I’ve been at the grill a lot these days, some good, some bad. When I fuck up, it is always negligence on my behalf. For example, tonight I took about 45 minutes preparing a mean marinade for my chicken. It was a balsamic and herb marinade that was sure to impress the family and perhaps some of the neighbors. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like babysitting the grill, since my yard is plagued with mosquitos of barbaric proportions.
I visited said chicken every 10 minutes or so. I had no worries about a grease fire, since my marinade was without oil and my BBQ is brand fucking new.
Big fucking mistake.
The lighting in my backyard was off, due to some fucked up electrical issue that will be dealt with tomorrow. From a distance, I glanced at a bright orange color emanating from my stainless steel grill. I said, “Whoa upon said orange person that touches thy chicken. I will slay thee with great force of 1,000 lions.”
I flipped open the bullshit grill and the flames nearly melted my face off. Gingerly, I had placed a few cute lemons on the grill, in hopes of squeezing them onto my herbalicious chicken.
FUCKING CHARRED BEYOND RECOGNITION.
I had to rush inside and fetch a bottle of salt in order to douse the flames, before they burned down the whole fucking yard and maybe a house or two. I will have you know, Mrs. Fly was quite concerned over the status of her palm trees, as it is summer time, which means “the yard goes tropical.”
When the flames were suffocated and the chicken was procured, it looked like this:
Actual photo of Chef Fly’s dinner
Upon entering the house, I told the family, consisting of three hungry children and one angry wife: “dinner is served.”
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