Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Whatsa Matta... Chicken?

No matter how hungry I am, I can't bring myself to buy the rotisserie chicken at Walmart. Even when it's marked down to an unbelievable out-the-door price of $2.50! After three hours under the glaring lights of an institutional hot plate, anything could be incubating inside that faceless cadaver.

Now, I will admit - I like Walmart.  They sell many things I've convinced myself that we can't possibly live without:  giant boxes of Hot Pockets, gummy vitamins and those little Gatorades that the boys love.  I even score my Dad's diabetic socks there.  And sure, I'm a girl who's been known to take chances.  Occasionally, I stay up late on a school night.  I leave my house without an umbrella.  I color my own hair.  But a rotisserie chicken - priced to move - seems more than just a little risky.  I've seen the Faces of Death botulism episode.  It's no way to die.

Imagine, if you will, this scenario.  It's mid-winter and like most obsessive compulsives, I've found myself in the attic, looking for things to itemize and sort.  While I'm up there, perched on a small rocking chair suitable for an American Girl doll is a rotisserie chicken, completely intact and warm to the touch.  Yes, it's eery.  But the kids are hungry.  Do I start boiling water for egg noodles?  It seems unlikely.

Here's another take on things.  Suppose I'm a free-spirited hippie from the hitchhiker generation, wandering across the country with a well-behaved Border Collie.  I'm young, unwashed and determined to find myself through travel and casual encounters.  In the parking lot of a health food store outside of San Francisco, I stumble across a rotisserie chicken, completely intact and free of road dust.  It's the Summer of Love, and dogs love chicken...  I can't do it, Boo.  You can have my granola bar.

Okay, I'm an ichthyologist from the Oceanographic Institute.  Upon slicing open the belly of a Great White suspected of several attacks off the coast of Amity, amid the license plates and bicycle parts, my team and I discover a rotisserie chicken, completely intact and bearing no signs of foul play.  Do we wash up and call everyone in from the dissection lab?  Of course not.  Let's just work through lunch and head to Applebee's at quitting time.

Best leave well enough alone, while we're all still well enough.

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