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Tastes like chicken

By Robin Dearing

It takes me so long to do everything. Get out of bed. Brush my teeth. Write a lecture. Grade research papers. It’s like I’m stuck in slow-motion. I push, but I never go any faster.

I think it’s because I’m slowly cooking myself.

See, I’m always cold these days (the fact that it’s cold out and I won’t turn up the heat may be the source of the problem). I sleep with my mattress pad on low. I sit at my desk with a heater at my feet and a heating pad on my back. In my car, I never turn off the seat warmers.

I think I’m being slow roasted. I think if I started basting myself with butter eventually my family would able to serve a tasty, rump roast at my wake.

Soon, summer will be here and I’ll be outside sitting around getting cooked further by the sun. My skin will continue getting all brown and leathery, like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Maybe I should start wearing cloves and apply a orange glaze.

I bet my general sloth-like daily routine will lead to tender leg meat. My wings will be pretty skimpy, but I bet my pork belly will be great for frying up with some over-easy eggs.

Just think how much money my family will save on catering at my funeral.

Mmmm ... tastes like chicken.

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It’s made of ... Robin!




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