Chicken Nugget Day (henceforth known as CND) rendered the cafeteria a house of madness. It was like the ’92 Dream Team of cheap, unfrozen meals (think about it like this: chocolate milk = Patrick Ewing…see?).
–maybe a piece of chocolate cake or some ice cream (chocolate or vanilla) for dessertĬND, after the health pushers stole our dessert rights and ruined this country. I’m referring, of course, to Chicken Nugget Day. Only one for which the ‘bring your lunch’ kids unselfishly awarded their PB&Js and Dunk-a-Roos to their classmates for a taste of savory poultry flesh bathed in luscious barbecue dressing. There was only one, however, that children checked for on their fridge’s lunch calendars in blithesome anticipation. Hell, even Ol’ Krinkley Fries had his good days. I’m thinking of some Hall of Famers like Cinnamon Roll, Orange Sherbert, and Beefy Cheese Nachos. There were a few All-Star players in the lunch game. Rhonda.īut it wasn’t all bad up in the cafeterias. I also decided on that day that I was never going to eat old lady tears in my beef stew ever again. And I made good on my self-promise (so far). I decided on that day that I was never EVER going to end up a lunch lady. Have you ever cried over beef stew? Neither have I, but I saw a lunch lady do it once. I still have Vietnam flashbacks of fish krispies. I can only write on my own experiences, however, and they are difficult to swallow to this day. Or, at the very least, unrectangular pizza slices. Now I’m not saying that private schools had it way, way better than public schools, but we’ve all heard stories of Hawaiian Punch in the water fountains and go-karts and kidapults on the playgrounds.
#Yeah set it jock jams volume 1 full
Like my belly was full of public school food. Not necessarily fighting with food, though that’s always looked like a lot of fun. I’m like some Donald Trumpeter of the high-end times.īut the savoir vivre I achieved did not come without tribulation, friends, for I was not born a child of elegance. Let me put it this way: I can chew my caviar and rub my cravat at the same time. If you want to be lifeboat material like Billy Zane and Dolores Claiborne, you gotta make your life worth saving. I don’t know if you’ve ever been called italicized things by foreigners before, but it’s pretty much great. I would not hesitate for a moment in telling you that I have been called a coquette by the French and a cretino by the Italians. They will no doubt give you a Dickensian look of despondency indicating the perfect time to say, “Stick that in your tulip glass and see how it noses.” At this point, the previous sad expression will transform into one of bewilderment and you have won the superiority game.Īnd it feels good to be a winner. Just walk up to some serf and pretend you’re wiping your nose with Andrew Jackson’s visage. Because I’m a fancy-ass man with as much class as any John Malkovich character you might see, even the ones with swords, I can tell you that there is nothing richer than acting rich. I drink Miller High Life, I eat my canned cheeses on Ritz crackers, and if I had a cat or kitten, I would most assuredly read Cat Fancy (but just for the articles, honestly!).
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