My friend, Dooger, is a world-renowned chicken wing eating champion. He is not known so much for his ability to eat with great speed or ingest large quantities but he has a finesse that is unrivaled.

Dooger has a patented technique which involves the cracking of one end of the flat along with a four-finger-push-pull that, when timed correctly, leaves nothing but bone. It’s a beautiful thing. The first time I saw him do it, I cried; we all cried, together.

Recently, I asked the Dooger a simple question about his wing-eating technique (because people tell me that I should incorporate more chicken wings into my diet). He responded with a dissertation about the origin of the goddamn chicken and all of its anatomy along with its inner-workings.

I told him, “I just asked a simple question and you respond with this long-winded bullshit answer. This is like asking a mechanic about my windshield wipers and him giving me a lesson about the firing order of my motor as it pertains to the carburetor.”

Still yet, the Dooger held firm. He would not answer the question on my terms. He would teach his style in the format he saw fit.

Later this week, I got myself some chicken wings and I re-read Dooger’s thesis. After letting the information sink in long enough for the wings to cool down, I grabbed a flat and stripped it down the way a Cajun does crawfish. I had succeeded, Dooger’s lesson had paid-off.

Turns out that Dooger was right- my question would not have led me closer to the solution. My problem is that often I think I know the right questions to ask to get to the solution when it’s easier to just listen to someone who already knows the answer. I spend so much time trying to cut corners and minimize the effort that I eventually wear myself out by taking the long way to the shortcut.

If I want answers, maybe I should listen to the people who already have them. “My way” is exhausting.

Peace, Love, and all things Beef related,