Had Kentucky Fried chicken tonight for supper. Chicken, fries, gravy and coleslaw. Maybe not the best chicken, fries, gravy and coleslaw in the world but I fucking love it a couple times a year.
I bought it inside. Drive throughs are for lazy cunts.
After I made my order the woman behind the counter asked, "Would you like a drink with that?"
"I will have a beer," I said thirstily.
"We don't have beer," she informed me.
"How about some medical marijuana then?"
"We don't have that either? Do you want me to call the police?"
"Go ahead. I'll tell them you were trying to sell me some."
911 would have got kick out of that call. "Somebody's trying to score some weed with their chicken at the KFC. Is the ERT busy?"
They have these cool signs for the food they make that make it look like the pop is really fizzy. I would like some fizzy beer signs for my bar.
The Indo-Canadian women cooking in the back kept coming to the front to check me out. This has been going on all my life. I must remind them of Ravi Shankar or something. I do not know what they want from me but if it involves yoga I am waiting for beer yoga before gettting on board that hippy shit wagon.
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