Man, I need some fried chicken, seriously. No, look, really, I need some. Fried Chicken. OK? I have this mental picture in my head, a Vision if you will, of a tasty Chicken Wing, and it is Beautiful. It’s fully prepared and floating in space and there are all these, like, warm, glowing, beauty-rays emanating from it and there’s a golden light shining down from Heaven bathing more rays of deliciousness and Chicken-ness all over it like a french-fry lamp only better and more heavenly and there’s singing in the background, just like “aahhh, aaaah, ooh, ohhhh,” and like that, very ethereal and Step Into the Light-ish, you know? I’m talking about some nice Fried Chicken. I don’t know why people always wanna talk shop or talk trash or even talk turkey, because all I wanna do is Talk Chicken: I would like four Chicken Wings, please.

Or hey, maybe a nice Chicken Leg (or three) and there’s ketchup and hot sauce and salt and pepper and maybe some bread on account of I don’t really dig on the biscuits too much, so if I end up with a biscuit, you go right ahead and help yourself, OK?

My goal is Fried Chicken. It’s good to have Goals, you know? I’m all about employing a method of Positive Visualization to help myself achieve important Goals, and sometimes I just let the visuals do all the work, you dig? Like right now in the Food Center of my brain I am mentally imagining a nice big cardboard box full of chicken with the various chicken-puzzle pieces lovingly arranged within. No buckets, though, because I got disappointed when I went to the KFC-Kentucky-(fried)-Chicken once and I got a whole bunch of Chicken and they gave it to me in a square cardboard box insteada the festive bucket. Now look, there was still Chicken inside that box, and I ate it, but it was disappointing, umkay?

And whose idea was it to put honey on Chicken? That is just crazy, I mean, honey? On Chicken? Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, that’s good, man. Get past your fears, put honey on Fried Chicken, and you will advance to the Next Level of Consciousness. The World won’t look the same after you put honey on Chicken.

I got introduced to the combinated goodness of Honey on Chicken at the Kentucky (fried) Chicken once, but I don’t even really like the Kentucky (fried) Chicken so much anymore because it seems like the pieces are always super-greasy and, like, boiled, or maybe just moisturized or something. I think I’m almost at the point where I would rather have some of those miniature teevee-dinner fried chickens that you bake or microwave as opposed to some actual Kentucky Chicken That’s Fried but They (and you know who They are) Insist on Calling it KFC Since “Fried” is Like a Fuckin’ Swear Word Now or Something, Jesus Christ, I mean we got enough going on with the Enemy and Natural Disasters and shit and you gotta sweat me because I want some Chicken?

Anyway, the only thing with the teevee-dinner chicken is it’s so tiny and miniature in its smallness that you eat, like, four pieces or five pieces and you wonder why you’re still hungry. OK, I eat four or possibly six-to-10 pieces of nice teevee-dinner fried chicken and I’m still hungry, and that’s even if it came with a puddle of mashed potatoes or some sorta other side dish, like maybe some green beans or some peas, or possibly some peas and carrots, now that’s good times, but they give you, like, what, three teaspoons of side dish, and where the fuck do they get those teensy little sample-sized chickens from? Are those fully grown chickens? I mean, is there some sorta micro-chicken farm that grows the chickens for the teevee-dinner industry? Or are those chickens that never got a chance to Go Pro? Whatever, set me up with some frozen teevee-chickens and I won’t ask any questions except for “May I have more Chicken, please?” and “What parta the chicken is this?”

What the fuck is in the Fried Chicken that makes this happen to me? Yeah, yeah, I know; I’m weak. Chicken is Bad. But c’mon, really, there’s Something Important in there, because it could be chicken from almost anywhere and I still want it. I know all it’s about is some chicken and some fat, and you fry the shit out of it and then maybe there’s some kinda oil and some salt and pepper in there or maybe even some secret herbs and spices and whatever and I don’t care if one of ’em’s monosodium glutamate, man, don’t crash my happy li’l Chicken (fried) Plane of Joy on its way to Chicken Town with your chemical scolding, OK? And I know it’s a dead animal raised in a prison cell and injected fulla steroids they won’t even let those baseball players use anymore, but I don’t like sports that much, OK? I just wanna eat a chicken, even though I’m beginning to fear, or at least be Highly Suspicious of, Chicken on account of the Chicken Bird Avian Flu or whatever I read about that’s headed this way from Someplace Foreign, and if it mutates into a chicken-human flu or a chicken-pig-human flu, then we’re fucked for sure, man.

I still want some Chicken. It’s like I got a fever, and the only cure is More Chicken. And maybe some corn.

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