Cowboy helped me clean out my fridge one night in another one of those evenings when he goes above and beyond his boy call of duty and his sister laughs at him and calls him words that start with "p" and ends with another word for cat.
I'm OK on both counts :)
Now, I'm not a clean freak, but I'm not disturbingly disgusting either. Like, I *may* have laundry decorating my couch and living room right now, but I totally just washed it.
The same is true for my fridge. Sometimes, leftovers don't get eaten. But I put lids and plastic wrap on them, so its OK right?
Anyways, the night Cowboy assisted my fridge evacuation was the same day he hit a pheasant with his pickup truck. He didn't do it on purpose, but ugly duckling won't be getting his makeover if you know what I mean.
Cowboy, being the true country man he is, stuck his arm in the front of his truck and removed the pinned pigeon. It was just dead, he said. What's the big deal?
JUST DEAD? Meaning bloody and eyebally and still looking like a bird? And you TOUCHED it, like with your hands?? What if you get SARS or something?
As soon as I said it, he screamed. Not at the thought of infectious diseases FedEx-ed from China, but from a teeny, tiny growth on noodles cooked circa 1982.
Sick... I'm sorry... No... I'm going to throw up, he said, holding his nose with one hand and the tupperware extended toward me with the other.
Whaaat? I said. Throw it out. It's just mold.
JUST MOLD, he roared like I'd asked him to wear a pink popped-collared polo, this is the GROSSEST thing I've ever seen he said, hobbling back and forth like a toddler holding its urine. It's staring me in the face!
Oh really?, I said, hands on hip. The chicken that crossed the road and pummeled your pickup is somehow not grosser?
That rooster barely crossed St. Peter's Gate, he said. These noodles are older than archangels.
We agree to disagree.
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