Wing Night

If you've read here for more than 3.5 minutes, you'll know that we live in a remote (to me, at least) area and that there are certain things that you just can't get that I want.

One of those things in wings. Or wangs if you pronounce the word like you mean it.

One friend, let's call her Bandit C, got wind of a wang joint in the neighboring city, about a 30 minute drive away.

So, we loaded up the truck and headed to town.

Yes, I know it sounds like a scene straight out of Little House on the Prairie. But instead of supplies from Mankato, we made the trek for fried things and veggies to dip in creamy sauces, french fries that were both sweet and salty, and troughs full of soda. Laura, the rest of the Ingalls, and Nellie Olsen would be proud.

Anyway, big discovery? Playette loves wangs.





"I love you and all, Mama, but this here is my wang."


Double fisting and banging them together in delight. That's my girl!



There was ample adult supervision of the wang fest. Please don't call "the people" on us.