Confessions of a finger-lickin’ fool

chicken unhappy

This is me on the walking tour with a chicken. She’s unhappy, because after the tour she suspects I’m going to fry her and eat her. Everyone knows, penguins love chicken.

HOW good is fried chicken? It’s delicious. More importantly, it’ll never leave me.

When I awaken after a big night, smelling like a nightclub floor, with breath that could knock out a football team and looking like the warning label of a cigarette packet, fried chicken is always there.

There’s no awkward morning banter required with fried chicken and it never disappoints.

There’s no rules to follow with fried chicken. No need to wait three days before calling. And it always hands out the right phone number, which is no number because you know it’s always home. And waiting. Just for you.

Sure, it maybe served by disinterested teenagers or jaded adults who missed out on jobs at supposedly more reputable fast food chains. But to them I say: “Don’t you dare be ashamed! Don’t avert your gaze with disinterest and disgrace when you tell me it’ll be a five minute wait for my fries, that you’ve run out of wings or there’s no more potato and gravy. Stand proud you wondrous purveyors of the golden bird! As long as there’s fried chicken, right here you will always have one super-satisfied customer.”

This is my car.

This is my car.

Once in line at a certain store, the gentleman in front of me was told it would be a 43-minute wait for a full roasted

chicken. He huffed and he puffed and then he blew straight out of there devoid of any chicken, and completely unaware that all the fault was his.

The roasted disappointment is an arrogant bird, believing that it can keep people waiting just because it’s healthier. He should’ve switched his order to a bucket of fried brilliance.

As I did and was out of there barely a minute behind him, into my car where I waited the seven minutes for my nuggets and during which time I devoured three pieces.

It’s not just the skin I crave, it’s the full package that completes my fantasy. In my mind, no meal is a proper meal unless you can look down on the bones, grit and assorted remains, and feel that sense of satisfaction that only comes after devouring an entire chicken.

Afterwards I may feel terrible. It happens rarely but, honestly, while I pine for the golden bird especially after a big night, at times of turmoil, or simply just as a Tuesday treat, it doesn’t always dance with joy through my digestive system.

Chicken VW Art Car

And this is the car I’m going to eat for dinner.

Indeed, at times the fried folly flies through me faster than a very fast train through a very short tunnel. Never, however, do I ever blame the chicken, as I know that another satisfying experience is only a nugget, wing or drumstick away.

Also, never quiz me on what chicken salt is or how it’s made or what it’s made of, but please don’t stop pouring it over those crispy chips, turning them into potato perfection.

To those who say that too much fried chicken may kill you, well too much of anything will kill you.

At least if you die by the fried bird, you’ll die happy and your cremated corpse will both smell and taste delicious.

This article first appeared in the Brisbane Courier Mail

Xavier Toby is a writer and comedian.

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His debut non-fiction book, ‘Mining My Own Business’ is available now