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.
She had not seen the button on my bright orange messenger bag.
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.