My Addiction

I am addicted to dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. I cannot help it, it has consumed me.

When my daughter began eating solid food, I made her a deal. If she would eat it, so would I. We both started out on Rice cereal. Our reaction was much the same—this is the devils food and we both quickly let it dribble out our mouths making a nice fu man chu. But it was the first taste onto a slippery slope of my baby food addiction.

Next was mashed green beans. She loved this. I could not stand it. But I had a bargain to uphold. I took the first bite to show that it was not poisoned. She looked at me, waiting for the convulsions of contaminated food. I am the courts official taster and it is a job that I enjoy.

We got into trouble when we moved on to peaches, the nectar of the gods. It was so good, so smooth going down. I admit, I took food from my baby. Strained peaches and beer—goes down good. I had to go to the store and buy double of what was needed so I could have my snacks with my daughter.

Lucky for me, in this family, sharing food is a prerequisite for marriage. This used to bug the living hell out of me. I don’t like sharing my food. I’m the hunter/gathering, not a scavenger. And it’s never a normal bite with my wife’s family. A bite consists of whatever you can fit into that bottomless pit that you call a piehole. When I went to McDonalds when my brother in laws were close by, I would get two of whatever I had. That was the only way to survive starvation. I would huddle in the corner of my room on the floor, behind a barricade fighting off those jackals.

But now it works to my advantage as my daughter very much likes to share her food. We only seem to disagree on prunes. She can’t get enough of them but the color purple is not natural for me. But I made the promise so before she would take her first bite, I took mine and put on the best face I could. I couldn’t hold it and had to run to the bathroom to spit out that fruit like paste. The entertainment factor was enough for her that she wanted them all the time.

We have now moved onto actual table food and this is where my addiction hit me the hardest. I grew up on this food and still love it. Who couldn’t love dinosaur shaped nuggets?! I ask you, who can resist? When I buy them, I have to take into account the laborors wage that I will have to hire to bring them in. When you buy by the pallet, you have to look at overhead.

We went to a children’s pizza parlor and it got a little out of hand. I don’t know why, but I love cheap pizza. God help me, I love it. It’s not really pizza. Someone just took some wet cardboard and used a red crayon to color in the sauce. What kind of pizza leaves an aftertaste? The good kind I tell ya, the good kind.

My daughter and I fed each other, sauce everywhere, maniacal laughter ringing throughout. It was worse than a Meth rampage. I’m pretty sure I tripped some other kids and we took their pizza. She was my toadie in over indulgence. When it was over we were both covered in the pizza bomb and Hossmom was wondering how she was going to get the stains out. I slept for a week after my bender and have gone through a case of heartburn pills. Fear and Loathing in Las Chucky Cheese.

That was my low point. That is when I noticed that I may need some help. We got cruel when we were eating. I would bite the heads off the dinosaur nuggets and growl. She would laugh at the carnage and eat the legs. The rest of the carcass would go to the dog who has never lived so well. And she takes family style bites, growling right along with me. We are driving this nugget species to extinction and we don’t care.

I need an intervention. My family would show up, very concerned. We would be in a room with no windows only despair. My fat dog would try to get up and leave but couldn’t because her massive gut creates to much drag on the carpet. They would tell me that they love me, that I need help. I would cuss at them and have my daughter throw broccoli at them. I would cry and break and finally get the help that I need.
But until then, maybe just one more fun ride. One more taste before I go into rehab, one for the road before I send them off to the tar pit forever. I’m thinking about taking my daughter to a cotton candy factory. Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab when it’s over.

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