Which Came First? The Chicken, OBVI1
I’m driving up to Sacramento, a five-and-a-half-hour trip, and the entire time I’m craving KFC.
I’m black.
So once I hit the city limits, I stop at the first Kentucky Fried Chicken that I see, I go in, I give my order.
“I’ll have a three-piece chicken with biscuit, original recipe, dark meat.” You see, white meat does nothing for me, it’s just too dryyy. “I’ll have some grape jelly and some hot sauce, please.”
“We ain’t got no chicken.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ze outta chicken.”
How is it possible that Kentucky Fried Chicken would run out of Kentucky. Fried. Chicken? I’m sorry, was today’s shipment hijacked? Or did someone decide during your Monday morning meeting that chicken’s just not the way to go? So you’re telling me: What we have is an establishment whose name is essentially “chicken” but you ain’t got no chicken. That’s like going to Victoria’s Secret and they tell you, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ze outta drawers.”
So I’m like, “This is KFC, right?”
“Yeah, but we ain’t got no chicken.”
“Well, Slim, what do you have?”
“We got the corn bread. We got the biscuits. We got dem sides. We DO have that chicken sammitch.”
Sammitch.
Did you just say SAM-MITCH? What is a chicken sammitch, cuz I don’t see it on the menu. Now, I was tempted to ask Mr. Phonetically Challenged if when he goes to a Mexican restaurant does he often order the chicken fuh-jiht-uhs. But I held my tongue. I did say, however:
“Look here … Anfernee? Anferneeeeee, I came to Kentucky Fried … Chicken so that I might partake in some Kentucky. Fried. Chicken. Now somebody behind that counter’s gon’ get me some damn chicken. I don’t care if it’s you, or Sam, or Mitch, or the Colonel himself, with his white-suit-wearin’, goatee-sportin’, walkin’-stick totin’, country-country twang-twang accent-havin’ wrinkled ass, you better make like Nike and just do it. Otherwise you’re going to experience what it’s like when a large irritable black woman is dissatisfied with her service. I just drove five and one half hours with nothing on my mind but a three-piece chicken and biscuit. So I’m not leaving here without a little red-and-white box that’s got two thighs and a leg. If it’s got to be yo’ two thighs and a leg, so be it. But I would suggest you hop your narrow ass over to the supermarket and make friends with somebody in that poultry department.”
Now, needless to say, they did what they could to keep me content. I left Kentucky Fried Chicken an hour later with a complimentary bucket of Perdue chicken, fried and rotisserie, a dozen biscuits, a gallon of sweet tea, two chicken sammitches, and a whole lot of potato wedges.
Oh, and Anfernee? He carried it to my car.