I am disheartened to report that I am breastless tonight.
With it being Thursday, and Bowler H's night on the town, I headed to pick up my weekly fix as soon as we were released from parent conferences at 6:00. I drove like a maniac at 31 mph, ever watchful for those cross-country, music-jamming jackrabbits who would kink up my journey with a split skull or collapsed lung. I played a game of Giant SUV Mirror Chicken with a dude backing out of the limited parking area of my favorite fried-fowl haunt. I hustled into the establishment and was greeted with a most terrifying sight.
Three old ladies stood between me and my gas-station chicken.
I say old, by which I mean they were older than me. Ancient, actually. Like a blast from the past, with car-coats and hats with veil thingies and support hose and sensible purses. I knew they were old, because they were friendly. "Oh, are you here for chicken, too?" "It sooo good." Another one got in line behind me.
The counter girl was the one with all of her teeth. She was a bit surly. "Anybody waiting for chicken--it's going to be twenty minutes."
Well. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't be made to wait twenty minutes for her crispy feast. That was with no guarantee of obtaining her chosen breasts. What if all the other ladies were awaiting fresh breasts? That would set Mrs. HM back another twenty minutes. Which is entirely too long to stand around a gas station, a twelve-hour day of work and chicken-waiting.
What is with these chicken-geniuses? I am not a gas-station chicken-fryer. But in the split second that I was contemplating cooling my heels by the fountain soda dispenser, inhaling the greasy goodness that would not find its way to my gullet, a thought popped into my head. If I was a chicken-fryer, when would I expect my peak chicken-demand to fall? Hm...perhaps... oh...I don't know... maybe...between the freakin' hours of 4:00 and 7:00 p.m.
Do you think?