News Flash: If Kristen declares herself her own President, than I am now a faith-based organization and will accept federal assistance. (yeah, I stole that line, but it’s still funny.)

I was reminiscing this weekend with the Significant Other, about an incident last September. It was on our way to my beautiful college roommate, Julie’s, wedding. It concerns chicken. It concerns the ghetto. It concerns: KFC. Kind of.

(Incidentally KFC: Called so because they thought continuing to use the full name, Kentucky Fried Chicken, gave it a bad connotation. Everyone knows fried foods are bad for you.) When the Significant Other and I were desperately trying to find the town of Watchung Hills, NJ for Jule’s bizarre Christian/Contemporary Catholic/Philipino/Italian Mafia/Pinky Ring, yet surprisingly a ton of fun, wedding, we saw an establishment that had a very familiar red and white sign. We didn’t need a phone, weren’t really hungry, but the catch was this- we were struggling to find the Days Inn we were staying at, since it was a good 20 or 25 minutes from Watchung (anyone familiar with South Plainfield? God knows Sig. Other and I had no clue.) So, we had found the church, but hadn’t found the hotel. And we were running out of time to get dressed and ready. So, we were going to stop and get dressed in the restroom of KFC. Or so we thought.

On second look, the neighborhood was not a good one to stop and get dressed for a wedding in. On third look, we realized we were not at a KFC.

We were at a KENNEDY Fried Chicken. Same logos, same sign. Dissimilar boarded-up windows, but how were we to know? Kennedy Fried Chicken. What a hoot. I wish to god we had gotten a picture of that. If anyone is ever near or around the township of Watchung Hills or South Plainfield, let me know and I’ll try to remember where it is.


Yesterday was my day off, and it should not have involved idiots. I really, really wanted an idiot-free day. For the most part, I bring enough stupidity to my own life without having to rely on others. But dammit.

Wal Mart is the bane of my existence.

It serves me right for even thinking it would be okay to step foot into that hellhole. I try to avoid that place like the plague, it sells shoddy merchandise and they have 8 year old Peruvians making half of it. But that’s hypocritical, if everyone thought of every store like that, you wouldn’t be able to shop anywhere for contact solution and Tupperware products. They do censor their CD’s, though. I don’t know if that’s so forgivable. But I digress.

The closest Wal Mart is about 15 minutes or so from my house, not a big deal, but it’s in a huge strip mall, and malls in general creep me out. I get some kind of weird claustrophobia. Maybe it’s the re-circulating air. So I go, I shop, and I stand in line for 40 MINUTES because there are only 5 REGISTERS OPEN and 2,740 people shopping. And, of course, every person has to buy something that needs a price check. So, aI’m practically crying with relief by the time I get out of there. Stupid me, I don’t bother to check my bag until I get home, where I discover I am MISSING half the things I bought. No Big Red. No light bulbs. No papertowels. No contact solution. (The toilet paper, soap, extension cord, and chapstick were all in there, though.) So, this means I have to DRIVE back, argue with the Customer Service guy for 20 minutes because he doesn’t believe I bought these things, even with my receipt (which really proves nothing, I know.) The lady at the register I bought the stuff at (we’ll call her Karleen, because that was really her name) has gotten off work already. Probably taking my light bulbs with her.

On a brighter note, my new beta fish, Husefell, survived the weekend in my too cold house. Yeah, I know fish are stupid, but I take my victories where I can get them. Also, Temptation Island will be back on this week. Sexy sexy sexy. Good God.

0 Responses to “abraham”

Comments are currently closed.