Neanderpundit

Sampled one the very first day.
A couple things:
KFC chicken is the most horrid fucking chicken on earth. The meat in a Kentucky Duck is the stringiest, toughest old laying hens they can find, apparently, because I’m damned if I ever got a single piece of KFC that didn’t eat like a piece of deep fried jerky. Fried chicken should have a consistency that lends itself to being cut with a fork AT MOST, and the meat should fall apart practically in your mouth. If you’ve never had chicken like that, you need to get your ass somewhere WAY south of the mason-dixon line and get you some real fried chicken. Go somewhere that has black women cooking, and the fatter the chef the better the food. A real fried chicken, you suck the gristle off the ends of the bones and save the bones for later, thinking about how good they’ll taste if you can convince yourself your rectum will survive passing them.

Anyway, KFC’s Chicken patties were not particularly well executed, which is about par for the course. One was stringy as hell, the other barely tolerable.

Still:

The idea of using the chicken patties as a “bun” to enclose bacon and cheese, is genius. Sheer, unadulterated, Kentucky Fried Genius.

If you’re going to get one. If you’re going to put up with the stringiness of the “Patty” and eat one of these, and you don’t order a small side of gravy to dip it in, you are a fucking fool. Nuff said.

Sunday night, after the range, Partner reminds me of a girlfriend he used to have, whose mother always made the house smell april fresh by pinning dryer sheets inside the curtains. The heat would move up behind the curtains and carry the scent into the room.

Me: I am SO trying that in my underwear.

Partner: Nothing that comes out of your underwear will ever be completely April Fresh.

Me: It will be like springtime in the sewer! April in gehenna! It will smell like someone took a shit in a basket of fresh laundry.

Partner: It will be like Cooney has come back from the dead.

We managed to amuse ourselves to tears until the Ogwife and Oglet threatened to move to another table and disassociate themselves from us.

Had I never done work with Neodymium magnets, I would never have guessed that I would someday say “I’m afraid of magnets”. There are neodymium magnets out there that are so potentially dangerous that the danger escapes most people until they are missing a finger or a chunk of forearm.

I have a few small neos and a pair of samarium cobalt magnets on my desk, and I play with them from time to time, they’re small and less dangerous. But they still have their moments.

Last week I spent a day working on a machine cutting cast iron and inevitably, gathered handsful of tiny slivers. It’s unavoidable. So tonight when I picked up the magnets to play with them I was presented with the sensation of all those tiny slivers of cast iron standing on their heads to salute the magnetic field of the magnet, with the sharpest of them tickling previously unreachable nerve endings. Yay me.

I sanded the fingertips in question and oiled them (oil makes the filings more likely to come out) and used the magnet to remove them. In the end, it was handy, but the moment when I got whanged by the slivers jumping around in my fingertips was no fun.