KFC Mother@#%$!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I like fried chicken. Don't mess with my DAMN CHICKEN!

Submitted: January 08, 2014

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Submitted: January 08, 2014



Oh God, I think that I have a problem.  I swore I was two seconds away from beating down everyone in this KFC for trying to kick me out with the claim that it’s after hours.  Because this piece of chicken, this leg with a golden brown crispy outside, breaking apart like a freshly dried cake frosting, releasing its intense flavor and heat into my mouth, and opening my taste buds and mind to new, untouched realms of flavor, ah, this is an experience that I can’t pull myself away from.  Aw, I ALMOST BUST A FUCKING NUT!  And these assholes, stand around in their fucking asshole KFC uniforms, covered in a delicious fried chicken stench that they don’t even deserve.  Their tired faces, looking at me as if I am the only one keeping them in this restaurant, the only one keeping them from leaving these beautiful, bliss producing confines, from leaving heaven’s lair to go home, where there is no fried chicken, where there is no tangy, spicy hot sauce but a GODDAMN freezer burned TV dinner that can’t bring a person to climax like this heated, flavorful, one of a kind leg of fried chicken is doing for me right now!  Someone made a claim that this Houston restaurant named Frenchy’s is better.  Well...my response to that is—FUCK THEM!  FUCK THEM ALL!  I’m only a KFC eating motherfucker.

I eat with wide, paranoid eyes.  Only nine pieces of fried chicken left and then I am going to have to leave, have to leave because of these dickheads want me out.  This chicken though, this chicken is taking me to places more vivid and memorable than the most potent PCP rushes.  I’m crying, my friend.  They’re happy tears.  Five employees threatening to call the police if I don’t get out of here and I am crying happy tears.  Five employees with flustered faces, and angry, furrowed brows, looking on the verge of physically removing me, and I don’t care.  I just don’t care!  BECAUSE IT’S GOOD!  OH MY GOOD IT’S SO GOOD!  This bucket of chicken that I dine on with utmost relish tastes as if it’s descended from the heavens themselves, and if I can keep eating, tearing apart these moist, exquisite, white, meaty insides, I may be able to become a God myself.  So I eat and I eat and I eat and I eat and my stomach gets full and I get more and more satisfied and I am more in bliss and I feel more and more like I can’t be touched because I’m eating fried chicken and that means I’m in heaven and if I am in heaven it means that the things I don’t like haven’t gotten through which means I am invincible, which means I’ll forever eat Kentucky Fried Chicken MOTHERFUCKER!

The police show up as I finish my last piece of chicken and I hop up from my booth with crackhead energy and rush toward the front counter.  The employees grab at me, they want me to get away, they want me to leave all of the food in the back alone.  But I’m not going to.  No, I want all the chicken back here, because to eat Friend Chicken is heaven, and the chicken is God himself and Colonel Sanders, is speaking to me right now, he is in my mind like he is in my dreams.

Eat you black motherfucker.  Eat it all and be the truest, Kentucky Fried Chicken Eater alive!  I don’t know why he comes off as a bigot in my mind, but I am not going to stop eating because of it.  No, I will fill my wide, food engulfing mouth with all the chicken behind the glass displays, on the metal grills.  I do, and the cops burst in, and I shove a fried chicken thigh in my mouth, my eyes absolutely bugging out of my face. 

“PUT THE CHICKEN DOWN!” a cop screams, his pistol pointed.  I reached toward a fryer next to me, grab the handle and fling it and whatever grease the metal grill can splash out, at the officer.  It hits, the cop screams and I go for more chicken.

Thirsty though, I think.  I am so damn thirsty.

I finish the chicken as the cops leap over the counter to take me down.  But I am not worried about them anymore, I am only worried about getting something to drink.  There is a cup on the metal counter.  I grab it, run to the fryer and fill it with hot, recently-used grease.  The cops scream for me to stop for some crazy reason.  The intense pain flaring up in my hand means absolutely nothing, it’s like it’s not even there, like it isn’t burning through my flesh.

So I drink.  And oh how the chicken juice quenches me…oh so pleasurable in fact, that I think…yeah, I think I can see heaven right now.  Yeaaaaahh…

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