Can't See The Chicken For The Grease

I have done nothing all day. I really should have gotten a jump on the laundry. But instead, I sat staring into space during a Bernie Mac marathon. I've seen all the episodes a couple of times, anyway. So I just vegetated. Trying to advance the progress of my virus. I figure at 8-10 days, I've got 6-8 days left.

Farmer H must have read the writing on the wall. He sent the #1 son for Chinese food. I really should not complain. But since I can't taste, the texture is everything. My late breakfast of BBQ pork rinds speaks for itself. But I must address the chicken policies of our favorite take-out destination. I'm pretty sure that General Tso's Chicken is required to contain...oh, I don't know...perhaps...just a little bit of...CHICKEN! The last several excursions down that slow boat to Hong Kong House have resulted in a container of twisted, chewy, battered, soupy particles that appear to harbor neither white nor dark meat. It's more like fried chicken skin. From a rubber chicken. Now I'll have to go back to something unbreaded. Like chicken with broccoli.

Because I can see the chicken.