Thursday, March 10, 2016

I Been Bad; Don't Tell Margie

From the buffet at KFC. I didn't go back (but I could have, easily).
Sometimes the Jones just screams and this past weekend "the Jones" was KFC, extra crispy. With biscuits and gravy. And cole slaw. And corn on the cob. And potato salad. And tea.

Me and my big sin. Who does the Colonel look like?
It was like a last grandma's meal for a condemned man and I damn well enjoyed it as such, fearing Margie might discover my great sin and throw the switch on the electric chair.

This stuff is not good for me. Ain't good for you, either. I know that. It is food for another species, not human kind, but I grew up with Southern Food and fried chicken is like a snuggle to mama's breast. It is the ultimate comfort--outside that breast. You can buy it for less than $10. All you can eat. The only breast you get for that price is a Perdue Farms breast.

Fortunately, my legendary discipline kicked in after one full plate and even though I could easily have eaten something close to my weight, I stopped, stood up, looked at my shoes to make sure I still had that view (the belly, you know), tossed the remainders--utensils, plate, bones--into the trash and smiled. I took a deep breath, got into Daisy, started her up and drove on, a happy man. Though slightly guilty.

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