Local loyalty

Chick-Fil-A aside, the colonel has got the finest chicken in the biz. Chick-Fil-A aside, the colonel has got the finest chicken in the biz. His chickens must be fed a special diet making them the Black Angus of the poultry circuit.

Warning: What you are about to read is an excerpt from my warped
childhood. Proceed with caution.

Having grown up with a Popeye's on every corner, I specifically remember my first trip to the K Fry C. I was 8, a finicky eater, and yet shopped in the husky section of Kmart. I was then, and ever shall be a breast man. The Colonel's crispy skin frightened and confused me, but the chicken's skin looked alright. You must remember, this is before the animated colonel, this is when the colonel was a lovable mint julep sipping plantation owner. I got past the creepy visual of Santa Claus dressed as Boss Hog and dug into the mashed potatoes. It was at this moment I experienced my first pre-pubescent orgasm. Dipping the biscuit into the gravy... orgasm numero dos. Now the chicken, I was hesitant, but my earlier experience with the taters ushered me forth. Steaming hot and white as snow I tore the meat from its bone and savored the suculent, juicy meat. At 8 years old, I now knew what love was.
A lot has changed since then. The Colonel is just some lines and some paint, no longer the kid-friendly slave owner he once was. The multitude of chicken places in gas stations and supermarkets have put a dent in its once strong monopoly. And sadly, its juicy chicken... is a little dry now.
The large cut fries are a nice novelty but only when in the mood for a snack, to pass up mashed potatoes and gravy as a side is just plain stupid. Like the chicken, the corn on the cob has dried up too, and their biscuits don't deserve to be compared to a Quaker Rice Cake much less the heavenly Popeyes buttermilk biscuit, but anything topped with KFC's magical gravy ain't half bad.