So if you're me, and you want to do a blog post but you shot your creative wad already today by talking about the greatness that is Jerry Bruckheimer, what do you do? Well, if you're me, you wander over to the breakroom for a Coke and your eye is caught by something in the vending machine. This:
"Jack Link's Flamin' Buffalo Chicken Nuggets". Keeping in mind that the vending machine is not refrigerated, I wondered aloud "what the fuck is this? Buffalo wing-flavored chicken...jerky? Chicken jerky nuggets?" Well of course I had to know. Because I don't know if I could live with myself if, on my deathbed, it occurred to me that I never stopped to smell the roses AND I never ate the Jack Link's Flamin' Buffalo Chicken Nuggets. (Actually, scratch that - if I were on my deathbed, the whole "live with myself" thing suddenly becomes somewhat moot, especially since I'm an agnostic and for all I know I'm going to come back as a dolphin or worse a chicken...a chicken bound for the Jack Link's Flamin' Buffalo Chicken Nuggets Factory. Karma's a bitch.) So I fed a buck fitty into the machine. And I ate the Jack Link's Flamin' Buffalo Chicken Nuggets. And what it tasted like was Despair, tabasco-y Despair, and there were no celery sticks or small plastic cups of Bleu Cheese to be found, there was nothing but a vast wasteland, an emptiness where no birds sang and that small shrivelled thing, bereft of hope, that was my heart, beating slowly as if keeping time to a dirge that had no name.
