H.A.P.P.Y.
I feel like Bubba from “Forest Gump” when ordering dinner for my wife. “I don’t care what you bring home for dinner,” she would say, “just so long as the letters C.H.I.C.K.E. and N. are in there somewhere.” With one exception… She hates the letters R.O.S.E.M.A.R. and Y., whoever she is.
Baked chicken, BAR B Q’ed chicken, or broiled Chicken, she don’ care. Chicken Fricassee’, Chicken and Biscuits, Marinated Chicken… So long as she don’ hav’ta kill it her ownself she’s a happy gal. Chicken Breasts, Chicken thighs, or Chicken legs, if’n it ain’t chicken livers she’ll be happy. She says liver don’ belong in the Chicken nohow… “It ain’t white meat, it ain’t dark meat it’s jes’ baaaaad meat.”
T’ udder nite we went out T’ Eat… She almos’ broked her own rule. She order’t one o’ them lobster thangs. Whatdya suppose she got wit’ it? YEP, she bought her ownself a order O’ Chicken Marshellfish or Marsellis or somethin’ like that. I’m thinkin’ she thought that menu thing said Surf & Feathers instead of Surf & Turf. All I know is her vittles had the letters C.H.I.C.K.E.N. in it… She was H.A.P.P.Y!… DAT’s all dat’s impotent. Caus’ you know what dey say… If’n Mama ain’t happy… Ain’t nooobody happy! And I do beleee dat… Yesser’
Foosis
