I Am Not A Nugget

As I waited patiently for the nurse to puncture the ole biceps with a tall drink of rabies vaccination this morning, I decided to scroll through my phone and reread the notes I took while in Asia.  

What a pleasant surprise, that visit to my old, weird brain.  

The first thing that struck me was the title of this blog, a t-shirt I can’t believe I neglected to mention.  It’s either a Denverite’s local athletic protest or one from a disgruntled Tyson chicken, but either way it’s lexicon gold.  

Time out for a quick Google.  I want to know if I can buy one of those… ah, shoot, it’s a PETA thing.  I have a semiconscious aversion to PETA, and I don’t have a concrete example to share explaining it, but I feel like maybe their tactics are extreme.  Or they somehow hurt people in their protests?  Or maybe it’s just that I’m okay with being passive aggressive and mean-girly to one particular monkey now and I don’t want a collective anger organization getting in the way.  Wait, okay- I played the research card again and here’s the first headline under news: “PETA Calls To Ban Pregnant Women From Wing-Eating Contest, Cites Concerns Over Unborn’s Penis Size”.

I want it known that I don’t, in fact, read merely headlines like some sort of shock absorbant, single celled mouth breather.  I’m a scholar, y’all, and I skimmed the whole thing, and I’m linking to it here, for your pleasure, and also you guys might want to bone up on your phthalates.  

Furthermore, I would like to point out that in the interest of reading critically, you should note that Heather from North Tonawanda didn’t offer any empirical evidence- not even with the metric system- about her children’s dangling participles, so go ahead and strap on your dubious faces before calling these people to the witness stand.

Back to my phone, though, wow- tangent.  Anyway, my second favorite discovery was a rant I managed to write when about 28 hours into my failed safari home.  The closest airplane tv was broken, but by crinking my neck juuuuuuust so, I was able to surreptitiously follow our flight path on the screen on the back of 37B, seat number invented.

At just about the time the attendant was pouring complimentary morning whiskey into my empty stomach, I noticed that we were directly over northern Maine, and if I had been thinking clearly I would’ve picked a fight with the weakest-looking window-seater and shoved the child aside to look for my favorite road in the County, the one that leads to Nicky’s house and translates to something along the lines of “I Like Wearing Culottes Boulevard”.  I was thinking fuzzily, however, so I did not do that and I also didn’t wave to all my friends because I didn’t think they could see me since I was sitting in the middle.  Instead I adjusted the “Song Sung Blue” in my earbuds and fingerscrawled this, while thinking ironically and mildly disgustedly about how I was soaring over my home, bypassing it to purposely land in Jersey:

“Nothing weirder than flying over the Saint John Valley while eating hot peppers from the Air India flight from Mumbai while listening to Neil Diamond while slightly drunk from breakfast and not having slept for a billion hours.  I want to brush my teeth SO MUCH.  And I thought that hot pepper was a green bean and I am Catelyn Stark, raving mad.”

Does that effectively illustrate my mental state?  What a flippin’ mess.  I kinda like my Game of Thrones/Wheel of Fortune Before and After there, though.

Regardless, I didn’t hit that emotional low again until the infamous (in my brain) “a monkey bit me” Google of two-ish weeks later.  The one that sent me crying to the ER with a fractured worrybone and an imagined intestinal parasite.

As of today, however, the mess is all behind me!  The last shot burrowed its weasely way subdermal at 10 o’clock this morning, and boom, a Bugs Bunny bandaid later, I was out of there.

Clean.  Healthy.  The Non-Artist Formerly Known As Rabid.  

Thank you!  Thank you, Louis Pasteur!   Also, please note the non-PETA-friendly sheepskin in the photo.  I ate the rest of it, true story.


Like a monkey to the back of my hand, I ate it.


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