October 14, 2005

Chick-fil-A It is only with


It is only with great regret, dear reader, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” admit that we occasionally eat so-called fast food. These days, pigging out on such unhealthful victuals is one of society’s great sins. You can cheat on your wife or have copious homosexual love trysts, and no one will think anything of it. But eat a Big Mac, and all of your neighbors will be aghast. O, the horror!

Naturally, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are beacons of physical fitness. We don’t take Bikram yoga classes for nothing—other than for picking up chicks, that is. (And then putting them down.) Given our rigorous physical fitness regimen, it should come as no surprise that our unofficial physical fitness regimen motto is “They’re Our Hot Bodies, and We’ll Do What We Want.”

And what we want, dear reader, at least on occasion, is some fast food. To this end, we head down to the local Chick-fil-A establishment. For those of you blissfully unaware of this feculent franchise (likely because it hasn’t invaded your area yet), Chick-fil-A is a slightly less healthful version of Kentucky Fried Chicken. In short, in order to work there, you need to be deep-fried.

For some unknown reason, we have a hankering for this lousy cuisine every once in a great while. We regret it afterwards, of course, but we have a hankering all the same.

Even so, we must admit that the Chick-fil-A franchise is extremely irksome. Even by Taco Bell standards—which as you well know, is saying something.

For instance, the dutiful workers at this eatery ineluctably fill up our drinks with so much ice that there’s essentially no room for any liquid in the cups. It’s as if we cared more about having a cold drink than having a drink, if you catch our collective drift. It’s as if we asked “Can we have some ice with a small splash of root beer?” And we didn’t.

As if this weren’t bothersome enough, we find the drive-thru window at the local Chick-fil-A simply unbearable. Inevitably, we are caught behind a giant SUV, whose driver appears to be ordering nasty fried food for the entire state of Missouri. Or the Russian army. Accordingly, we must wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait whilst the chuckleheads working the ole’ window grab umpteen deep-fried nuggets for this moron.

But nothing should bother us about Chick-fil-A as much as the food itself. A mere glance at the containers in which the food is served should present ample evidence that this food is slightly more dangerous than arsenic. It’d be better to eat a third rail. You’d be better off having sex with “Magic” Johnson.

You might not enjoy it as much, but you’d be better off.

Posted at October 14, 2005 12:01 AM | TrackBack