"Anyone else experiencing the pieces of chicken at KFC getting smaller?" asks Les. "This chicken leg is being monstered by a teaspoon!" Thanks, Les, but let's do a bit of journalism around this. First, send the picture to KFC ... whoosh. Email sent.
Could it be a baby chicken leg? Quick, get comment from SAFE NZ! Whoosh. Email sent. It might be a wing? Nah, the bone length is too short ... Maybe Les can rummage in the rubbish and send the bones? No, the carcass is long gone.
Need an expert opinion ... Associate Professor Annie Potts at Canterbury University wrote a book called Chicken. She'd know a thing or two about drumsticks. Whoosh. Email sent. Hang on. Is it a really a teaspoon? Maybe it's a dessert or even a tablespoon. Back to Les - who is unsure now.
What kinda meal did you buy? "Um, a Bumper Box with around 12-15 pieces in it," he says. Nope. Not on the menu. What about the lid that the leg and spoon are lying on, how big is that? Popped into a local KFC and found out that the smallest lid is 17.5cm. That lid is pictured with tablespoons (right) and a variety of teaspoons and other items for a scale comparison.
Conclusion: It can't be a teaspoon in the original picture, so it's at least a dessert spoon, which doesn't make the drumstick a teeny-tiny leg of a baby chicken, just kinda small when compared to the plump, home-cooked drumsticks.
A compliment to treasure
The greatest compliment you've ever received: "My son got me a Father's Day card that read, 'You're more awesome than a monkey wearing a tuxedo made out of bacon, riding a cyborg unicorn with a light-sabre for the horn, on the tip of a space shuttle closing in on Mars, while engulfed in flames'. To be fair, he found it on the internet and copied it because he knew it would make me laugh, but I treasure it still, especially now he's a smelly teenager."
My sister and I used to be mad scientists with our Barbies that we didn't like. Started with haircuts, ended with removing limbs and attaching them to places they didn't belong. My dad found us huddled by the stove, melting a Barbie's butt so we could attach her leg to it. We got in so much trouble for that.
2. My father was giving the eulogy at my grandfather's funeral, a full Catholic Mass in Dunedin, when I wandered up and insisted on being picked up by him. He obliged and continued speaking. Apparently I then interrupted by leaning into the microphone, offering him my index finger and saying: "Pull my finger, Daddy."
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