Wings. Beer. Sports.
That bogus ESPN bowl week commercial claims that this is the most wonderful time of the year. In the words of that Mel Brooks lookin, no-talent, gasbag, Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend!” And no, I’m not going to launch into an anti-Corso tirade even though he is a pot-bellied ninny. There is but one wonderful time of the year and guess what! It occurs every single week.
The Buddhists call it nirvana; the Christians, Heaven; and for the Vikings, it is Valhalla. But for me, it’s Wing Tuesday. A veritable cornucopia of succulent delights unparalleled by any other experience one can have at any other time of the week. It is the day where BW-3′s drops the prices of their wings to 35 cents, enabling one to order 20 mouth-watering, finger-licking, hot and saucy wings for only $7. The thought of this makes me weak in the knees.
[And the Lord said, "Let there be wing," and there was wing. And the Lord saw the wing and said, "it is good."]
Every Tuesday, my crew and I make the hop, skip, and jump to B-dubs to partake in the taste sensation that is the wing. I order 20 wings in medium sauce, a basket of buffalo chips – golden-crisp, natural-cut potato slices whose taste compliments the wing, and a lot of wet naps. After picking the bones clean and unbuttoning my pants, I sit back, marinate, and decide whether I will again succumb to the wing’s siren song that night for dinner. Tonight, I think I will.
Wings are manna from heaven. They are the Lord’s food.