DEAR KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN CO-CEOS SABIR SAMI & COL. HARLAND DAVID SANDERS — Revered gentlemen, I take digits to keyboards to complain. Guess what. It’s about chicken. Actually, I’m embarrassed taking your time because you poor two must spend every waking moment discussing, well — chicken.
I can only imagine corporate board meetings. A million six useless middle management types around a conference table the size of an aircraft carrier. Somebody asks: “What should we talk about today?”
Long, poignant silence. A hand from a young veep, possibly from KFC’s crackerjack Beaks & Feet Division, sheepishly raises his hand to query: “Chicken?”
Anyway. Sabbi. Harland. The other night, a half-hour before closing, I had the fried bird vibes worse than Wile E. Coyote. I pull into a Santa Clarita KFC outlet. I can’t say where because my teenage editor gets the heebie-jeebies when I note that it’s in the part of our valley rich in Section H housing, meth labs, drive-by shootings and sidewalks teeming with pedestrians wearing loudly beeping ankle monitors.
I mosey through the drive-through. A disinterested voice asks: “What.” I order my usual: “The extra-crispy Four-Piece Combo — EXTRA CRISPY. Two Mashed Potatoes & Gravy, No Biscuit and an extra-large Coke.” (pause) “EXTRA (pause) CRISPY…”
“That’s the chicken, extra crispy, not the Coke.”
That’s me. Entertainment Source To All Smiling-Out-Of-Context Providers Of Early Heart Disease.
Whether I engaged someone living a life of quiet desperation or a fentanyl sufferer, my simple order always kicks off an argument. First, the D.I.E. (Disinterested Intercom Engineer) will correct me that a four-piece combo only comes with ONE quarter-ounce mashed potato cup. I respond that yes, I know, but I’d like to buy a second one and that I’m not a homeless person at the loudspeaker outside and would be giddy to pay cash money. The KFCmeister then informs that they don’t have extra-large drinks. Just large and medium. I note that would mean that my large, by default, would therefore be, an extra-large. Or perhaps, extra medium? Three ice cubes? To their credit, the KFC staff at this particular outlet in fab SCV Hoodlumtown are honest and point out they don’t have Coke, but rather, Pepsi.
I could point out to the 23-year-old in the soul-sucking clown costume with four children, alimony and a $912-a-month truck payment who paid not one iota of attention in grades K-12 that Pepsi is swill. Chinese prison officials use it to send prisoners on death row to Commie B-Word H-E-Double Hockey Sticks.
“All it takes is just 3 ounces of Pepsi. Then your eyelids flutter, you foam at the mouth, your heart races to 4,016 bpm and you go ‘heeb-beeb-beeb-beeb-beeb’ just like one of the Stooges before you’re deader than the Macarena.” I don’t say that. But, sometimes, I’ll ask: “When ARE you getting Coca-Cola?” I pick the Dr. Pepper, although it’s a crapshoot whether Dr. P will be flat, ant-spray-tasting diet or face-making too sweet.
Always, the KFC helper repeats the order, adding “original recipe.” I frantically correct into the box “EXTRA CRISPY!!”
“Oh. You want that extra crispy?”
I press my lips together to let not escape what is dying to be free: “No. I want two lesbians, a glass of water and half a doughnut hole…”
This last time, Sabbi & Harland, was different. The order taker informed me that they only had extra crispy in legs but they could give me the rest of my order in Original Recipe, which I don’t like, no offense, because you can sneeze on an O.R. drumstick and the chicken will fly off the bone and stick to a wall 40 feet away.
The gal said that for some reason (poor counting, I’m guessing) they had tons of extra crispy legs left over. Which was fine with me because I LOVE KFC legs. I asked just give me all extra crispy legs. There is an ex-wife joke in there, but it’s not a topic shared over a fast food intercom during the #MeToo Movement. Seeing that I’m getting considerably less chicken, I asked if they could just give me five or six legs to make up the difference.
Mind you, this is 30 minutes before closing. KFC staffer says by biblical canon, they can’t switch from leg, wing, breast and thigh not even if Jesus were coming. It’s nearly 10. Dinner time for me. I crumple and order five extra crispy legs, no biscuit and a mashed potato, no drink (I keep Coke at home). Tired, she responds: “That’ll be $29.86 at the first window, please.”
Un-man-like, I screamed.
I asked if I heard that right because I’ve purchased actual, running automobiles for the price of 10 chicken legs. I spoke with the manager. I was going to point out that what chicken (and I’m guessing it was all extra crispy) the staff didn’t take home for a late-night Orgy of Grease (same title as a 1957 Steve Reeves Hercules movie) the KFC late shift would throw in the garbage. I didn’t point that out because it would have given the manager the straight line of telling me to come back after 10 and check the trash bin.
Fellas. Six bucks? Per midget-chicken wing? I can get an entire fowl at the local Santa Clarita Piggly Wiggly for about six bucks. Already barbecued. I’m not good at math, but I think that comes out to something like 37 legs.
So Sabbi. Col. Sanders. I know times are tough as we head toward the One Brain Cell Dopey Joe Biden/Democrat Party-caused End Of Times Depression. Everything’s costing more.
I ended up driving through nearby Taco Bob Cow No Bueno, open 24 hours, which sells lesbians, water and mini-mini doughnut holes along with “six petite” crunchy tacos. It’s the No. 246 combo. $1.19, limit of two sauces.
Just thought you guys wanted to know. Sincerely, I remain…
John Boston is Earth’s most prolific satirist and a big fan of fried chicken. Visit his site, johnbostonbooks.com, buy something. Most books cost under four chicken legs.