Phraseology: Chicken Math

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!

I Want My Two Doll Hairs!!

Dough, Moolah, Coinage, Ben Franklins, C-Notes.  Yes, we are talking about money.  Our favorite descriptor for our favorite thing to have a lot of?  Doll hair(s).  Every time we read it, we giggle - nerds that we are.  Um, no dorks, we're dorks.  Blatantly playing off a line from one of John Cusack's finest 80's movie, Better Off Dead - "We want our two doll hairs"!   If they still made Zima, we'd have an 80's movie extravaganza and invite all of our friends over.  Hell, Malt Duck might be an even better selection, the grape kind. 

Doll Hair (Dawh-Hare): Of, or pertaining to a dollar, or many dollars, should you have them.  If you have an abundance of doll hairs, please give us some.  To use it in context for you, "I'd meet you for dinner at Spanish Village later, however, I don't have enough doll hairs to buy dinner and the 2 frozen margaritas that I know I'd drink."  Or, "I'd purchase reserved seats for the Hair Band Reunion Tour, but, they want a hundred and forty doll hairs for them.  Looks like I'll be sitting on the lawn, instead."

What fun and exciting things do you do with your extra doll hairs?  Declining minds want to know.

*Zima, though introduced in 1993, typifies the 80's for us.  Malt beverages, buscept "El Toro", were wildly popular among the cauliflower-bang and leg-warmer set.

e-harm: binary badness

Hey!  Thanks, Mr. Former Vice President and victim of the hanging chad, for inventing for our use and amusement and sometimes edification this binary web of magic, complete with many, many outlet malls and banking locations.  And a few very bad things.  Sometimes, the Mother of Invention is one mean bitch (mostly because black and white data has no inflection and can be mis-read in a freaking heartbeat, like, oh this here site).   Oh sure, there's a whole lot of creamy e-goodness floating around out there...recipes for stuff, information about stuff and ways to connect or re-connect with people.   You always have to take a little bad with the good.  Always.  If someone told you life was fair and it was going to all be sunshine and lollipops, well, they lied.  Sorry, they did - whoever "they" are.  Which brings us to our word for today:

e-harm (eeeee-haarm)  binary badness that leaves you with emotional scars, nicks, dings, embarassment or other such forlorn feelings or a good emotional funk.  Some examples include, but are not limited to, the following list:

• Cy-Jacking:  Read our previous post, we are so not reiterating.

• Social Networking Miasma:  When someone harms you emotionally on MyFace or other such social networking site, by being a big, fat cyber-meanie.  This can lead to a temporary emotional funk and purportedly has caused persons to bring their existence to an immediate halt (this is the worst possible outcome, and saddens us deeply).  Seriously, if someone is a jerk or is just unacceptably mean, ask them were they "just saying" or are they for real.  If they are for real, punt them...for real.  The flip to this...finding out you were punted, when you didn't really "do" anything bad.  It's like being bounced from the bar when you were minding your own damned business.

• Dating Dysentery:  Signing up for all manner of internet dating, only to be terribly let down by your "matches".  Don't let online dating sites make you feel shitty.  Why, we got all fancy and downloaded the "app for that" because we were engaged in some initial conversation with a very interesting gentleman.  Only to hit the little "Reply to Match" button and get a stupid message that we closed our match......wtf?  We so did not mean to do that! 

• Net-ruptcy:  Having to declare bankruptcy because you simply cannot control yourself, not no e-way.  Buying up crap of all manner and price, because it's there, it's so squeeeeee and it looks to be a monumental bargain.  Yes, we have our card we don't leave home without memorized, no, we ain't declaring nothing.

• J-Mail:  All of the miscellaneous crap you have to unsubscribe to, as your inbox and junk box are overflowing with "do-not-reply" bullshit e-mails from every stupid website you made a purchase on.  Note: Uncheck the box that says you want to know every time they gots a deal.

• E-Gnore:  Sending someone a message or an e-mail or electronic form of invitation only to be met with absolute silence.  You got it, no reply, at all.  Don't let rude morons make you feel a lower sense of self-worth.  Mark 'em down as ill-mannered and move right along.  No need for repercussions, perhaps they're busy or, they got caught up in a tangled web of "why did they peep at my profile and not open communications?  Why?"  What's wrong with me?  Yeah, you get the picture.  We've all been there, be firm, be resolute - don't let looky-loos bring you down.  Color them asshats and move along.

Our advice?  Quit buying crap, don't ever give out your login information, and don't take the social or dating business too seriously if it's hurting your feelers.  We know, it's cold or nasty or both outside, invite some friends over and play board games or cards, step back from the glow of your monitor.  Unless you need to read all of our blog entries, do that first - only takes a few minutes, right now.

Whata-Saviou: Revisited

Last night, while we were avoiding watching our beloved Houston Texans, we saw a Whataburger commercial. All about breakfast, at 4:00 a.m.. Something was very obviously missing! There were references to people at work (police in his patrol car), picking up "lunch" on a break. One person was having breakfast after just getting off of a late shift job (dressed like Paul Bunyan). Another, scoring breakfast on the way to work (in scrubs). Apparently, those of us who require the Whata-Savior meal (slightly rumpled, sweat-encrusted from doing something that is intended to be "dancing", and smelling like eau du mixology concoction) are not exactly "good PR". Who. Knew. So much for thinking we were "the masses", even if we are poor and huddled.

Whata-Savior

Whether holiday party induced or merely the product of an overly zealous celebration of "Thursday", this happens to everyone at some point.  Unless you're a tee-totaling type or have a drawer full of those special twelve step chips.  Not that there's anything wrong with that. What am I talking about here?  Drive-thru salvation.  Or, really a half-hearted and grease-laden attempt at salvaging one's forthcoming workday by mitigating the impact of a hangover.  Sure, sure there are late-night windows at various national and local chains all over the country.  Here in Texas, we have the not-quite-so-fast but always fresh and delicious, Whataburger.  They make terribly tasty taquitos, better than other fast food burgers and steak fingers with gravy and french fries.  For the un-initiated, typically steak fingers are strips of beef that are chicken fried and are perfect for grasping with a drunken claw and poking in the general direction of a small cup of cream gravy.  Said gravy usually ends up all over one's face and sometimes in one's hair.  This really depends on the degradation of your tactile functions and whether or not you rode or drove to get this manna from heaven.

Texas legend holds that someone's friends, brother's, uncle's, sister had a best friend who timed a trip for a Whata-savior poorly and trouble ensued.  You see, there's normally about a fifteen to twenty minute gap between ordering and getting your food and vat of coke (that's Texan for carbonated beverage).  If the booze catches up with you, before you're saved by the grease - passing out is a risk.  Passing out in the drive-thru line is trouble.  For one, the other not-so-sobers behind you are not happy.  Two, you're a sitting duck for Johnny Law.  I mean, when is the last time you tried waking up the passed out?  Not so easy now, is it?  Anyhoo, legend is that really has happened.  I'm guessing you can't exactly snopes it, either.  Rest assured though, we don't make this shit up.  Be advised, it's imperative to "shoot the gap" between "crap, I think I'm drunk" and just not making a lick of sense.

Whata-Savior (Wat-ah-Say-Veyur):


  Any meal consumed after 10 pm; preferably one handed to you in a bag from a drive thru window. This meal often contains certain condiments such as ketchup, cream gravy, a side of chile con queso and almost always something fried. The Whata-Savior usually follows an earlier dinner of 4 vodka sodas, 2 miller lites, 3 glasses of red wine, a shot of whiskey and one bacon wrapped shrimp. This meal is deemed necessary after realizing you have to be functioning at work in a few short hours. Also, any calories consumed at this meal don't count.  Which is a good thing, because it's normally:

"I'll have two sausage, egg and cheese taquitos, a small steak finger meal, a jr. jalapeno whataburger and a large diet coke.  Oh, can I get extra hot sauce and gravy with that, too?"

Whhaaawha wha wha (Charlie Brown's teacher noises)

"Ketchup?  Of course!  Extra ketchup!". 

"Your total is eleventy million dollars and thirty-seven cents, please drive around to the first window."

Cy-Jack

Sometimes, we're just not as secure as we should be.  Fine, we're female and "genderly predisposed". What. Ever.  We cannot help it we are trusting, gentle souls - blame our Mama's.  We were faced recently with a "terrible thing" that we might have accidentally, in a moment of trust, brought upon our ownselves.  We allowed an access to our personal computing device, only to realize too late that that idea was of the very bad variety.  Very. Terribly. Horribly. Bad.  You had permission to do one thing, and one thing only.  Note to self:  Add "that which communicates in a binary fashion" to the "That Which the Free World Cannot See" list, along with certain body parts....like, toes.

Cy-Jack (Sigh-Jack):

Using someone’s computer without their express written permission and a fully executed waiver of responsibility.  Having access to their email, twitter, IM, blog and facebook statuses and any related content archives or sent e-mails. The abilty to single-handedly wreck their world, social life and career simultaneously.

Kinda like if you were to find out someone read your diary, after going through your purse, using your hairbrush and your toothbrush, while wearing your underwear (the good lacey black ones, you have been saving for Mr. Makes Your Heart Flutter, if you can find him). On live feed.

Unless we gave you express written consent to rifle through our stuff, "No Means No" and you just technologically violated us.  Unless you decided to wreak havoc on our "myspace", that impact would be, minimal at this juncture.

Scary-Go-Round

Please be advised, this ride is not available at children's parks or on elementary school playgrounds (yet).  There are no height requirements to ride this ride.  There is an age requirement.  You must be old enough to have dated several different men, or twelve years of age, whichever comes first (kidding, color this a 30 and up attraction). There are no handrails and this particular ride normally doesn't twirl at a high rate of speed. It does move at the speed of text messaging, sometimes. Seriously, you can jump off at any time.  In fact, we highly recommend it. Highly.  Not to point out the obvious, but honey, if we are not Janey-on-the-spot in answering your "Hey! Got plans Fri nite" text message, get thyself a clue.

Scary-go-round (Scar-ee-goh-rownduh):

The continuous parade of ex-boyfriends (a parade with bad throws, no less).   I’m not saying they are all losers – oh wait. Yes I am. I asked a friend if that made me a loser, too. He said no, I was just doing charity work.

Speaking of parades, and bad throws (yes, think Mardi Gras and no I am not flashing you, you can't afford it).  Once upon a Mardi Gras Parade, in Houma, Louisiana - someone purt near brained me with, not a string of beads, but a damn sack full.  My best good friend nearly "pulled an Andre" on a small-ish child ( aged approximately 9 or 10) to grab that sack of beads.  Hey, if I am going to suffer a head wound, I want the damned ammunition.  Plus, after a few glasses of wine, I might have actually scrapped with the kid, myself.

As as "aside", how can Cortland Finnegan consider himself a "tough guy" or "badass" with that clown hair?  Someone needs to hold him down while someone else works him over with some clippers fitted with a two blade.