Friday, November 11, 2011

Nectar of the Gods or a Big Barrel Full of Greasy Death? Can't It Be Both?

Recently I have been receiving oral pleasure from a source other than my wife.

And it's fucking great.

It started a couple of weeks ago and I'm pretty sure it's more than a fling.  It was intense the first time.

Heat beating wildly.

Fingernails tearing at flesh.

Bodily fluids staining clothes.

Eyeballs rolling back in ecstasy.

Don't get me wrong.  I still dig my wife's "home cooking."  She has some great recipes.  But they just can't compare to my new obsession.  The real bitch of it is, it was my wife who introduced us.  It's not going to be pretty, I can already tell.  These things never end well.  But life is too fucking short to be bound by self-imposed moral constraints.  Consequences be damned.  If romantic love was a real thing like it's portrayed in the movies I'd say I was in love, but as it stands this is just lust, pure and simple.  I don't want to love; I want to mouth fuck.  All day and all night long, even though I'm pretty sure that prolonged exposure to my new lust will probably only lead to a broken heart and an early grave.  Right now there is only one thing on my mind:

Popeyes Chicken.

If there was a god and he had a heaven then in between all the orgies with beautiful famous people and their pets he would serve buckets of chicken from Popeyes.  With a side of biscuits.  And iced tea.  And occasionally root beer (A&W, not of this Barq's crap).  I mean, goddamn it's good eating.  I can't believe my mouth has been lied to all these years by Colonel Sanders.  I realized some time ago that KFC was fucking balls.  I mean, growing up I really didn't know any better because I came from a small town where there was no alternative.  If you wanted fast food and chicken then you got KFC.  Well, there was Dixie Lee Chicken, but they weren't any better.  For some reason whenever I try to conjure up specific memories of Dixie Lee the only sensation I get is a dry throat.  Weird, right?

KFC was just pure shit though.  But like most people, I kept coming back for more because it tasted so damn good.  I used to love biting into that greasy, disgusting mess of chemically-enhanced muscle and sinew and the Colonel's special herbs and spices.  And I always remember whenever I ate KFC that despite some unspoken, nagging voice in the back of my head I could not overcome my desire for immediate gratification.  I would scarf down as much of that shit as I could and then sit back and relax.  I would usually manage to maintain this strange sense of calm for about half an hour before the inevitable stomach cramps sent me running to the nearest bathroom/sink/closet/my brother Matthew's pillow case to void my bowels of all their contents of the last twelve hours.

Say goodbye to your assholes, kids
And it wasn't like a normal shit.  It was more like violent, explosive evacuation.  It was a wet, sloppy, brown/green mess of slop that shot out into the toilet so violently that I'd invariably get the dreaded "toilet splash back" on my ass.  Besides the fact that they were usually accompanied by very painful cramps, these sorry excuses for bowel movements weren't even satisfying in the conventional sense.  Not like the kind of satisfaction you get from pushing out a solid log of shit.  You know, the kind your sphincter has to expand in order to squeeze around and so solid that it can be touching the water in your toilet bowl and the inside of your large intestine at the same time.  The kind that can clog up your toilet and cause hundreds of dollars in damage to your plumbing if you don't break it up with a crowbar first.  With the KFC shits, you get no sense of accomplishment.  Just an overwhelming sensation of defeat and a wet, burning asshole.

And it would happen every fucking time too.  Every time I would somehow trick myself into thinking that maybe this time it would be OK.  This time my System could handle it and bend it to my will.  But it never worked out like that.  Every time I ate KFC it just brought me more pain and misery and a terrible sweaty night of frequent, uncomfortable trips to the bathroom.

It wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that I discovered there was a way I could eat fried chicken from a fast food restaurant and have it both taste good and not tear my asshole to shreds.  As soon as I moved to go back to school my wife started bugging me about Popeyes.  Naturally I ignored her as I usually ignore most women who aren't talking about giving me a blowjob or how far they can get a banana inserted into various bodily orifices, but then I started getting hungry as we were driving around exploring our new habitat and my survival instincts kicked in and through the haze I could make out a few words:

"Popeyes... chicken.... fantastic... Korea."

I had little to no idea what the hell was going on by that point so I simply veered as hard as I could to the right.  By sheer fate (aided slightly by our GPS) we ended up in the parking lot of Popeyes chicken.  It was like you hear about, with the lights shining down from the heavens and bare-breasted angels singing hymns of praise.  I hurried inside, then remembered the kids were still in the back seat so I ran back to get them before some snoopy cop came along and called Children's Services again (I left the window open a crack for air to get in.  I'm not stupid.  I know kids need air.  And oil changes every 50,000 km).

Now the thing about Popeyes that makes it better than KFC isn't just because the chicken is less greasy.  It isn't just because they have a crispier coating that comes in both normal and spicy.  It isn't just because their servings are bigger.  It isn't just because their combos come not only with fries but also with a biscuit.  I tisn't just because you can order all of their various sides separately and in three different sizes and that every day of the week they have a $3.99 special on one of their mouth watering meal deals.  It's a combination of all of these things and the fact that it didn't make me shit buckets of watery goop for the next four hours after eating it.

Of course the name threw me off at first.  If you're from my generation when you hear "Popeye" the first recollection that pops up in your traumatized brain is images of Robin Williams prancing around for two hours with grossly deformed forearms you can only hope are prosthetics and not the result of years of chronic heroine use.  The cold sweat usually stops when you realize that it was just Williams "acting" in the live action adaptation of the beloved Popeye the Sailor Man cartoons and comics.  I don't think Popeyes Chicken is named after the sailor as I kept looking around to see his squinty-ass mug staring at me and could find no sign of any lame-ass mascots of any kind.  I don't know if Popeye is allowed to sponsor any other products as his last endorsement of candy cigarettes helped inspire an entire generation of kids to take up smoking from the tender age of five.  But the association is somewhat fitting.  Popeye was a (thinly) veiled reference to drug addiction and Popeyes Chicken is as addictive as crack (while only being half as deadly).
Phallic symbol?  No, no, it's just an inanimate object whose shape reminds me  of the human penis

(I don't want to get wildly off track here, but as the hooker said to her John I need to get this shit off my chest.  The connection has probably been made before, but I have to point out how Popeye was a positive spin on substance abuse.  First of all the whole thing about eating spinach and then getting "super powers" was obviously meant to represent whatever drug was popular at the time (I'm guessing LSD).  Without his spinach Popeye felt weak, but as soon as he got his fix, the motherfucker could practically fly.  He would bounce Bruno around like baby even though the asshole was twice his size (so maybe PCPs).  Then there's the pipe he constantly has in his mouth, uhhhhh, crack pipe much?  Then there's his squinty eyes like he's been in an opium den for days on end and can't stand the natural sunlight.  His hideously deformed forearms are obviously meant to draw attention to that part of the anatomy which is often used by heroin users as a place to shoot up (thank you REQUIEM FOR A DREAM).  And then there's his strange speech where he'll constantly be talking and mumbling to himself under his breath and making these weird inarticulate sounds.  You tell me he's not fucking tweaking.)

Fortunately for me there was no sign of that naval jackass around to stare at me while I enjoyed some of the best eats of my life.  And unfortunately for my wife, her "home cooking" (sounds so dirty in quotation marks) just can't stand up by comparison.  I'll still let her cook for me, but from now until the day I die every one of her meals that I eat I will secretly be yearning for Popeyes.  And she makes some good shit.  She made this honey mustard pork tenderloin one time that fucking blew me... away.  It's a good thing she made it before, because now everything she makes I'll enjoy just a little less because deep down inside I know that I could be eating at Popeyes instead.  Every part of my digestive system from my esophagus down -that is to say, all of it- now belongs heart and soul to that too-much-orange-in-their-decor fast food chain and their fucking delicious, crispy chicken.

The problem with experiencing even a taste of nirvana is that everything else seems to get that much duller and insignificant.  The best day of your life just makes the rest of it seem that much shittier.

Some would say that's a fair trade off.



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