ThomJuDong, uncensored.

The Beastie is under this crazy impression that just because she’s a “working woman,” her life is somehow less exciting than mine, and thus she doesn’t have to write as many posts as me. Rest assured, Beastie, my life is far from anything like mTV’s “the Real World” or NBC’S “Chuck.” If they turned my life into a TV show, it would probably be on TLC– that’s how incredibly mediocre it really is. The fact that my life seems to be super awesome to you is merely due to the fact that I choose to use a shitload of adjectives when writing about it on this blog.

Tonight’s entry will attempt to give my cult-like viewership (aka Judy, and whichever of her friends she’s strategically coerced into reading my blog because they’re bored in class) and the Beastie a glimpse into the average night at our apartment. Consequently, this entry will also be significantly shorter than my previous rants, because there aren’t enough words I can make up to make our apartment-life seem that glorious. It goes a little something like this:

  1. Sometime in the afternoon, we will gather in the living room, where we live. Because that’s what you do in a living room.
  2. Something on television will set off a house argument. Usually someone will yell at the other person for doing something so absurdly considerate, like doing all the dishes, or taking out the trash, without the former person’s consent or assistance. Other issues we encounter include: smelling too nice, motorboating each other’s dog, buying too many Girl Scout cookies for the house, etc etc. Typical house drama.
  3. Eventually, the yelling gets very heated and we start lighting tiki torches in a circle in the same living room we were once happily cuddling in.
  4. Dirt appears on the ground out of nowhere and jungle animals start chanting like crazy as two house mates prepare to battle in the tiki-torch ring.
  5. With fierce growls on our faces, we battle to see who gives better hugs.
  6. The animals throw their feces at the winner, and the loser is left with the daunting task of deciding what’s for dinner.

Recently, however, we’ve gotten into the habit of putting blindfolds on, walking across a plank suspended above a pool of snapping hippopotamuses (you would think it would be a pool of crocodiles or something of that sort, but hippopotamuses actually hold the record for killing the most humans every year, despite being vegetarians!), and pulling random stuff out of the fridge (since we have a lot of leftovers from the nights where we drank the strange purple liquid in those pinkie-sized mason jars and turned into house elves and cooked a billion meals). We call this game Hungry Hungry Hippos. One day, Thom “accidentally” fell into the animal pit and was forced to wrestle the wild beasts. Judy and I hastily batarang-ed him back up, but coincidentally missed and retrieved random pieces of papers we had originally dropped into the pit while reading ads to the hippos as their bedtime stories instead. (Don’t worry, Thom eventually climbed back out of the pit by himself… I think.) This proved to be quite serendipitous because the random papers turned out to be KFC and Church’s coupons, expiring the next day! Surely, it was a sign from God, who in my mind looks like Colonel Sanders, that we needed to better the world by deciding once and for all fried their chicken superiorly.

Clip clip clip. 2 coupons and 3 near death encounters driving through the thick of the Vallejo ghetto later, we were finally equipped to build our fried chicken altar.

It was glorious.

So I guess my life is a little glorious after all, because if you’ll notice, we don’t use paper plates. Yeah, we fancy.

I don’t want to brag, but I did use to watch Drake on Degrassi when he was just a goofy kid in a wheelchair, so you can be confident in my opinion that he’s singing this song about me eating fried chicken.

Anyways, back to our prestigious taste test.

After some very thoroughly analysis, we found that Church’s had a better “mashed potato” consistency, but KFC had better gravy. And Church’s had a “spicy chicken” option that was actually somewhat spicy (in a My Trang kind of way), but KFC was by far a better value, considering you get biscuits and coleslaw for the same price.

Oh, and we also decided that FRIED CHICKEN IS EFFIN DELICIOUS. And it should have its own air freshener/candle line. I’d spray that shiet on before heading to the gym. Then NO ONE will ever try to steal a treadmill from me. I’ll waft that fried chicken in your face so fast you’ll die of a heart attack.

BOOM.

See you at the gym.

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