I was standing at the streetcar station at SW 6th and Mill, near the Pizzacato. As normal for a Saturday (or any day, really) I had my bright orange messenger bag slung across my back.
I heard a male voice behind me say “Guess what?” and before I could turn around, he finished the couplet in a loud, laughing voice: “Chickenbutt!“
Smiling, I finished turning around. But the guy, in his twenties, wearing hipster hair and a trendy nylon running jacket over his ironic t-shirt and jeans, was not speaking to me. He was speaking to a cute, pig-tail-haired brunette girl, wearing a puffy green down vest, long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. She looked startled a moment and then laughed at the hipster-haired young man.
But apparently the boy had. They started talking, he explaining to her about the chickenbutt joke, she telling him how silly he was.
The streetcar came and I got on. I was smiling.
Chickenbutts are great for flirting, it seems. Maybe not for me, but for others. And that’s OK.