Brooding Over Balogna

I woke up this morning and things were just…weird. I had things all planned out, knamsayin’? I was going to wake up, fill a huge pitcher with ice-cold water, dump it over Whining Chicken Boy while he slept, and then when he jumps up squealing like a pig, give him the biggest wedgie in the entire history of wedgies. That’s how we roll out in here in the G-side! Woot woot!

But as soon as I got up, I knew things weren’t the same. The house was wayyyy too quite. Usually I here Chicken Boy whimpering in his sleep, or some weird slurping sound as he sucks his thumb as if his life depended on it. This morning…nothin’. Knamsayin’? Just weird. I was instantly on the defensive. No way I was gonna lose to Chicken Boy again! Uh uh, no sirree. That wimp’s feathers were gonna get PLUCKED! Until he was BALD, man! Woot!

I quietly snuck around the house; I made sure I was wearing my extra thick wool socks so that my feet would make the least amount of noise possible. So what if they happened to be pink Dora the Explorer socks?! They’re good for spy s##t, knamsayin’?! (Y’all better hush your mouths!) Anyway, turns out that Chicken Boy was nowhere in the house! Neither was Auntie Niki! Or Sis! What the Heezy is goin’ on around here?!

Whatever. Less strain on the brain, knamsayin’? (I’m such a rapper, man) So instead of getting my revenge, I ended up making myself a balogna sandwich a la D.L. Y’see back when my uncle was alive, he was a chef for this greasy spoon called The Burnt Toast Diner. He had this specialty where he’d make these wicked balogna sandwiches with his all-purpose rice cooker. I still haven’t figured out how he was ACTUALLY able to do that (Uncle D.L. was gifted, man) so instead of using a rice cooker, I just used our George Foreman grill! It’s not nearly as good, but it’s as close as I can get.

So here I am, eating my bologna sandwich, wishing I could’ve given Chicken Boy the biggest wedgie in the whole history of wedgies. Grrrrr.