So. Just incase this your first time reading my blog (you should be ashamed of yourself, depriving yourself from my charming wit) let me get you up to speed. I am a fatty patty. Fatty patty also means fat girl, voluptuous, curvy, chubby, marshmallowy, pudgey, big boned, heavy, hefty, and any other nick name for fat. I also tell it all, the good, the bad, the dumb, and the truth.
So. We load up in the car and drive on down to Gus' Fried Chicken in Memphis. This is a family tradition. We waddle our big butts in, after starving ourselves all day, just so we can lay the smack down on the best spicy southern friend chicken you ever did get to wrap your lips around. I cannot put into words how good Gus' is. If you haven't had it, do yourself a favor and go. Let your inner fatty out. Eat that chicken. Make you some magic sauce (Hot Sauce and ranch) and eat that chicken !!!
After we lay the smack down, in true Hulk Holgan and Macho Man Randy Savage style, on that chicken, we go to the zoo. DUMB.
On that particular day is was 789 degrees outside. The clouds were tan. Albinos looked liked Brazilians. I'm pretty sure I saw a flame melt. It was hot. But. We going to zoo. We unload the stroller and get it together.
I didn't think this through. We are chicken logged and it so hot, Satan is trying to find a water park. We mosey around and my sister finds the "Cats" exhibit. Hell. To. The. No. No.
Flash back a couple years. I'm probably 10 years old. My neighbor had a cat, an evil cat. (Sorry Mrs. Sandi or John if yall are reading this!) His name was Mr. Webbles. Mr. Webbles looked like Garfield but had the fighting spirit of Scar from the Lion King. One day I'm walking over to John's house, more than likely to do something stupid and young, and out of nowhere my leg is being attacked. Mr. Webbles is going to town. He is biting and scratching. I was stuck with a moral and physical dilemma. Do I kick this cat, possibly hurt it and run? No. I can't hurt John's cat and well, we know I can't run. So eventually I scream enough that Mr. Webbles no longer thinks it's fun to attack but is getting annoyed at my screaming.
I was scarred.
Flash forward to the zoo. My sister, Mary Kay (she's a hippie) is all excited to go look at the cats. So is my 16 year old niece. Harper, my little birthday girl, really has no clue where we are or what we are doing. She could care less. Reluctantly, I follow in to the cats exhibit. I begin to feel a tight feeling in my chest. I notice that there are some tink tink wire fences and concrete culverts separating me and Mr. Webbles Mafia Lords. I'm not about this life. I see lions, panthers, cheetahs, and some hybrid cats I knew that could and would tear me up. I could feel them looking at me. I knew what they were thinking. Look at that one. She could be our breakfast, lunch, dinner, morning snack, evening snack and desert. They was ready to eat a fat girl up. I begin to realize that no one else is in the exhibit. There's no one fatter than me. I'm done. If these cats decide to break free, I am the slow poke. I'm ate like I ate that chicken. Half my leg has melted due to the heat. I smell like fried chicken and am full of it. I can't run.
An anxiety attack begins. We got to get up out this place. Honey. Bless Harper. I know she got the whiplash. My toes went in overdrive. Harper's stroller became a NASCAR and we were taking them corners and rolling up out of the lions den.
I was done. I was ready to go. We were melting. My hair has now became a full fledged 70's afro. Harper had whiplash. Her stroller tires had no tread from screeching out.
The moral of the story is this. One, don't load up on fried chicken and go to the zoo. Go somewhere with air conditioner and motorized wheel chairs. Two. If you are a fat girl, take a fatter girl to the zoo with you. If the ferocious animals escape, you have a better chance of making it out alive.
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