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My Chic-fil-A Virginity

June 9, 2010

Lunch today consisted of a Spicy Chicken Deluxe with waffle fries and a Dr. Pepper from Chic-fil-A. And while the sandwich was fine and dandy – nothing grand, really, the quality and glowing perception of the staff was of the highest order I have ever witnessed in a fast food restaurant. The girls, most, had pearls in their ears, which only surprises me a little since most Southern ladies will work out with pearls in their ears, and their salutations and thank-yous were more than generous, more than generic. (I can’t at this point remember what that girl said to me. Damn.) It was more than sir and ‘preciate ‘cha, both addresses that I have received in less than 24-hours in Clemson.

The sandwich was a hand-breaded, peanut oil fried boneless chicken that had been seasoned with a special blend of spices with green leaf lettuce, tomatoes, and dill pickle slices between a golden-baked bun. I dunked it in Polynesian Sauce, something more Iowa than Samoan with its high fructose corn syrup base, and Buffalo Sauce. I think I was more impressed with the Dr. Pepper, as if I had been a parent for the last five or so years continually telling myself not to drink soda. Good god, I could not suck it down fast enough.

I say, check it out. It ain’t all bad, and like the Corn Producers commercial on television now says regarding high fructose corn syrup, it’s OK in moderation.

It looks like it is about to drop a tornado on this coffee shop, so I certainly hope this is not my last post.

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