Requiem for a chicken wing

!goyslopenjoyers

!leafs

I have dreaded the coming of this day and it is with a heavy heart I write this post.

The simple truth is I love sev wings. Especially the regular ones. They are always either too hot or too cold. The skin tastes burnt and salty, the meat is grey and greasy and I would be lying if I said I did not taste hints of fish. Despite this, the wings and I are bound by red string of fate. It is the highlight of my day when the punjabi cashier hands me a little sev branded box.

But it was never meant to be. You see, a wise neighbor once told me: to find the best sev wings one must find the most ghetto sev. And it was true. The polished suburban sevs where the workers had never even had a gun pointed at them had the worst hot cases; some had no wings at all.

But things are out of balance now. Those ghetto sevs have been picked clean and gutted by the very culture they supported. Parasitised. The decree's been passed, the edict handed down: no more.

And so I pour one out for all the sevs they're closing, left alone and wingless on this cursed earth