no story.
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