Crispy Fried Sex

I don't believe people come to this site looking for advice; in fact, if my site statistics are anything to go by, people mostly come here by accident while searching for stuff about animal sex. I therefore generally refrain from giving it, partly because you don't want it, but mostly because I can't be arsed. Anyway, giving advice is only fun if the recipients have to give you excruciatingly embarrassing details of their (preferably sexual) problem first.

Today, though, I'm going to break with tradition and recommend strongly that, if you haven't already done so, you go out and buy Beer Chips. Mrs Bison brought these things home from the store a while back and they are, quite simply, outstanding. I could eat a whole bag without stopping. I'm trying to cut down on useless carbs right now but it doesn't matter. These things are capable of disabling willpower on contact.

How could you go wrong when you combine beer (good) and chips (good). These things are great, like sex, only sex that's been lightly salted and deep fried. Do yourself a favor and get some.

This Way Up

Normally when it comes to a roast chicken it's me who has their hand up its arse, removing the giblets, and me who oils it before laying it in a roasting dish with some potatoes and lard. Today, however, I disappeared with Bison Daughter to buy a halloween costume, leaving Mrs Bison to explore the nether regions of the chicken, a task which she loathes. Eventually the bird was cooked and she dragged me away from the Dallas-Arizona football game to complain about it. The chicken was on a plate and she'd started carving it but there didn't seem to be any meat on it. It was all bones, and appeared to have been squashed at some point.

"This is bullshit" exclaimed I, "where did you buy this? Take a photo - we're getting our money back on this."



Fortunately I took a moment to try turning it over, and there was all the meat, along with a plastic timer which was sticking up. She'd roasted it upside down. It turned out to be an excellent dinner, regardless of which way the chicken was sitting in the oven. Actually, the meat was more tender than usual, so maybe we should try this again. It's not like Mrs Bison doesn't know how to cook a chicken, you understand. However, she blamed the mistake on the trauma she experienced handling its entrails, because I wasn't there to do it. So obviously it's my fault...

Why Now?

So there I was on the flight from Boston to Paris last Thursday. It's a short flight so I was in two minds whether to drug myself and sleep, in case I was still a zombie when we landed. (I had to shower and go straight to a four hour meeting at the other end.) I was in my seat as the other passengers boarded, and who should come and sit in the window seat next to me but this gorgeous blonde. (By this I mean "natural gorgeous, not fake tits and make-up.)

We took off, and I was just thinking how nice it was to have bonus seat-mate quality, when the flight attendant came over and tapped me on the shoulder. "Mr Bison - we have two open seats behind you here, if you'd like to move over?"

What could I say? I love having the empty seat next to me, to put all my crap in during the flight, and the poor blonde wouldn't have to climb over my comatose form to get out of her seat if I moved. So I did. I have to say, though, that it was not without sadness. It's not that I was going to actually talk to her during the flight - I was going to be comatose, remember - but it's such a waste only to have the option to move when my seatmate is small and attractive, rather than the obese, snoring gutbucket that I usually get stuck next to.

Funny how the little things bother you when you travel...