It was a long day today. Will, nor I, wanted to cook. Will said, "just stop and get some Kentucky Fried Chicken." I know better. It's not on my list of acceptable foods to eat. It's bad for me. It's a bad idea. So, I stopped at KFC on the way home and ordered a small family meal and, what the heck, let's get two apple pies, they are only .99 cents. I'm pre-PMS'ing, so it seemed like a logical thing to do. Maybe I should bring this up in therapy this week and see what Dr. Feel Good has to say. Anyway, I ordered and felt it was a slight victory that I didn't order the chocolate cake for dessert. Right?
The guy in the drive through was less than excited to be working at KFC. I could tell. I mean, it probably was 300 degrees in there, but still, freakin' get with the program. According to my receipt his name is Theresa. Look, I don't judge, if his name is Theresa, it is. Whatever. I have bigger concerns.
Anyway, I don't want to over-share on the events of the evening, so let's just say Will was happy to see me when I got home with the chicken. I hadn't rubbed it all over myself or anything, but nonetheless, he seemed pumped. So, after he was no longer "pumped," we had our extra crispy chicken. I know what you are thinking, "hey fatty, if you don't want to gain weight, why don't you order the grilled chicken?" Well, they never have grilled chicken ready at dinner time. It's a real inconvenience for a restaurant that serves dinner to not have dinner items, but KFC seems to thrive on mediocrity and sometimes, out and out failure. Kind of like where I work sometimes, but I digress.
The chicken was dry-ish. Whatever. And don't even get me started on the biscuits. Remember when KFC had good biscuits? Remember how they were flaky and yummy and soft and you could eat like a six-pack? Am I the only one that remembers that? Well, now, they rival hockey pucks for flavor. I guess good 'ol Col. Sanders great, great, grandson who needs to buy crack to survive decided to skimp on the biscuits and grilled chicken.
Who eats this crap? It's deep, deep, deep fat fried chicken, powdered potatoes, frozen biscuits and coleslaw that is laced with sugar. My guts hate my guts for even thinking about it, let alone eating it. I'll be having a serious conversation with my fatty liver and my gall bladder before the night is over.
But now, let's talk about the injustice of the whole evening. My freaking apple pies. Where are they? They sure as hell are not in the bag. I look at my receipt. I sure paid for them. They are no where to be found. I am livid. I was depending on that apple pie for some semblance of happiness. I needed that deep fat fried crust with the warm processed apple goo inside. That KFC, mother-trucking-zit-picking-sissy-named-disco-dancing-friend of Dorothy didn't put my friggin apple pies in the bag. YOU. BASTARD. You don't treat fat people like this? How am I supposed to maintain my daily caloric intake? We don't keep crap in the house, so now I'm screwed. Will says, "Call them." I don't want to call them, I want to be sitting on the couch, scratching and watching some sort of reality TV eating my mother-trucking apple pies!!! What are they going to do? Deliver them? I'm not driving back down there. I'm in my underwear and have no intention of making myself presentable. The only thing missing is my single wide trailer, my pit-bull chained to my truck bumper and a beer in my hand to really class up this moment.
I'm mad. So, I get the receipt and I take their friggin "Tell us how we are doing!" survey. I don't ever want to talk to the dumb-asses, so I take the survey as Will. He won't care. The survey made me angry too, so by the time I got to the open comment section, I decided to go white-trash on them. I told them the following: "I ordered and paid for friggin applie pies and you didn't give them to me. My wife is PMS'ing and I needed those friggin' pies. This was a real buzz kill." I provided them with all of Will's pertinent information so that they could contact him and we could get some apple pies the next time we go in. At this point, due to the severity of the situation, they owe me 100 apple pies. This is serious and they need to learn a lesson. Stupid Theresa the drive through guy.
Some might say that this is food karma. I didn't need the apple pies, but I wanted them. The Universe just told me no. The Universe just said to me, "I'm tired of listening to you talk about being fat, stop eating sh*t!"
I want to know where the survey is for The Universe. I have a few things to say to The Universe. Or, it could have been divine intervention and if that is the case, I guess I'll hold off on God's survey, I don't need any hassles with the law. I didn't inhale and there is nothing more to see here. Move along.
I still want an apple pie.
The guy in the drive through was less than excited to be working at KFC. I could tell. I mean, it probably was 300 degrees in there, but still, freakin' get with the program. According to my receipt his name is Theresa. Look, I don't judge, if his name is Theresa, it is. Whatever. I have bigger concerns.
Anyway, I don't want to over-share on the events of the evening, so let's just say Will was happy to see me when I got home with the chicken. I hadn't rubbed it all over myself or anything, but nonetheless, he seemed pumped. So, after he was no longer "pumped," we had our extra crispy chicken. I know what you are thinking, "hey fatty, if you don't want to gain weight, why don't you order the grilled chicken?" Well, they never have grilled chicken ready at dinner time. It's a real inconvenience for a restaurant that serves dinner to not have dinner items, but KFC seems to thrive on mediocrity and sometimes, out and out failure. Kind of like where I work sometimes, but I digress.
The chicken was dry-ish. Whatever. And don't even get me started on the biscuits. Remember when KFC had good biscuits? Remember how they were flaky and yummy and soft and you could eat like a six-pack? Am I the only one that remembers that? Well, now, they rival hockey pucks for flavor. I guess good 'ol Col. Sanders great, great, grandson who needs to buy crack to survive decided to skimp on the biscuits and grilled chicken.
Who eats this crap? It's deep, deep, deep fat fried chicken, powdered potatoes, frozen biscuits and coleslaw that is laced with sugar. My guts hate my guts for even thinking about it, let alone eating it. I'll be having a serious conversation with my fatty liver and my gall bladder before the night is over.
But now, let's talk about the injustice of the whole evening. My freaking apple pies. Where are they? They sure as hell are not in the bag. I look at my receipt. I sure paid for them. They are no where to be found. I am livid. I was depending on that apple pie for some semblance of happiness. I needed that deep fat fried crust with the warm processed apple goo inside. That KFC, mother-trucking-zit-picking-sissy-named-disco-dancing-friend of Dorothy didn't put my friggin apple pies in the bag. YOU. BASTARD. You don't treat fat people like this? How am I supposed to maintain my daily caloric intake? We don't keep crap in the house, so now I'm screwed. Will says, "Call them." I don't want to call them, I want to be sitting on the couch, scratching and watching some sort of reality TV eating my mother-trucking apple pies!!! What are they going to do? Deliver them? I'm not driving back down there. I'm in my underwear and have no intention of making myself presentable. The only thing missing is my single wide trailer, my pit-bull chained to my truck bumper and a beer in my hand to really class up this moment.
I'm mad. So, I get the receipt and I take their friggin "Tell us how we are doing!" survey. I don't ever want to talk to the dumb-asses, so I take the survey as Will. He won't care. The survey made me angry too, so by the time I got to the open comment section, I decided to go white-trash on them. I told them the following: "I ordered and paid for friggin applie pies and you didn't give them to me. My wife is PMS'ing and I needed those friggin' pies. This was a real buzz kill." I provided them with all of Will's pertinent information so that they could contact him and we could get some apple pies the next time we go in. At this point, due to the severity of the situation, they owe me 100 apple pies. This is serious and they need to learn a lesson. Stupid Theresa the drive through guy.
Some might say that this is food karma. I didn't need the apple pies, but I wanted them. The Universe just told me no. The Universe just said to me, "I'm tired of listening to you talk about being fat, stop eating sh*t!"
I want to know where the survey is for The Universe. I have a few things to say to The Universe. Or, it could have been divine intervention and if that is the case, I guess I'll hold off on God's survey, I don't need any hassles with the law. I didn't inhale and there is nothing more to see here. Move along.
I still want an apple pie.
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