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!”

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

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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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The Relationship Quiz

It’s never easy to accept when a relationship is over, whether you are effected by the disruption or the cause of it.  Luckily for you,

Hottywood Helps! 

This little quiz will help you to realize how much BS you are able to endure from your mate before finally packing your overnight bag and running for the border.

Be warned that the truth hurts, but in the end hurt never felt so good.

When you are tired of hearing the sound of your mate’s voice, do you:

  1. Spend all your time in the bathroom flushing the toilet repeatedly to drown out your partner’s voice?
  2. Remove all the writing utensils from the house and then tell your partner to write down everything it is they have to say?
  3. Resort to a telephone call using sign language?
  4. Threaten to never have sex with your partner again if they don’t shut up?
  5. Suffocate them with a bunch of Safeway bags?
  6. None of the above.  No one will date me.

When you stop trusting your partner, do you:

  1. Replace every telephone number in their address book with that of the city morgue?
  2. Eat a spoonful of quick drying cement, French kiss them and become permanently joined at the lips?
  3. Cheat on your mate with as many people as you can in an effort to be an even bigger whore than you believe them to be?
  4. Put caramel in the seat of all of their underwear?
  5. Eat a bag of Funyons just before it’s time to do the grown up?
  6. None of the above.  My mate dumped me for a midget gypsy pole dancer.

When your partner makes goo-goo eyes at the restaurant waiter/waitress for an extra free basket of bread, do you:

  1. Get the server fired by insisting to the restaurant manager that the particular server stars in a recurring role of ‘America’s Next Top Pimp’s Bitch’?
  2. Jump in your partner’s lap and dry hump them during the dessert course?
  3. Blindfold your partner with a handful of burnt spaghetti?
  4. Openly discuss the furry mole that’s growing around your partner’s waxed nipples?
  5. Order the most expensive thing on the menu [to-go], then end the relationship dramatically while stiffing your partner for the bill.
  6. None of the above.  My partner can no longer eat solid foods because I broke his/her jaw bone the last time he/she flirted with someone else.

If your partner perceives you as a moron, is it because you:

  1. Don’t know the telephone number for 9-1-1?
  2. Own a drawer full of the same pairs of mismatched socks?
  3. April Fool’s Day jokes are played on you every day?
  4. Attempt to pay your speeding tickets with an EBT card?
  5. Can never find ‘To Wong Fu’ on the Chinese take-out menu?
  6. None of the above.  My mate is just as much of a moron as I am.

You are probably not relationship material if you:

  1. Communicate with the voices in your head more than you do with actual people.
  2. Think a third wheel in a relationship has anything to do with a tricycle.
  3. Would rather make love while watching a Dominos Pizza commercial rather than a skin flick with the words ‘Butts, Boobs and Butternut Squash’ in the title.
  4. Think Dorothy was a genius for walking into a forest full of lions, tigers and bears.
  5. Believe the shortest month of the year would not be so short if it wore high heels.
  6. None of the above.  The cleavage on my back seems to be a real turn-off to people so I already I’ll never be considered as relationship material.

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Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

MEMO

TO:  Superior Managers of If I Told You I’d Have To Kill You (IITYIHTKY) Enterprises

FROM:  HNIC, No One Matters But Me Department

SUBJECT:  Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

DATE:  Half Pass Right Now, 2016


This notice of memorandum serves as an official request for permission to replace [suite #211] swivel chair with a home-supplied air mattress.

Attached you will find a signed medical notice from Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, MD of the Unsanctified Round-a-Way Medical Center, requesting that human resource officials and all other appropriate personnel of IITYIHTKY Enterprises acknowledge and honor doctor’s recommendation for Hottywood Helps to permissibly replace is raggedy office swivel chair with a tricked out air mattress, in an effort to avoid any further compulsory medical treatment administered due to a rare case of coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia, from which Mr. Helps suffers.

This condition causes Mr. Helps to lash out at fellow No One Matters But Me Department staff and risks interruption of interoffice departmental work progress, therefore he should be granted immediate approval to replace said furniture with a more comfortable sleep-encouraging apparatus.

Upon recent telephone conversations with Mr. Helps’ physician, Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, and in addition to research gathered from the world wide web, an air mattress would ensure Mr. Helps’ speedy recovery from coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia.  Should the mattress coerce Mr. Helps into a temporary midday coma, the respite would ignite unused cells in his brain ultimately improving his work performance and allowing him to overcome the late day grogginess that so many IITYIHTKY Enterprises employees experience on a day-to-day basis (water cooler rumors have it).

I am in favor of supporting the healthiness of my entire staff and request that all official authorized superior managers do the same as long as proper documentation is supplied, not to include death threat notices.

In the event that further references are needed and/or necessary (in addition to Dr. McLeod’s recommendation), the telephone numbers of the below listed names may be provided upon request:

Please note that all below listed persons are dead so it may take a while to gather the information you seek [if applicable]. 

  • Winston Churchill
  • Napoleon Bonaparte
  • Albert Einstein
  • Leonardo Da Vinci
  • John F. Kennedy

Quote of the Week:   “A day without a nap is like a cupcake without frosting.”

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Can You Out-Snob a Snob?

As much as some of us hate to admit it, every single one of us has a little bit of snob in us. There are the hidden snobs that prefer bottled water over tap; the snobs that prefer “loud” over “bush”; the snobs that prefer lager over malt; snobs that prefer to eat their Snickers and pizza slices with a fork rather than using their fingers; snobs that refuse to wear the same thing twice (including wearing underwear two days in a row); snobs that won’t use public restroom facilities even though their stomachs are all but imploding from bubble-gut-itis; snobs that prefer one-on-on sex over group sex; snobs that prefer 7-11 hot dogs over vendor stand hot dogs; snobs that only eat a certain kind of ketchup or mayonnaise; snobs that are too good to bag someone else’s groceries for a living or take a food order as a drive-thru clerk; snobs that won’t eat a potato chip three seconds after it’s been dropped on the floor; snobs that judge people by the color of their shoe strings; snobs that…aw hell, you get the point! There are a whole bunch of snobs in the world. If you are able to lay your eyes on any person, then you are looking at a snob. But hold up…the same rule applies if another person can lay their eyes upon your snobbish ass!

Given this truth, it is always entertaining to watch a snob out-snob a snob.

There really is no point to this post except to remind us all that no one is perfect or any better than another. Everyone has issues; everyone has baggage; everyone has flaws. But it’s the snob in us that won’t admit those issues, bags or flaws out loud. Instead we’d rather wait and take offense when another snob airs out our dirty laundry. Do you see what I’m talking about? The snob in us won’t allow us to be honest with ourselves.

Endora (from Bewitched) said it best when she chanted the spell:

“…on the count of three we will see what a snob this clod can be.”


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THROWBACK: A Case of the Mondays on a Tuesday

MONDAYI can’t go on a “Today is Monday” tangent, because today is not Monday but rather Tuesday. However since I didn’t get to gripe and groan about all the bullshit that usually happens on a Monday, the universe saw fit for me to get my dose of the Monday blues today.

After spending the last five days footloose and worry free on an Easter vacation, this morning I partook in a WWE wrestling match with my alarm clock. The clocked punched and kicked and pulled and pushed me until I found myself laying on the floor, covered in bruises and pillow drool. No more are my days of sleeping until high noon. No more waking up to buttered toast and cold beers. No more watching I Love Lucy and all things 80s on the Hallmark channel. Nope. After today’s royal battle, I am back to the humdrum of hating mornings, fighting with my cat over when and how much to feed him before I leave for the day, and listening to my downstairs neighbor call her husband a lazy, fat so and so because she has to get up to go to work while he continues to lay his unemployed butt around the house scratching his balls.

I’d finally mustered up enough energy to wash the last five days off of me and shaved the fur that grew on my face, when behold, there was a shocking bang on my door reminiscent of a knock just before a police swat team storms a raid bust site. To my surprise it was my downstairs neighbor, demanding (not requesting) to use my phone because she’d locked herself out of her apartment, after having put her husband out on the streets and telling him not to return without a job. I wanted to laugh in her face in an effort to say NANANABOO, as I remembered the argument we had some months ago when she waited two weeks after one of my late night trysts to complain about all the noise I made on that particular night, which in my head warranted me a well-deserved pat on the back and a serious high five on my part! Alas, at 6:45am, after having lost a wrestling match with my alarm clock, laughing was the last thing I wanted to do.

I finally made it to work, and of course, was greeted by an empty coffee pot. Next to the pot was an ice bucket full of coffee creamers. It was a double slap in the face because there was no coffee and also I’m allergic to dairy. Could this morning get any worse? I thought to myself.  Of course I asked that question moments before booting up my computer only to find I had no access to email, the internet or any shared network drives. In addition to having no technology access, I have a major report due tomorrow. It probably would have made sense if I’d have started working on the report three weeks ago when I was first made aware of it, but like every man on the planet, procrastination got the best of me. I figured I could get the report done in less than 8 hours. …Technically 5 ½ hours now.

No Monday-like Tuesday would be complete without forgetting my wallet. Since begging is not in my vocabulary, lunch will be particularly interesting today. I did grab a few packs of soy sauce from the cafeteria. Perhaps when my blood pressure rises above the norm, the near death experience will help me to forget just how hungry I am. This wouldn’t have been a problem if one of the cleaning staff hadn’t stolen the baked chicken that I forgot to take home with me last week from out of the refrigerator.

On a good note, not many people are in the office today. That translates into not many people will see my new outfit. You know. The one I wore to church on Easter Sunday. The good news about that is I’ll know exactly what I’m going to wear two days from today, and I won’t even have to iron!

Now the only thing I need to do is drink enough soy sauce packets until my head starts to spin, much like it does when I’ve been slipped a mickey at any given party on a Friday night. That might motivate me to start on this report and at noon, stand in front of the cafeteria like a panhandler when the rest of the building staff bombards the lunch line for today’s spaghetti and meatballs. I said begging is not in my vocabulary. I didn’t say I didn’t know how to do it. Hopefully I can get about twenty people to give me $.25 each.

Until then, people. On this Tuesday, I’d like to say to you all, HAPPY MONDAY or some shit like that!


Quote of the Week:  “The golden rule of work is that the boss’ jokes are ALWAYS funny.”   

Duck Sauce Bandits

Guys and gals, it’s been a short while since the last time we’ve griped about anything, so today we will join forces to take a stand against carryout associates who are stingy with their duck sauce.

What is it with these carryout places that prohibit them from giving up more than one packet of duck sauce for all those blasted noodles and rice?  Mingh Lee, Hwong Sai, Zhang Lo, and Kwei Lau Woo all have the same attitude problem when you ask them for extra duck sauce.  First, they look at you as if you’re asking for too much, and then they form their thin lips to tell you that you’re going to have to cough up an extra $.25 for an additional packet.

“Please pause with me for a moment has I clench my heart and gasp at the preposterousness of a quarter of a dollar for something you’re only going to taste once with a mouthful of spit!”

Are you friggin’ kidding me?  Are these packets of sweet heavenly goodness coming out of their paychecks?  Why the hell should the general public have to pay for extra duck sauce?  That’s like paying for the white on rice.

There can only be one of two reasons why carryout associates are ready to pull out their nunchucks at the request of any additional condiments: either (1) they are cheap as hell or (2) the price of duck sauce over in China is as steep as the price of gas is here in the states.

Well, just like Americans and illegal aliens alike have come up with innovative ways to paste pigeon feathers onto their walking shoes to avoid ridiculously scathing gas prices, greedy people who share the same carryout-consumer gripe have become more creative in getting their extra duck sauce, soy sauce and even hot mustard.  Those innovations all ironically include the use of collected fire wood, aerosol spray paint and a book of matches.  That’s right; the greedy and hungry have finally revolted against the cheap and stingy.  “Enough is enough.”

“Whatever happened to the saying, “The customer is always right.”?  Where’s the love?”

For the sake of all things fried and dipped in sesame seeds, loosen up the grip on the duck sauce, carryout associate-son!  How do you expect to come to ‘the hood,’ open up a chicken wing joint that conveniently serves all the lo mein a brutha can eat and then put a cap on the amount of condiments to be given away with each order?  Haven’t your business plans taught you that hood rats overdo everything?  We buy clothes, cars and people that are too far out of our budgets, so it’s only obvious that we’re going to want to overdo it on the fried rice and chow mein.  For you to be smart enough to fry chicken wings the way you do to the point where everyone in the neighborhood is willing to pack on a few extra summer-time pounds, you sure are stupid!  Charging us for the extra “must haves” will only lead to the undoing of your fine grease-filled establishment.

After asking, pleading, and complaining, these warnings have now turned into threats.  Give us some more damn duck sauce or else we’ll have to pull out our stun guns and candle lighters and show you that we mean business.  When it comes to food, drinks and booty calls, we don’t play!  If you think seeing a pissed off Bruce Lee is something, wait until you see a pissed off hungry hood rat!

For your sake, you should be glad we’re talking about duck sauce and not chicken wings.  Otherwise there would be all kinds of hell to pay and guess who would be the leader of that pack.  I won’t call any names, but let’s just say it rhymes with Pottywood.  And I know you wouldn’t want to piss him off.  He’d get you if it was the last thing he’d do.  If but for no other reason and declaration that 90% of any effort is getting started.

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Quote of the Week:  “It’s not holding on that makes you strong; it’s letting go.”