The Colonel T Show

Elizabeth and I are sitting on the couch, watching the Chargers and the Jets engage in some hot NFL playoff action. We’ve just eaten dinner, and we’re both still hungry, but we’re both too lazy to get up and make something else. She asks me to microwave the chicken nuggets in our freezer. I decline, because it’s the playoffs, and Don Cheadle says I must watch every second. Then she turns on her “cute” voice, and the following conversation occurs:

ELIZABETH: Timmmmmmmmmm? Where do chickens come from?

TIM (pondering): Well, a rooster and a hen get together and make sweet, sweet love.

ELIZABETH (cute voice off): No they don’t!

TIM: Sure they do! Are you saying hens reproduce asexually?

ELIZABETH: Well, they can produce egg after egg after egg….

TIM: They can? So the rooster exists why, exactly?

ELIZABETH: …

TIM: …

It was at this point we realized simultaneously: Neither of us have the slightest idea how poultry reproduces. Surely this is something we were taught in like, second grade. We are both quite embarassed by this, but fortunately, the Internet is a powerful research tool. One Google search later, we find the following, linked for your pleasure:

Chicken Breeding: A How-To Guide

Because we can’t be the only ones that don’t know…can we?

Elizabeth talked about watching the Bears/Packers game all week. She couldn’t wait. Not because she loves the NFL, but rather, because she loves Brett Favre. So we watched, for a little while at least. As soon as Green Bay’s coach pulled him from the game (it had no playoff implications) she went shopping.

Later, she watched the full 60-minute ESPN NFL Primetime, first to see the Favre highlights, and then she kept watching in the hope he’d be named the day’s Primetime Player.

Here is an excerpt from our conversation immediately afterward:

ME: If someone offered you $10,000 to kiss Brett Favre fully and deeply on the lips, would you do it?

ELIZABETH: Um, yeah. Duh.

ME: But what about our love? You’d be betraying me for cash.

ELIZABETH: Yeah, you’d get over it.

Well, who am I kidding? I would probably kiss Brett Favre fully and deeply on the lips, for cash, tickets, a piggyback ride, whatever. Dawg can play. In fact, if it means she’ll keep watching football with me, she can even call me Brett, or ask me to speak with a slight southern drawl. A small sacrifice for a great pleasure.