Ugly Chicken

I started my day by dropping my last bite of sausage in the snow. Smiling, I ask my friend if he will pick it up and wipe it off for me so I can eat it.

(You KNOW how it feels when you THINK you have one bite of ANYTHING left to eat, and then BAM, nothing. Incomplete. You didn’t get to savor the last, succulent bite. It’s a really bad feeling.)

Anyway, friend tells me to pick it up, wipe it off, and eat it. Three-second rule, five seconds when it’s below zero. Made me laugh. 

I brought home the ugliest, skinniest, dried out old chicken tonight, for dinner. Because I was hungry and it was the last one. 

I’ve about had a belly full of talking registers at the grocery store. I placed the ugly chicken in the bagging area, broad. You, my friend, are the most annoying register. You’re way too loud. All you need now are flashing lights and a bullhorn. I like my registers quiet. 

We need southern registers:

Well honey, are you sure that butt ugly chicken is in the bagging area? Bless his heart. 

Started with sausage, ended with ugly chicken.