Wing, wing, who’s there?

Given that much of the world is on fire, literally and figuratively, I hope you didn’t miss National Chicken Wing Day on July 29.

Yeah, every food, article of clothing and hobby has its own day. I used to scoff at such foolishness, but since this damn pandemic bound me up tighter than a block of cheese, I celebrate every single one that is of interest to me, no matter how inconsequential. It’s the little things, ya know?

So, National Chicken Wing Day. If you’re late to the party, it’s fine. The wings will taste just as good, unless you order them from [name of area business redacted. Imagine it’s one you really, really like so that you are suitably outraged].

According to information found in a random tweet, which is at least as trustworthy as Dr. Demon Seed in the Breitbart live stream that has everybody all riled up, Americans prefer flats to drums by a ratio of three to one.

If you’re like me, you’re saying to yourself, “Flats? Drums? What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is the difference?” (Having already sworn earlier in the column, I cannot curse again without receiving an R rating, which would cause my audience to plummet from 15.07 to 3.07 readers, the .07 being my mom, who gamely tries each week but then quits when I’m not funny.)

I had to look up “flats” and “drums” as they relate to wings. As I suspected, drums are the really good ones and flats are the ones I leave for somebody else, popularity be ... darned.

I’m not well-versed in chicken, so I don’t know which part of the poultry tree growers use to harvest each type or how long wings take to ripen. Maybe the drums stay on the tree longer, since they’re bigger?

Just kidding. Everybody knows chicken wings grow in the ground, like potatoes, and the really hot ones come from closer to the equator, while the mild ones are native to the northeast.

Another distressing factoid is that the average American eats 90 wings each year. If a standard wing weighs about 3.5 ounces, then the average American eats ... a lot of wings.

Calm down, logisticians. That equals almost 20 pounds of wings a year, which is a figure math-aletes can calculate in their heads, but which took me several long, laborious steps on the computer, followed by a short break of three hours to relax on the couch with a cold compress on my forehead.

Numbers, numbers, will no one rid me of these meddlesome numbers?

Regardless, America consumes more chicken wings than it has unused doses of hydroxychloroquine stored in the bunker beneath the White House that the president regularly inspects. A goodly number of these are consumed on Super Bowl Sunday (the wings, not the chloroquine), which is kinda sorta the unofficial National Chicken Wing Day.

I’m not the biggest fan of chicken wings, truth be told, because I hate any food that’s too messy to eat without a bib. Chicken wings fall into this category, especially when coupled with pizza. Together, they create a perfect storm of greasy sauce and poultry residue on your fingers — and when a cat saunters across your lap while you’re eating them, a purrfect storm — just as your spouse asks you to pretty please turn up the volume on the TV to cover the disgusting sounds you make while chewing.

So while I’ve never walked away from a platter of chicken wings, I’ve never sprinted toward one, either.

Which begs the question, when is National Moist Towelette Day?

chris.schillig@yahoo.com

@cschillig on Twitter