Fried chicken

I get in front of mics and speak to modest audiences on a fairly regular basis. There is not one gig I’ve ever completed after which an intense craving for fried chicken has not taken over me. Almost any dream will do: Chicken Cottage, Morley’s, Dixy, Perfect Fried Chicken, and any insertion of a southern American state or place that isn’t Kentucky before Fried Chicken.

I’ve got a theory that something lurks deep within the amino acids of less-than-premium quality poultry, that having chemically-reacted with breadcrumbs, seasoning and fat, provides the only known medicine to the phenomenon known as ‘performance come-down.’ This bit has just been heavyweight biology and mathematics, no need to worry at all if it went over your head, reader.

KFC itself, for whatever reason, never has even half the appeal of the down-and-dirty establishment staffed by a sole, extremely tired and a bit frightened-looking, employee. Perhaps in the unique circumstances of the night time mic-crawler’s wild-eyed feast it’s the fear we share that’s the not-colonel’s magic ingredient.

Whatever the reason; dirty fried chicken soothes nerves, and provides a meaty pat on the back satisfying enough to overcome any prior audience reaction. Less fried chicken, more friend chicken. This dead bird likes my material at least, you might mumble to yourself, inspiring a little more fear in the sole employee.

You munch on; gnaw the bones and walk towards transport, wondering how much oil on your face is socially acceptable, but knowing you can face cruel public opinion once again some other night.

Read these words and know truth.

Dirty fried chicken (everyday scenario): 6/10

Dirty fried chicken (post-performance): 10/10

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