Here’s a story to entertain you.
October 3, 2007. That was the last time I ate fast food and the last time I drank a carbonated beverage. The culprits that day were a Wendy’s spicy chicken and a large coke, as good a last meal as possible, I think. Since then, I’ve lost twenty pounds and feel much better about myself.
And then Saturday came along.
It was a normal Saturday–some relaxing, some proof-reading–no big deal. About halfway through the afternoon, however, I started to crave some fried chicken. Now, I haven’t eaten fried chicken since August, so I thought I was due. Problem was, only two places near my house sell the stuff: KFC and the local grocery (where the chicken tastes like deep-fried cardboard). After discussing the possible end of my streak with Shawna, I jumped in the car to grab some KFC.
But I started to feel guilty about a half-mile from my house. By the time I reached the KFC drive-thru, I really hated myself. I really wanted some chicken, though. I needed a solution, and I needed one fast. Lucky for me, I saw a shitty neon sign across the street that said WING STOP. Hmm. Looked like a local place to me, so I pulled out of the drive-thru and crossed the busy street. Two minutes later, I was in line.
And what a line it was. I ended up behind a group of four. There’s was a mother, father, and two teenage girls. Weird thing: one of the girls wasn’t wearing pants. She’d just painted her ass red with the word SWIM painted over it in white. Oh, nevermind. On closer inspection, I learned she was just wearing booty shorts. So I start to listen to this family’s order (I observe, it’s my job), but decide to tune them out once their order crossed the 150 wing mark. Oh, and the dad ordered three beers for himself.
So it was finally my turn. I walked up to the counter and ordered ten hot wings and an order of fries. My total wound up being eight dollars, twice what my total would have been at KFC. I was cool with that, though. It’s a local place, right? I was supporting local business. I paid my tab with something close to a smile on my face.
Then I was told my wait would be twenty minutes. Twenty minutes because I walked in behind a family of three and their resident porn star. Whatever. I was stuck in this now. Might as well deal with it.
So I sat down to wait, and that’s when I noticed Wing Stop boasts Troy Aikman as a national spokesman. National. Fuck. I did walk into a chain.
That’s the exact moment when I started to hate myself. I’d traded a shitty chain that sold exactly what I wanted for a shitty chain that sold a somewhat close approximation. My choice would also cost me an extra twenty minutes. Maybe the wings would be good.
They weren’t. As a matter of fact, each wing was about the size of a baby’s thumb. The fries were the worst I’ve ever had, apparently cooked in lukewarm water before rolled in salt.
So I spent twice what I’d intended for a terrible meal that took twenty minutes longer than I wanted to wait. I didn’t even get to spank the booty shorts girl. I suffered through all of it because I felt guilty about going to KFC for fried chicken.
Guilt, it makes you do stupid things.