It Had to be the Chicken Wings

I know, I know,
There’s a strict interdict, papal quality,
Against eating anything in your car.

You do, I know. I’ve seen it,
But it’s cool, it’s cool.
Your car and all.
I’d be cool if you ate something in my car,
But it’s all good.

You told me to get the damn wings though,
Not my fault they gave my BBQ instead of hot.
Had I not tried, I wouldn’t have known.
Therein lies the antinomy.
Do I defy you by eating the wings in the car?
Do I defy you by eating the wings outside the car?
—Thereby diminishing the quantity of wings,
Which, in this quasi-rational family
That believes in a fairy tale
Would thereby skew the average allotted wing number?

I could, I suppose, step outside the car
Standing here in the drive-through to count.
But that would incur conundrum number two.
If I don’t, though, I could be wrong,
And then it’ll all be fucked up.

So what does one do?
Do I instead spend what little money I have
So we have two orders of wings
And can mix and match in the driveway
Thereby ensuring the correct proportions?
Or do I just barge in with two orders
Try to explain the issue?

No, the latter isn’t possible.
He can’t know there was any mistake.
It has to be postcard perfect.

So which to substitute?
These are BBQ, so a stop is already necessary.
Hot sauce — good at that — for a dollar.
(This in 2014 y’all).
Maybe I can fake it just well enough.

Mom will pretend she doesn’t want any.

I just need them to be not BBQ.

Change never hurts.

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~ by Benji on 27 July 2014.

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