At least once a week, I’ll throw my dignity in the toilet and eat dinosaur nuggets for dinner. I’m not proud of it, but what are you going to do? Normally, a dinosaur nugget dinner will come about because I’m wiped out from work/kids and would rather catch strangers’ farts with my mouth then cook a full meal. Once the decision has been made, I shovel dinosaur nuggets into my face and try to convince myself that what I’m doing is more dignified than what the reality of the situation dictates.
The rationalization normally begins with two indisputable facts. Dinosaurs are majestic beasts. Also, nuggets are fucking delicious. Especially when you are a child or a thirty eight year old man with high cholesterol and B cup titties. As someone who once sprained his neck while reaching under his steering column in a 1990 Ford Tempo to salvage a loose McDonald’s fry, I make it pretty obvious that I take my shitty foods seriously. Not only am I a sucker for shitty foods, but I do back flips for shitty foods that are also shaped like something awesome. Okay, my belly is too big and my back too bad to do back flips, but I will fall backwards onto a bed to show how excited I am when a food I enjoy is shaped into something cool.
Even though the kids and I will usually enjoy dinosaur nuggets for the same meal, I like to wait until they are finished eating before I sit down at the table to enjoy my childish treats. I do this partially because I want to enjoy my meal in peace. Also, I do it because I don’t want anyone to see me eating dinosaur nuggets. It’s like hot dog production. By the time I’m done slathering my nuggs in ketchup and eating the shit out of these dinosaurs like some kind of human T-Rex who takes his money worries out on his prey, I’m normally thinking about microwaving five more nuggets. Most times, I’ll decide I’ve eaten enough, but not before going out with a disgusting bang, putting on some smooth R&B, holding my plate at an angle and performing cunnilingus on the smeared ketchup and dinosaur crumbs left on my plate. Dyno Gyno, if you will.
When this sad scene has finally ended and I’m about to take my bow on the toilet, regret will start to set in and I’ll wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m a middle aged man who should know by now the importance of a well-balanced meal for not only me, but especially my kids. But then guilt will turn to logic and I realize that I’ll likely make nutrition a priority the instant that they start making kale, spinach and salmon into cool, predatory shapes.