We all make mistakes.
Some of our mistakes are hanging in our closets, daring us to wear them, if only to a Halloween party. Some of our mistakes are in Washington, sitting on their thumbs on Monday and passing laws that erode our freedom on Friday.
And some of our mistakes are really close to us, like the six spicy chicken wings I had for lunch. Those wings were a definite mistake, and they're sitting hard on my stomach just like the National Defense Authorization Act of 2012.
I complained to a few Congressmen about that Act, but like the hot wings, I've got no one to complain to but myself.
What did I do wrong? I got my restaurants mixed up - that's what. Restaurant A - as we'll call it - has great wings but even if you ask for their hottest sauce, they aren't all that spicy. That's good, because I like to order them "as hot as fire" and still be able to eat them.
Restaurant B - the place where I dined today - makes their wings incredibly spicy. Today, I forgot where I was, and I said, "Make those wings as spicy as you can get them!" I was being a big-shot to impress my wife, who can eat anything spicy and not implode.
You see my mistake? Wanting to be a big-shot; wanting to be a hero; wanting to show off for the ladies? Maybe I'm Congressional material after all, but let's get back to the wings. When they arrived, they were glowing fire-red, bathing in hot sauce and wearing a thick coat of spices. Then it hit me: "Oh, this is the OTHER place. These are the guys who make HOT wings!" Talk about a dangerous mistake!
I downed the wings - somehow - and my face turned as red as a sunburn. Later in the day and into the night, I felt like I was dying. I blame my spicy mistake for a miserable night.
But, I'll also give Congress a little credit for my poor sleep. It's a lot like spicy wings, you know. Each Congressman is dangerous enough, but when you get a bunch of them together, you're doomed. I'll pay better attention when I see hot wings on the menu. And I'll be especially careful the next time I see the menu - I mean ballot - for Congress.
David McCoy, a self-proclaimed Southern-Gentleman and Raconteur-in-Training lives in Covington with his family.