Them Bones, Them Bones...

Meat is delicious when prepared correctly. In my book, that means without bones, because bones are visceral reminders that the tasty dish I'm enjoying is really nothing more than a dead animal in my mouth.

I realize most of the world doesn't share my feelings.

So it may have grossed me out more than others when I saw a man on the bus this evening enjoying a chicken bone.

It wasn't a big leg bone, but something smaller, parked like a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

Occasionally he would gnaw or suck on it, and despite the bus being crowded with all kinds of people and the bone having been picked nearly clean, the smell of fried chicken was unmistakable.

I stared at the guy in horrified fascination as he worked on his treasure like a family dog, until he got off somewhere around Sheridan and Rosemont. Shortly thereafter I decided this would be my post for the day.

Go ahead and mock me. Call me a fragile aesthete or worse. A packed bus is no place to go all caveman on something probably left over from lunch.

That is all. I'll see myself out.