The Politics of Eating a Chicken Nugget
After a long time away, I am back
“Damn, I hope no one sees me eating this Christian fried chicken.”
I take a bite. “They’ll start yelling a think piece at me because they think I should know better and have 800 to 1,200 words to prove it.”
Yes, I considered the ramifications. What if I were recognized? Not because I am famous or anything. Or famous-adjacent. Or even the distant kinfolk of famous-adjacent. I write books in a country that elected a reality-star president (thank you for everyone who purchased my book, though).
What I mean is that although I am now a 35-year-old man, I’m still very much the child who was bopping to some song playing out of his headphones, or if all else fails, a song playing in my head. That means when I was dipping my chicken nugget in that glorious and less sugary-sweet creamy sriracha sauce, Megan Thee Stallion’s “Big Ole Freak” might’ve been blaring out of my AirPods and my body roll gave my gay ass away.
So yeah, I (probably stupidly) slightly worried that someone would suddenly surface and say to me, “How dare you dip that ‘bigoted’ fried chicken in that sauce when sodomy has done so much for you.” But I was already there, so I finally told myself, “fuck it” and took the last sip of my Arnold Palmer — diabetes…
