You sit at the restaurant with your young son, he says he is hungry. You agree to get him dinner. You open up to the kids menu, your child is far to young for adult food. Chicken nugger stares at you from the page. You don’t understand. Your palms get sweaty and your son complains. He says he is hungry. Your mind strains, searching for an answer in a world of sweer potato and french fried. You try to order the chicken nugger, but you cannot. The words cannot escape your lips. Your son is hungry, he complains. The waitress stares at you, her head a spinning chicken nugger, her arms swinging french fried. Your son cries the tears of a chicken nugger-less child. In your mind you scream. It is raining sweer potato now, you have french fried engraved on your left temple and you do not understand. Your son weeps in the corner, he is starving. Starving for the chicken nugger.
You watch as your son scarfs down nugger after nugger. He is satisfied. He loves the chicken nugger. You wonder if you could ever attain that kind of happiness in your own life. You quietly pay your bill and enter the street. Your son asks if you can buy him an ice cream. You enter Mrs. Moo’s on Jefferson street hoping to order a rocky road. You look at the menu on the wall.
Chicken Nugger …. $3.50
Chicken Nugger …. $4.75
Chicken Nugger …. $2.11
Chicken Nugger …. $6.65
It goes on and on. You are confused. Your son asks again for the chicken nugger. He is full but wants chicken nugger for dessert. You ask the woman at the counter for a scoop of rocky road. She doesn’t know how to respond. You get desperate, you ask for vanilla. Her eyes widen. She motions her way toward the telephone. You ask again, “a scoop of vanilla?” She picks up the phone and begins dialing. Your son again asks for chicken nugger. You want to run, you want to scream, you look at your palms and the lines have begun to form chicken nugglets. The phone the woman is dialing starts sweating chicken grease, her eyes close and she is ashamed, ashamed that she her customer has caused such a problem. You want to run but your son is screaming for the chicken nugger.
You sir have just gotten yourself into a reality war, are you ready?
The waitress makes her call and collapses into chicken nuggers, grease rolling from where her body had stood. You look up to the menu on the wall, but the words have tumbled off the paper and have conjeeled as mustard on the floor. You turn to your son, his eyes flaming mirrors of your own reality. The rain has turned to hail, currents of sweer potato break the glass windows in the shop and sirens yell in the distance. You try to cover your eyes, but your hands are no longer yours, they drip grease and melt into a familiar form. Your hands are chicken nuggers. You scream.
you watch yourself from above as you become chicken nugger. Your son collapses into a quivering sweer potato as the universe fold in on its self to form a massive french fried. Your son is now screaming from his forehead for a chicken nugger and the space time continuum ceases to exist and in its place is a toasty nugger. you try to scream for chicken nugger but all your mouth will produce is sweer potatat. In japan, your hundreds of children mime to you their deep need for chicken nugger, and you demand a lawyer to defend you. The planets, all of them, mercury through pluto, crash to earth and are reduced to a myriad chicken nugger. Death comes for you. you hope to go to a better place but there is only chicken nugger.
These tags I’ll pop, and boast in rhyming verse that what I wear puts swagger in my gait; though twenty shillings have I in my purse, my self-esteem and manhood both inflate when lofty furs I purchase for a cent. Thy grandpa’s clothes are worthy salvage, though they smell a trifle musty. Still, I spent much less to dress myself from head to toe.
To save or not to save? The question’s moot. I’ll never give my coin to high-street crooks. These dusty shelves will yield their hidden loot to those, like me, more frugal in their looks. Like ancient coins washed up on distant shores, I’ll find my treasures in these thrifty stores. - Macklemore, “Thrift Shoppe”
I found this in my developmental psychology textbook.
Disappointing.
Do you ever think about all the people who you might have fallen in love with if only you’d taken a different way home or stood a little longer in the bread aisle at the supermarket? All the people who might have been an integral part of your life but instead you’ll never know them. The unimaginable impact that our mundane choices have on our lives really gets to me. Think of how many times I might have died if I’d made different choices. Maybe I’d be homeless. Maybe I’d be famous. Maybe I’d be rich. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by the impact of my choices that I can’t choose anything at all because I’m afraid today will be the day that I make the choice that changes everything.
Had a dream last night of the dorkiest romantic situation ever.
Like
I’m talking
I dreamt I was helping the guy I’m crushing on super-hard realise <是> as [ʂɨ˞˥˩] instead of [ʃi˥˩] by kissing him to help move his tongue to the right position because I was having trouble explaining the voiceless retroflex fricative to him and I hate everything.
This is going under #Linguistics because I feel like those of you who track that tag will be some of the few to understand just how truly dorky this is.
someone needs to turn this into a cheesy romance novel. There are definitely not enough cheesy romance novels featuring linguistics
You could have some sort of progression/courtships, starting with people doing quadrilabial clicks before moving to assisted retroflex fricatives…and then eventually binding? domination?
