Chicken McNugget
“Smells like shit in here,” I thought out loud.
The door was open, as always, and directly past the 400 multi-brand cans of beer there was a mound of what appeared to be fried chicken. “Chicken?” I thought, silently this time - I was doing my best to not be rude in case it was fish.
I grabbed one of the fried morsels, and popped it in my mouth... “Yup, it’s fuckin’ chicken.”
One foot in front of the other, almost tripped over a dog toy. Nice save though, quick stutter step and spin move through the doorway.
“Still got it, baby”
The thought of a shower was frightening, what a time investment. I could be doing anything; reading, television, laundry, lifting, thinking, sleeping, running, bow-fighting, all sorts of magnificent activities that I could stinkily participate in.
Outside, I could hear the roommates laughing at something. “That’s fuckin’ rediculo...”
“Who cares, I’m working on this shower thing right now,” I think, slightly muttering “right now” for some reason. I plop down on my futon and stare at the towel for a few seconds, ‘Fuck it.”
I stand up, grab it , and go.
Looked in the mirror for awhile and got that age-old college boy feeling of, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Three quarters to the right, that’s the spot. I turned the shower handle counterclockwise, perfect, as always. Did a quick hand check because you never really know with these things, and the feeling of scorching hot water on the mid-back is right up there with chewing aluminum foil - to me.
First step in (right foot of course), “Awe, get the shit outta here,” real loud. Some stickiness on the shower floor and there is no doubting its origins. I picked up the contaminated foot, using the same skillful grace which eluded the dog’s toy, and rubbed it furiously with a bar of Irish Spring - that shit ain’t in the commercial.
The rest of the shower was a lost cause, my right foot felt heavy and filthy, even though it smelled like an Irish farmer, clad in a turquoise turtle neck, with a song on his lips and a knife in his hand - for cutting the soap, obviously.
Clockwise turn, real quick, didn’t want anything to do with that cold water which seems to race up the pipes much faster than the hot.
I dried off and put on my next 24-hour attire. I walked past the living room, turned to the roommates who were now enjoying the chicken, and pointed to no one in particular.
“Let the fucking water run after you finish playing the damned skin flute!”
“Skin flute?” I thought. “I wonder if that’s used anymore.”
They both looked up and laughed. The dog was on the couch between them, excited to see the three of us interacting.
I walked in my room and hung up the towel in its usual place on the door. My foot felt awful, I didn’t even want to step on it anymore. “Dirty bastards,” I thought.
The “sssss” in “bastards” whizzed through the gap in my front teeth.
The door was open, as always, and directly past the 400 multi-brand cans of beer there was a mound of what appeared to be fried chicken. “Chicken?” I thought, silently this time - I was doing my best to not be rude in case it was fish.
I grabbed one of the fried morsels, and popped it in my mouth... “Yup, it’s fuckin’ chicken.”
One foot in front of the other, almost tripped over a dog toy. Nice save though, quick stutter step and spin move through the doorway.
“Still got it, baby”
The thought of a shower was frightening, what a time investment. I could be doing anything; reading, television, laundry, lifting, thinking, sleeping, running, bow-fighting, all sorts of magnificent activities that I could stinkily participate in.
Outside, I could hear the roommates laughing at something. “That’s fuckin’ rediculo...”
“Who cares, I’m working on this shower thing right now,” I think, slightly muttering “right now” for some reason. I plop down on my futon and stare at the towel for a few seconds, ‘Fuck it.”
I stand up, grab it , and go.
Looked in the mirror for awhile and got that age-old college boy feeling of, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Three quarters to the right, that’s the spot. I turned the shower handle counterclockwise, perfect, as always. Did a quick hand check because you never really know with these things, and the feeling of scorching hot water on the mid-back is right up there with chewing aluminum foil - to me.
First step in (right foot of course), “Awe, get the shit outta here,” real loud. Some stickiness on the shower floor and there is no doubting its origins. I picked up the contaminated foot, using the same skillful grace which eluded the dog’s toy, and rubbed it furiously with a bar of Irish Spring - that shit ain’t in the commercial.
The rest of the shower was a lost cause, my right foot felt heavy and filthy, even though it smelled like an Irish farmer, clad in a turquoise turtle neck, with a song on his lips and a knife in his hand - for cutting the soap, obviously.
Clockwise turn, real quick, didn’t want anything to do with that cold water which seems to race up the pipes much faster than the hot.
I dried off and put on my next 24-hour attire. I walked past the living room, turned to the roommates who were now enjoying the chicken, and pointed to no one in particular.
“Let the fucking water run after you finish playing the damned skin flute!”
“Skin flute?” I thought. “I wonder if that’s used anymore.”
They both looked up and laughed. The dog was on the couch between them, excited to see the three of us interacting.
I walked in my room and hung up the towel in its usual place on the door. My foot felt awful, I didn’t even want to step on it anymore. “Dirty bastards,” I thought.
The “sssss” in “bastards” whizzed through the gap in my front teeth.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Friday, March 17, 2006.
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