#7 — It’s 5:00 (and sunny) somewhere


Swaying Hips & Chicken Strips

Vacation got nothing on us.
Here in the Islands living off the land,
dining on ahi and mahi, abalone and fruit,
we’re determined to stay lean and strong,
healthy and glowing like freshly peeled mangoes.
When in the islands, eat as the islanders do!
(No, not SPAM and macaroni salad). We laugh
at the fat tourists waddling by and scoff at
their gluttonous ways. We thrive on nothing
but the simplest of sustenance.
Plantains and seaweed salad, sweet, supple
island eggplant and thick, juicy grapefruit plucked
from the tree, still warm from the sun. Let’s
live this way forever, we shout, kissing and raising
cups of pineapple juice and rum (local, organic)
in a cheers to us! But then, from out of nowhere,
trade winds carry a heady, familiar, stirring scent,
something tasty, something…wrong and delicious.
The rental jeep is weaving on the road and we
are jizzing in our pants, barely able to control
this insane olfactory sensation of….of….fried
chicken! Next thing, we’re passed out in a tiki
bar in Kona town, high on carbs, lips shining with
beef grease, blue cheese and pork fat, sucking
margaritas through fat straws and surrounded by
chubby old farts in flower print shirts, listening to
a lounge singer crooning to his own recorded three-part
harmony, patting our bellies in the ecstasy of indulgence.
We are done. Ah, swaying hips and chicken strips,
dripping cheese sauce, fried potato love, bacon burgers,
tanned behinds and fish & chips, mai tais, chi-chis,
cover tunes and candlelight. We. Are. Done.

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