Gross on a molecular level

My dearest Uber-husband called me just before noon today to tell me that he has lunch ready for me at home today.

He spent all morning shopping for Margaret's 6th birthday party/kegger tomorrow (she doesn't want a keg party. She wants to have a normal kid party at one of those horrendously expensive pizza or game places, but we're forcing her to have yet another keg party ... because that is the kind of parents we are).

And he was good enough to bring home chicken, beans, rolls, etc., for a nice lunch. I, of course, immediately begin to bitch about the chicken being of the chicken-on-the-bone variety.

I bitch because I am a bitch and, therefore, must bitch. It's nature's way.

And I bitch about the chicken because it looks too much like a chicken.

Yeah, I've got meat issues (along with a whole bunch of other issues, but today we're going to be discussing my meat issues). I don't like meat that looks too much like the animal it was before it was processed to be my dinner.

Meaning, if meat has too many bones or veins or a head, I'm probably not going to eat it.

Here's an example: Last year at our annual block party, Davy and Bill (mostly Davy) roasted a pig in our backyard. Apparently it was delicious. I wouldn't know. I saw its head and spine and it's lidless eyeball ... and well, you can just guess how much pork I ate.

So I bitched about the chicken on the bone and Bill made some jokes about how he was sure today was the day that I was going to quit being such a picky heifer and eat the food he'd so generously served me.

Yeah, no such luck. But the beans were good.

So after the tumult of the chicken-on-the-bone fiasco, we retired to the sofa to enjoy a delicious diet Vanilla Pepsi and watch Sagwa with Mar.

Just as we got sat down, the dog decided she must join us. And being the skinny, heat-seeking dog that she is, she jumped into the minuscle space between Bill and I and proceeded to turn her stick-figure self around so she could lie between us and watch her some Sagwa.

In the process of turning around, her skinny, dog butt scraped the lip of Bill's newly opened can of soda.
Here he is inspecting the lip of the can for errant doggie rear-end cast offs that may have been taking up residence.

He saw no visible signs of dog-ass transfers. Then he blew sharply across the top of the can in order to remove an invisible particulates that may have been dislodged from the skinny-ass dog's skinny ass.

At which point he realized the error of his ways. With the sharp blowing action, he most likely sent those microscopic doggie-derriere molecules into the can and, thereby, into the soda which he so wanted to drink.

Now he had a choice: to drink or not to drink ... that was his question.

I'm not certain what his ultimate decision was, as I had to return to work, but I bet he drank it — all the while thinking about the enormous amount of time the dog spends licking her little canine heiny.