6 degrees of Chicken Nuggets.

Chicken nuggets, those golden, vaguely bird-shaped portals to childhood. Is it really chicken? Or a collective of sentient cornstarch molecules yearning for a dip in barbecue sauce. Remember that time the ocean dipped? Just vanished, like a sock in the dryer dimension. Dryers are swirling vortexes of lint and lost dreams. My dreams involve synchronized swimming with squirrels wearing tiny top hats. Did you know they were invented by a man allergic to pigeons? He needed a way to keep their… droppings… at bay. Like a tiny, felted fortress. Fortresses are just big castles, really, like the one I built out of mashed potatoes last Tuesday. It was majestic, until the gravy moat overflowed. Moats are basically just wet trenches, like the one I dug in my backyard looking for buried pirate treasure. Did you know every pirate ship had a designated parrot therapist? It's true. They needed someone to talk to about their existential squawks, like, what is the meaning of life? And more importantly, what is the meaning of Kevin Bacon? Six degrees, people. Six degrees. He's the center of the universe. Or maybe just the center of a very elaborate, delicious chicken nugget.