So last Saturday, Batman came back from being out of town to pick up his nice shiny new car. On his way home, he purchased a bucket of Publix chicken wings. For those of you who don’t know what Publix is, it’s like the polar opposite of Walmart. Clean. Awesome. And somewhat overpriced. But their deli is amazing.
I’m not such a wing-girl myself, but on occasion, I’ll indulge. I’d eaten a Whopper Jr earlier because I was too hungry and impatient to drive the extra five minutes to the sandwich shop, and being hangry makes you to do things you don’t want to do. Like buy sustenance from a fast-food chain. So, to avoid killing all those on the road with my stomach that sounded like a dragon in heat, I gobbled up the cheeseburger and headed home.
An hour later Batman arrived.
With wings.
I watched him make his plate, adding the buffalo and ranch, and then proceed to the couch to dig into one of Publix’s finest treats. And then, unaware it was going to happen, an intense argument ensued between my stomach and head.
stomach: I want wings.
head: You already ate.
stomach: That wasn’t real food. It was like eating playdoh. It doesn’t count.
head: You’re not even hungry. You only want wings because he has wings and he makes that yummy face so you want to make that yummy face and its really just jealousy. Control yourself.
stomach: I want wings.
head: I thought you wanted to lose weight?
stomach: How are wings going to stop me from losing the thirty pounds I said I’d lose two years ago?
head: You have to start sometime.
stomach: Now is not the time.
head: You don’t need wings.
stomach: I need them.
head: No you don’t.
stomach: Yes I do.
head: NO YOU DON’T.
stomach: Watch me, dick.
“Babe, can I have three wings?
I always feel it’s best to give a good description of how much food I’ll be taking from Batman because I know it weighs heavily on his decision. Normally it’s “can I have a bite?” because I know he’s willing to spare that (mostly because it guarantees him a bite of whatever I’m eating) but knowing his love for Publix chicken wings, I figured I should start off strong with a detailed request before going back and forth on how many I think I’ll be eating.
Even with the amount requested, Batman still took a good ten seconds to decide. YES. TEN WHOLE SECONDS. But finally his head rolled into a nod and he agreed to the three. I get three chicken wings which, according to my stupid head, I didn’t need.
I jumped up and headed to the kitchen, entering the delcious aroma that the BK lounge had nothing on. Grabbing a plate, I scoured the box for the best wings left. Like I said, I normally don’t eat wings, but the few times that I do, I go for the thighs. They pack the most meat and…I don’t know…I just prefer them. Batman, thinking likewise, already selected most of the thighs so I was left with a majority of wings. I grabbed two and was reaching for the third when I saw it.
The unbelievable.
The overly remarkable.
The Holy Grail of thighs.
A boulder of meat piled high, it looked like two thighs–maybe three– converged into one glorious aberration of nature. This chicken must’ve been on steroids; it must have been the Shaquille O’Neal to it’s race; that or pet to the Hulk. I’d never seen such a big chicken wing. I didn’t even know something like it could exist. So thick and meaty… I couldn’t help myself.
“Yes,” I thought, selecting it, “you shall be my final prize.”
I placed him on my plate and turned to the livingroom. Do I eat him first? Save him for last? Maybe I’ll drizzle him with some ranch and-
I must’ve lost my footing or something because suddenly, my plate bounced and like an acrobat on a trampoline, the holy grail of chicken wings took flight.
Time stopped.
My mouth dropped. My eyes widened in fear. All I could do was watch as the pefect wing soared ahead in slow motion, already preparing for a crash landing on the unswept tile by the garbage can.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” I bellowed, but it was too late.
The thigh landed, proceeded to roll across the floor and then stop an inch away from the dirty trash compactor.
Maybe… maybe it’s still salvageable, I foolishly thought. Maybe I can just wipe the dust off. Five second rule, right? But with a quick calculation of how often I didn’t sweep the floor mixed with all the things I remembered dropping and kicking under the cabinets made me pause. DAMN IT.
DDDAAAAMMMNNN IIIITTTT!!!!!
IT.WAS.SO.PERFECT.
DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNNN IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Defeated, knowing I lost it for good, I looked up. Batman was staring right at me.
“I was saving that one,” he said.
“It kamikazied.”
“I can’t believe you dropped it.”
“IT KAMIKAZIED!”
He shook his head and turned around. “Now you only get two.”
No, Batman is not a jerk; he’s only being fair. That was my punishment. The punishment I fully deserved because, let’s face it: I failed. I failed on an EPIC level. I let my retardation of not konwing how to walk properly (although I’ve had 28 years to practice) ruin my chances of consuming which was most likely the world’s best chicken wing. Now we’ll never know. I’ll never know. And I’ll probably have to get supervised every time I go to the kitchen when he brings home a treat from Publix.
*sigh*
But even with my punishment of only eating two, it’s been less than a week and he’s brought up that damn chicken wing like five times. “Hey remember you when you dropped my chicken wing? Yeah, thanks.” “I don’t know if you deserve a backrub. You dropped my chicken wing.” “Oh you want to ride in my new car? CHICKEN WING.”
SO, apparently, I will forever be haunted by the holy grail of chicken wings which, ironically, was a chicken’s thigh. No moral or lesson to be learned here. Just be careful with your boyfriend’s shit. And maybe pay attention to your head when it’s telling you to not be such a fat ass.
