Who Ate the Last Chicken Wing?

Guys and gals, it’s time that we sit down and have a little interrogation chat about something that’s even more important than world peace – a little matter of who the hell ate the last chicken wing?! 

Eating a man’s last chicken wing is like asking a woman about her age or weight.  You just don’t frikkin do it unless you’re trying to get your ass kicked!  It ranks up there with carjacking, lying and retail false advertisement.  Sure, a guilty culprit may lick the grease off their finger tips or wipe them clean on the fabric of their shirt or jeans, but the evidence lies in the pores of their skin and the aroma of their breath.  And a true chicken fanatic can sniff out the guilty like dogs sniff each other’s butts.

Evidence is eminent.  There is the trail of chicken crumbs; hot sauce stains; and grease-flavored belches.  There is the tummy rub; the heavy eyelids; and the smile of cured hunger satisfaction.  But the one thing that every last-chicken-wing-eating-thief fails to remember is that the last chicken wing usually has someone else’s name written all over it.  And when chicken lovers come back to the table to find that the last wing has been polished off, all hell breaks loose and no one is safe!  Especially if that last wing belongs to ME!

Women love diamonds.  Men love football.  Children love candy.  Old people love prunes.  Young people love booze.  But what about all those folks who scrape up their last dime for a single fix of a box of wings?  Popeyes, KFC, Golden Skillet, Wings & Things, House of Wings, New York Fried Chicken, Church’s Fried Chicken, and even Bojangles makes a killing off of people who are ashamed to enter a 12-step wing anonymous program, and you mean to tell me that there is someone in the world who thinks it’s okay for a greedy mofo to come along and snatch the last wing like a scavenger?  Even pigeons have more couth.

Now if you really want to piss someone off, don’t call them out of their name; don’t insult their intelligence; don’t even miscalculate their change.  Eat their last piece of chicken.  Just be prepared to run for the border because an ass whooping is on its way like a bill collector coming to collect a debt!

Actually, let me paint a more specific picture.

If you or anyone from your entourage decide to sit down for a meal with Hottywood, you can be sure there will be some deep fried chicken wings on the menu.  You can also be sure that when it comes down to the last piece, your fingers better be bound inside your pockets, ‘cause Hotty don’t play that!  Now I may have posed the question of who ate the last wing from the previous meal I shared with a few compulsive wing eaters, but trust me, that question was asked merely to warn the guilty perpetrator.  Because if there’s one thing that never lies, it’s my nose!  I can sniff out some bullsh*t and I can sniff out some chicken wings.  And I will find you!

“Watch your back ’cause I’m coming for you, sucka!”

_________________________________________________________

Quote of the week:   “A greedy father has thieves for children.”

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Watch out for Brandii

I swear . . . every Brandii I know. SMH

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After being holed up in a grungy jail cell for a crime committed by his alter ego, Gardner, a Washington DC newspaper editor, sits down for his first one-on-one interview with the very one who framed him, Hottywood Helps. What Gardner discovers is that Hottywood’s wisdom (per the nonconformist musings of his own witty advice column, ASK HOTTYWOOD!) comes with a past. The advice connoisseur embraces his calling as an unorthodox advice columnist when he finds himself amidst the drama of friends who had betrayed their love interests, in addition to witnessing a sideways cultural upheaval in his very own neighborhood; and in true artist fashion, paints pictures on his computer screen as Gardner experiences the adventures first hand.

Through Gardner’s fingertips, Hottywood’s voice sings in blog posts responding to individuals seeking solutions to their troubled day-to-day lives. Whether he’s filling the seats of church pews or spinning in office swivel chairs, Hottywood does not disappoint in guiding the misguided with over-the-top solutions to small life difficulties and easily comes into this own as a beacon of counsel behind a facade of a pair of dark shades.

Washington DC is a small city with big nerve. Ask anyone.

Better yet, ASK HOTTYWOOD!

Don’t be a Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins

Kats and kittens, it’s been a while since I’ve taken some time out of my endless 15 minute coffee break to complain about anything. And by a while, I mean yesterday. But today, as I place my leftover buffalo wings on top of the office copier machine in hopes of mass-reproducing the spicy deliciousness, I am really perturbed by the smelliest smell I’ve ever smelled.

Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins, the blond haired, blue eyed accounting specialist down the hall, just left out of the break room with his mid-day snack. To be honest, I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you that whatever it is, it’s loaded with onions, garlic, beans and an ADMIT ONE ticket to the bathroom. I want to say I’m offended by the smell, but I could very well be offended by the fact that ol’ Delquon didn’t offer my greedy ass any [insert PLAYA-HATEDNESS here].

Delquon isn’t the first violator of the shit you don’t eat in the office. I may be guilty of it, too, since I’m the first to warm my shrimp, crabs or collard greens in the microwave; but we aren’t talking about me because nothing I do is wrong as long as I don’t get caught doing it. Delquon’s dumb ass got caught red handed. With this said, let us be reminded that only cool people (and by cool people, I mean me) are allowed to warm up:

  • Seafood – There are enough people whose body stinks without appropriate showers.
  • Chitterlings – It’s bad enough something can smell as if it crawled up your butt and died. The last thing you should do is pull all that shit out of your insides and serve it on a plate.
  • Bean and onion burritos – GAS ASS ALERT!
  • Repurposed eggs – Don’t ask. Just don’t do it.
  • Fermented soy beans – Anything fermented is a call for disaster.
  • Steak & cheese sandwiches (but only if it comes from the deadliest carry out in the hood) – no ghetto sandwich is complete without extra onions – fried and/or raw.
  • Tortilla soup – Tortillas already smell like someone put their whole body in a bathtub EXCEPT their feet.
  • Anything where the special ingredients are monkey fur, frog hearts or the thumbs of a gorilla, for obvious reasons.

Delquon, ol’ boy, you are not me; therefore I cannot allow you to get away with disrespecting our office with that mess you call food. You call it food. I call it an edible boat anchor to hold the weight of your pot belly where it is until high cholesterol or an overdose of calories carries you to meet your maker. Until then, we are having an ice cream social in conference room 14A at 4:00pm and you are not invited.


Quote of the Week:  More people will get out of your way if you say “I’m gonna puke!” than if you say “Excuse me.”

  

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“Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist”

Dear Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, “Watch Your Back!”

Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.  I’ve taken your messy laziness for far too long!

On Monday you burned my toast, leaving with me with only the buttery middle of the bread, probably the size of a U.S. silver quarter.  As much as I wanted to punch you in your titty ball, I forgave you.  It was, after all, Monday.

When Tuesday rolled around, you completely said screw the toast all together.  Though your intentions were in the right place, replacing the toast with stale bagels only landed you in the number one spot on my sh!t list.  I wasn’t sure if I’d acknowledge you as a sh!t list offender or not, but after sitting in the dentist’s office for three hours waiting to have my broken tooth fixed, coming to that decision was easier than I thought.

By the time I accepted that I didn’t have anyone to hump on Wednesday, I realized my forgiving attitude would shift swiftly if you didn’t get your act together.  I’m not sure if you were pissed off with Mr. Cafeteria Lady for not putting it down the night before or if the kitchen was too hot for you to slave over a stove, but serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Tuesday’s stale ass bagels was not only ghetto, but warranted me to steal one of your hairnets to give to my neighbor’s pet pit bull to sniff so he’d have your scent when I released his viciousness on you for not satisfying my hunger.  If the problem however was Mr. Cafeteria Lady, I figured it would be okay if I whooped his ass myself and told him to handle his business so you don’t have to receive any more hate mail from me or any other employee in the building.  I haven’t gotten around to fighting him yet because the dentist told me I needed seven days of rest so the antibiotics he gave me can take effect on my tooth.  Because my mouth is still sore, even if Mr. Cafeteria Lady isn’t the problem, I might kick his butt just for the hell of it.  I need to take out my frustrations some kind of way.

When I woke up Thursday morning, I prayed for a change of heart.  I asked the Lord for patience and understanding in the event I found another strand of your wig hair in my runny scrambled eggs or another one of your IDGAF (I don’t give a f—k) mystery meats.  But when I actually bit into the furry burger [or whatever the hell it was you served on the menu that day] and in fact almost choked to death like my cat does when he has a fur ball lodged in his throat, I drew the conclusion that I either didn’t pray hard enough or should have left out the curse words in my request for understanding.  My throat is still itching and I still want to punch you in your titty ball.

Well today is Friday.  I am completely fed up from the lousy week I’ve had, the poor breakfast and lunch you’ve dished out all week, and am tired and hung over from the party I crashed last night, not to mention sick as a dog for mixing alcohol with antibiotics.  Learning there is no damn coffee in the coffee pot this morning is the last straw!  You have had ample time to get it right and you still haven’t complied.  Enough is enough!  I would like to officially warn you to email your ass home today before you get off work, because if you don’t there will be a gang of girls waiting for you in the parking lot to beat the crap out of you, unless you have a large pizza delivered to my office with extra cheese, pepperoni AND sausage…and no hair!

I will not accept any apologies, sob stories, or any forms of bribery that does not involve mozzarella cheese or vegetable oil.

I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you just had a bad week, however that is not my problem and giving you the benefit of the doubt will not protect you from getting drop-kicked in the parking lot.  I am a firm believer that you must learn from your mistakes so that you won’t make them again.  And after those girls run your wig up a flag pole, perhaps then you will take your job a little more seriously and realize that employees that deal with a whole bunch of mess eight hours a day, five days a week, will not tolerate any excuses from you or anyone from the kitchen staff.  Food is our salvation and cooking is your job.  Get with the program or get lost!

P.S.,

Have a blessed day!

Thank you,

Anonymous


 Quote of the week:  “Avoid fruits and nuts. You are what you eat.”

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Happy Thanksgiving from Hottywood Helps!

Twas the night of Thanksgiving,
I could not sleep.
I tried counting backwards,
I tried counting sheep.

The leftovers beckoned –
the dark meat and white
I fought the temptation
with all of my might.

Tossing and turning with anticipation,
the thought of a snack became infatuation.
I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door,
and gazed at the fridge, full of goodies galore!
Gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes,
pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.

I felt myself swelling so plump and so round,
’til all of a sudden, I rose off the ground.
I crashed through the ceiling, floating into the sky,
with a mouthful of pudding and a handful of pie.
I managed to yell as I soared pass the trees….
Happy eating to all – pass the cranberries, please.

May your stuffing be tasty.
May your turkey be plump.
May your potatoes ‘n gravy have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious.
May your pies take the prize.
May your Thanksgiving dinner stay off of your thighs!!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING FROM HOTTYWOOD HELPS!


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I’m waiting to hear from you!


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Click HERE to get your copy of HottywoodHelps.com’s debut novel,

“Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist”

The Rules of Bacon

Guys and Gals, this week will be a crazy week for me as work has once again interfered with my ‘actual’ life – the [perfect] life of my inhuman consumption of potato chips and grape soda while blatantly and selfishly slacking off and vegging out in front of the boob tube.

Since it’s imperative that I go rub elbows with Uncle Sam (to stand over his shoulder as he puts his John Hancock on my paycheck), I’m going to leave with you food for thought for my second favorite thing on this planet (my first favorite thing should only be discussed late at night with someone special after a few drinks in private; PS, my first favorite thing is none of your business if you haven’t figured it out by now, so stop trying to be nosy).

Meanwhile, enjoy! And if I haven’t said this to you in the last 24-48 hours, EAT MORE BACON.

Go now. And prosper.

Rules of Bacon


I’ll be out of the building for the rest of the week so I’ll catch you on the rebound. Meanwhile if you need to reach me or have any questions, click on the box below.

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