My daughter wants to be a damn pusher on Sundays . . .

Remarkably, before leaving California, I had never brought my kids to a Chik-Fil-A.  I mean, we had to travel all the way to Tennessee - by conestoga wagon Subaru - for my kids to finally eat one of them "chik'n" sammiches.

But  when are you most likely to crave a Chik-Fil-A sammich?  That's right, gordito . . . on Sunday, when the damn place is CLOSED!  Chik-Fil-A is a born again, holy-rollin', purrrrraise-Jesus-an'-pass-me-a-napkin-will-ya? kind of place, whereby the Lord-a spake unto the Board-a offa Director and  said-a ye shall not-a gird thy loins and sell CHICKEN! on a Sunday . . .

So we are driving down I-75 last Sunday, having just spent a good hour in complete Mary-worship at our local mackeral-snappin' Catholic church (shhh, they think we really do that) and my daughter sees a sign for Chik-Fil-A, containing the caption "closed on Sundays." 

"You know what we need?", asked Dolly Girl.

"No, what?"

"We need to start a black market for fast food.  You know, if someone really wants Chik-Fil-A on a Sunday, we could tell them to meet us somewhere, like behind a Chik-Fil-A, and we could sell it to them at a profit."

She looked out the window.

"Oh yeah, I could see us expanding.  I could go up to someone and say, 'Pssst . . . you want that Rio toy McDonald's had three months ago, I can get you a Rio toy, dude . . .'"

She smiled at me.  "It could work, Mom."

She is my retirement plan.