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Burro and my father on the topic of going down to the Q and watching March Madness basketball live and in person for twelve solid hours:

My Father: Too much basketball. Tooooo muchhhhh basketballllll.
Burro: All of my senses are tingling with basketball.
My Father: Touch, sight, taste--
Burro: Smell. I can smell the basketball.
My Father: All the other senses.
Me: You named them all except for hearing, guys.
Burro: Look, I have sixth and seventh senses I don't even know about, okay, and all of them are overwhelmed by basketball. My basketball sense had too much basketball.
My Father: I feel like I'm never going to say anything but basketball ever again.
Me: You seriously felt it necessary to spend your drive home telling me this? Right now? We're having breakfast together in like eight hours.
Burro: That is less time than we spent with the basketball. That's four hours less. Than basketball time.
Me: I told you guys it was crazy to spend the whole day down there.
My Father: Nobody knows the trouble we've seen.
Burro: Nobody knows the chicken wings we've eaten.
My Father: He meant our sorrow. Our chicken wing sorrow. Even the chicken wings tasted like basketball, oh god.
Burro: Hey, turn the radio up, I want to check the score on the Georgetown game.

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I think I've mentioned a couple times that I can't access LJ from my office, except from my phone--it's a double edged sword, because on the one hand I WANT TO, but on the other hand it would seriously fuck with my productivity. BUT TODAY IT HAS BEEN TORTURE, because I have been waiting since I ran to grab an iced tea at 8:45 this morning to show you guys this. Long were the hours between me and my lunch break, let me tell you.

But now I am happily settled in at the nearest Starbucks, eating leftover Chinese food with a spoon I snatched from the office kitchen (why yes, my middle name is class, how did you know?), and I can finally show you the latest terror American gluttony hath wrought.

You guys, this is what I saw when I went to get my tea this morning:



Now, there are a lot of things I could say about this photo--about, for example, how it is unholy and wrong to malign the chicken wing like this, the chicken wing that never did anything but provide sweet, deep fried bliss after a couple of beers. About how Ruffles potato chips were supposed to be better than this; about how a girl turns her back on junk food for one measly year and THIS IS WHAT SHE GETS.

However, all of the things I could say would come back to the same point, that point being:

YOU GUYS, WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE