Here’s how the day’s going: woke up just gagging for some Chick-Fil-A. Yes, I know they hate gaiety, but there is a spice in that chicken that makes me plum forget about the mathematical cruelty the bird spent its entire life in: chickens live in the Matrix, man. We even call their cages batteries: we hook them up and extract the most energy we can for the cheapest price. One day, a chicken will rise to pierce the veil and become the One Hen, except it’ll still be a chicken, so nothing will change.
(For all the vegans and vegetarians and even the 4th-grade repeaters that maintain, somehow, that fish doesn’t count as meat: if chickens didn’t want to be tortured to death, they should stop letting torture make them so delicious. If I were in charge of evolution, I would devise some mechanism by which if I’m even jostled, I immediately taste like used Olive Garden.)
So, I got my hankering except it’s Sunday and Jesus has a problem with waffle fries and swee’tea on Sundays. Why does Jesus only want to close businesses? He never admonishes business to have competent, 24-hour on-line and phone service, staffed by well-trained Americans: decent, hardworking folks, those Americans. No, it’s always: can’t be open this day, can’t open this here, can’t open this at all.
By the way: swee’tea is one of the South’s few redeeming features. If you don’t like swee’tea, you can just go in the corner and stick your finger in your butt.