Revenge of the Chickens
I don’t know about the rest of the country, but a Popeye’s chicken sandwich can get you killed in Chicago. That makes me want to try one. That must be one delicious sandwich.
Either that or the Popeye’s chicken sandwich has been cursed by the devil! Which also intrigues me. The only reason I haven't tried one yet is I am saving my first succulent bite for an awful day.
One day, in the future, when I’m super sad, crying, and snotting on myself, I’m gonna blubber out the words, “Go time! I’m gonna get a Popeye’s chicken sandwich!”
I’ll walk right up to the drive-through window and whisper my order, so people who kill for Popeye’s chicken sandwiches don’t hear me. And I’ll eat my feelings and slurp up that fried chicken, and I will be joyous until the heartburn comes upon me.
I used to eat Italian Beef Sandwiches when someone died. It wasn’t intentional, but my subconscious always found the beef. I’d be wandering around mourning, and I’d see a sign for an Italian Beef.
Not a hard sign to spot in Chicago, home of the beer belly. Settle down, Milwaukee. There can be two homes of the beer belly. Man, cities can be so petty.
Anywho, that brings me to the chicken killing factory my grandma brought me to. It was on one lazy Pelican Rapids, Minnesota, afternoon. My grandma, who wasn’t chock full of empathy, took me to a chicken slaughtering factory—just a little outing among the girls.
The chicken slaughtering factory was nasty. This was before the free-range, vegan fed, my pet chicken coop days we live in now. These were the days that the best a chicken could hope for was a sharp guillotine.
The slaughter guides were dressed in bloody paper, bibs and wore shower caps speckled with chicken remains. The guides smiled as they led us from chicken decapitation to headless chicken conveyor belts to chicken part smoothie makers. It was distressing. Grandma kept looking down at me, grinning.
This brings me back to Popeye’s chicken sandwich. Chickens are not the beloved Labradoodles of humankind. Sure, occasionally, we make them a coop in the backyard and eat their children, but that’s as good as it gets.
My working theory is the chickens are getting their revenge. They’re starting with making Popeye’s chicken sandwiches so delicious we would kill for them. So, what’s next?A 20 piece bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken that only comes with 18 pieces? I’m just saying, be careful out there. We’ve been treating chicken like shit, and they’re coming for us, one breast at a time.