Last night, they did a bad, bad thing. Involving chicken. Specifically a box of "Love That Chicken", spicy. Why? Why, for the love of bikinis and daisy duke cut-offs, would any sane, cellulite-fearing female buy an entire box, of crunchy fried yardbird lusciousness? Answer: Chicken Math, duh. Chicken Math is a naturally occurring variant of normal logic that is catapulted into action by hunger and the irrationality incited by a couple of cold beers. Here's how it works:
Girl goes home and commences to doing piddly crap, like laundry, dishes and weed-pulling. These activities all involve beer, and perhaps explain the odd placement of clean undergarments. Girl decides around 8:00 p.m. that food needs to happen, and well, it's been weeks or months since the last batch of hot, greasy, spicy fried chicken. Why not? Well, it's not Tuesday, when you get a leg/thigh combo for $0.99. Incoming chicken math, hit the linoleum. The three piece dinner, that comes with a small side and a waste of belly space, er, biscuit, is $6.19 plus taxes. The 11 piece mixed box is $9.99, with a small red beans for $1.89 gets you four times the yummy for twice the price (total of $12 and change, actual price paid). Chicken. Math. Win.
Penance for chicken math? Doing the Funky Chicken, or the Chicken Dance for 2 hours a night for a week, to work off the fried chicken you ate while only the dog and cat could see (sure, "two pieces" = four, two of which do not count, on account of nobody actually saw it happen.) A tree just fell in the woods, no sound was made, not even a "crunch".
Actual pricing is subject to your actual location, we're just not responsible, as evidenced by the great chicken massacre, er, eating contest we had by ourselves. We did win, too - uhuh, winnah, winnah, chicken dinnah!
