Why must one of the best fast-food chains not be available when I need it? That’s just mean and I don’t fucking appreciate it. Every single time I get a craving for something on their menu, I always have to quickly check the calendar to see if they’re open. I really get pissed off when I’m craving a chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-A only to find out it’s Sunday and they’re not fucking open. Why the fuck do you make such good chicken orders, yet not let me buy it? That’s the definition of cruel and inhumane punishment.
The place is more of a cock tease than one girl I was with who gently pulled down my pants and gave me a gentle kiss down there, only to say, “we’ll revisit this tomorrow”. Fuck it all! When I’m able to pitch denim, I really want that itch scratched. I don’t care if the founder gave people a day off to be with their families. There do exist people who must eat seven days a week, and more importantly, there are people who would gladly work because they need the additional money that day would give them. Win, win, no?
I do all my traveling on the weekend. I’ll be driving along, and I’ll see a huge billboard with statues of cows standing on each other saying to “eat mor chikin”. I look at the sign and immediately start craving the chicken. I’m like, “oh yeah, time for some holy goodness” then I drive by and see darkness, and all I need is a fucking tumbleweed to roll on by and the scene would be ripe for an explosion by me. I forget about Chick-fil-A, not because it’s available 71% of the days for me, but because I can only seem to eat from there when someone else buys it, and I just sit there in disgust shoving the food into my oral cavity with only thoughts of lusting for more running through my head.
The worst torture imaginable was with a location I drove by to work a while back. I’d get up early in the morning, and the place was still fucking closed. I’d leave work late because I was part of slave labor, and they’d be closed before I got anywhere near them. I could never seem to get myself one of those delectable chicken sandwiches with the little, hidden present of a single pickle slice tucked away, and I had to drive by that damn place every fucking day. Those pickles are amazing, and it’s such a little touch. It’s like gently sliding off some panties and finding the girl left a little, mini work of art to be cherished by you; I just want to gobble it up.
I’d crash hard Friday nights, and recoup all of Saturday from the torture of work the previous week by not doing much more than lounge around. Then I’d get the craving for chicken strips, and drive my ass down there to see the place empty. Saturday had turned into Sunday, and I had missed my fucking chance. I wasted gas, I wasted my time, and I wasted my damn patience. I’d return more dejected than I typically did from work.
This endless cycle of missing when they’re open drove me insane. The blue balls were murder, and something had to give. I eventually snapped one day, and went to a grocery store and picked up bags and bags of frozen breaded chicken breasts, a huge vat of pickle slices, and more buns than I had at that bachelorette party that one time, crazy night indeed. When I trucked it all back to my place, I just sat my ass down on my futon, turned on some cartoons, and ate, and ate, and ate. When you’re blue balled, you want nothing more than to relieve that pressure, and this was like Boulder Dam rupturing. I fucking loathe Chick-fil-A for being such a god damn tease.