As I sit here, casually working from home, while the Lady has started the first hour of what is bound to be a wonderful and rewarding evening shift at the factory, a thought has occurred to me.

It came subtly, as many great thoughts do, would up tightly in a weaving of observations, deductions, and speculations while I typed on my little keyboard and ate my reheated lunch.

It didn’t pounce, like those adrenaline charged “I forgot the kids” or “I have a warrant in West Virginia” or maybe “I have a Warrant (album) in West Virginia”, where your insides do a crash test dummy 50 to 0 lurch and you’re left looking around the room for some sort of key, some item thats at the tip of your finger that’ll make sense of this horrible situation and allow you to save the day.

No, it came up slowly, almost like a summer sunset when you’re locked out of the house, and only have a sip or two left on the beer that you want to nurse, because God knows how long you’re going to be stuck out there before somebody realizes that you’re a dumbass and left your key on the coffee table, but damned if pride won’t let you bang on the door. You know that when somebody eventually does open the door, you’re going to play it cool and pretend “huh, I didn’t know it was locked… I was just hanging out out here watching this rather long and slow sunset. That ended. 6 hours ag.. Seriously, its 3 in the morning? Wow.”

Yea, the thought did come, and crested over my head, leaving me with a sublime realization of a great truth.

The truth?

I’ll tell you.

Fried Chicken.

Its crazy good.