Running Around Like Chickens With Their Breasts Cut Off

I always tell my suburban-dwelling brethren to appreciate the ease with which one can drive to the land of cheap food and supplies since they don't live in a city, six blocks away from where their car is parallel parked, thirty minutes away from the nearest real grocery store.  Surprisingly, people don't seem to appreciate it when I tell them what they should appreciate.  What?

Yesterday marked our bimonthly ritual of journeying to the wild jungle of South Jersey to stock up on all things Walton Empire.  You would think we were going on safari in Kenya.  For this adventure, we need ice chests ("coolers" for those of you not from 1950s South Mississippi), the GPS, gift cards, tons of water, sunblock, a camera, mosquito netting, hiking boots, and a pickaxe.  Our suburban-dwelling, for-granted-taking friends and family members don't have to block off an entire day of their lives to visit a wholesale warehouse.  Hmm.  Must be nice.

After spending a few hours driving and shopping for cheap wine necessities, freezable foods and non-perishables, we drive back to the city and the fun part of the ritual finally begins.  We race to unload the car as it's parked in the bike lane - racing against car thieves, food thieves, intruders, and the desire not to appear on Parking Wars.

I spend the next three hours butchering meat, dividing it into adorable dinner-for-two portions, and labeling and freezing it - like Monica from Friends except more psychotic - I think I wash my hands more than Monica would.  Secretly, I love it.

My favorite part of the butchering is showing Derrick how hugely deformed the Sam's Club boneless, skinless chicken breasts are, out of which we make approximately four meals per breast, and eight meals per chicken.  They are like Pamela Anderson chicken breasts; humongous, bulging, probably groped by Tommy Lee and then ripped right off what was presumably once a live chicken.  You can go ahead and judge me now; stop reading this blog if you'd like, but I'll deal with whatever guilt I have to for $1/lb. chicken product.

And every so often I wonder ... by consuming these hormone-filled chicken breasts, we are consuming the hormones, so... why don't my boobs get bigger as I eat these Pam Anderson chickens?

Bill H. will be a more frequent visitor to CiB now that we've included this picture.

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