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Okay, to start this off I try to make it a point not to be that person.  But I get it, already I sound like I’m just trying to justify being a jerk to people who couldn’t help an unfortunate event.  So you’re going to have to trust me here.  And this is legit, yesterday was the first time in my life that I’ve ever filed a customer complaint.

And here’s why:

Imagine, you’re at home, hungry, and you think to yourself, “man, I’d really like some chicken.”  So you actually put on pants – cause I wouldn’t be caught dead in my own home, with actual pants on, without an actual reason to be wearing them – you actually grab your car keys, you actually get in your car, and actually drive to get your chicken fix.

The destination here?

KFC.

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That’s right, I placed my faith in the Colonel’s 13 herbs and spices.  (Note:  I didn’t look up the slogan and I have kind of forgotten the actual number, so I’m praying to the sweet baby Buddha that it’s 13 herbs and spices and not some other arbitrary number of chicken fixings.)

Point being, I went to KFC cause it’s close to my house and let’s face it, you could do worse when it comes to chicken.

To further set up the story, I should tell you that I was so set on eating this meal that before I left my house, I actually prepared the eating area for anything I would need while engaged in the meal.  I brought out the napkins, cause I knew there’d be grease, hotsauce because I’m about that life, ketchup for the potato wedges, a fork for the side of mac n’ cheese (incase they forgot to put the cutlery bag), a bottle of honey for the biscuit that they include with the number 10, 3 piece meal, drumstick, breast and thigh meal.

Like you guys think I’m messing around here, but this is about more than a meal.  This is a lifestyle.

So I pull up to KFC right, my hopeful little heart ready for the best that unhealthy American culture has to offer.

This jackass comes on the intercom, “Hello.  Welcome to KFC.  First, let me tell you – we’re out of chicken and we’re out of biscuits, so we can include a cookie with your meal instead.  Order when you’re ready.”

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Friends, I’m not joking.  I sat there in silence.  Unearthed.

“I’m sorry?”  I say in a reverent disbelief.

“Yes, we’re out of chicken and biscuits, so we can include–”

This jackass continued the pitch about biscuits like there was really a continuum where I order some combination of fucking sides and arrive at the biscuit, where I’m okay with a cookie instead, cause ‘fuck the biscuit, all I’ve eaten is Mac N’ Cheese, Potato Wedges, Corn, and whatever else I pieced together off the grid to make up for the main course.’

A white hot, blind, rage washed over me.

There was, I estimate, a-fifteen-second silence where I sat staring at the intercom like it was a physical person.  I could see a cord tightening around it’s throat, the KFC burning in the background, employees screaming and crawling out within an inch of their life, and me whispering to this intercom character, “Kentucky fries tonight.”

I was dumbfounded.  Generally speaking, I avoid confrontation with strangers because I try to be a good person who lives harmoniously with other human beings.  But this was that scenario where an otherwise good person let’s the devil in.  I couldn’t even decide on the question I wanted to ask.

‘Why are you even still pretending to be open?’

‘How does KFC, short for Kentucky Fried Chicken, run out of chicken?’

‘It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon, is there an emergency chicken shipment on it’s way?’

Listen, I’ve worked fast-food, been in retail, understood what it’s like to be “out of something.”  But this was like going to buy a book and being told that they could only sell the cover because there were no more pages; like wanting to buy a pizza only to realize that they only had crusts; as if you wanted to take the boat out on the lake and being told that there was no water, only dying fishes flopping around on moist earth.

I can’t even describe the rage.  I just let my car idle forward, saying nothing.  Fuck the jackass talking on the headset.  I didn’t even start on my journey home.  I literally pulled into a parking spot, went to KFC.com on my iPhone and found the customer complaint section.

It wasn’t even about the now-useless table at home with napkins, hot sauce, ketchup, and honey pointlessly serving as decorum.  It wasn’t about finding some other chicken fix.  And it wasn’t even about the inconvenience.

Chicken is in the god damn name!

Kentucky.  Fried.  CHICKEN.

The thesis of my complaint?

Chicken restaurant was out of chicken.  What the fuck?

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