mr. rampy and middle sis are addicted to Popeye's chicken in a seriously scary way. It all started because there is a Popeye's along the way to where middle sis and I work (yes, middle sis and I work together; I called my now-boss to see if she had anything for middle sis, and the next thing I knew, there I was too).

For the first week or so, middle sis was like, "Every day when I pass there, I want to stop and get a bucket of chicken." I thought it was a big joke, even when I had a dream about her actually getting the bucket of chicken, bringing it home, and keeping it in the fridge to eat out of over the course of several weeks, like Homer Simpson and the huge hero sandwich he was unable to hate even after it felled him with food poisoning.

I mentioned middle sis's obsession to mr. rampy, and they next thing I knew they were reminiscing about how good the spicy chicken crust is. Me, I've been very good about not eating fast food since reading Fast Food Nation. Them, they are like "BISCUITS."

Meanwhile, a friend of mine lives right around the corner from this Popeye's and was all intrigued by it. We even had a big discussion about whether it was named after Popeye the sailor man. (Consensus after a Google search--done during work time--was "yes.") She was like, "Tell me all about it if you get it." I'm like, "IT IS JUST CHICKEN." But I dutifully told her when we stopped off to get some chicken to tide us over on the long (45-minute drive) out to Six Flags. And when we got Mardi Gras combos when mr. rampy didn't feel like making Saturday dinner. For like three Saturday's in a row.

My friend: Every time I go by there now, I expect to see you three staggering out with chicken grease smeared all over your faces.

Me: IT'S ALL THEM. I want sushi.

Sometimes they chant "love that chicken from Popeye's" over and over until I break down and let them get it.