Gangster Chicken

Ighetto-chicken understand the desire to live a healthy lifestyle, but when you continuously pepper a clearly exasperated waitress with inquires about a piece of poultry’s upbringing, exercise schedule, and dietary regiment you’ll likely get bitch slapped by the law of diminishing marginal returns – that, or your fellow dinners ­– depending on their relative tolerance for mindless douchebaggery.

The other day at dinner, my buddy’s wife launched such an SAT sized smattering of questions at a helpless hash slinger. At first I thought she was just breaking balls, but as she persisted into minutia, my pal seemed to visible melt into the menu, indicating that this was no prank or singular occurrence.

Hey, it happens. Everyone has his or her crazy, high-maintenance issues.  I’ve been trying to be more understanding lately. So perhaps these are reasonable inquires? Maybe my being monumentally poor as a child inhibited their formation in my protein-starved brain and now they simply seem laughable.

No. That’s bullshit. People just lose all sense of perspective when they get money. Trust me. After living on pasta for twenty years, meat – any meat – is an orgasmic concept. I’m not saying I’d ever eat the ass out of a rhinoceros, but I’ve considered a rat burger on occasion. You up the ante to actual chicken and I’m all in.  I don’t care if it went to private school or the pigeon equivalent of PS 121. Sign me up.

  • A Related Note: What’s the attraction of “free range” chicken? I mean, how do I know those feathery fuckers didn’t jog on down to the industrial waste plant or the nuclear facility for a few drinks before flap walking their way home?  No, I think containment is the safer play.  Chickens can’t be trusted.  Everyone knows that.
  • Another Related Note:  I noticed about two hours in that the whole understanding thing, well, um, it doesn’t work for me.