Krappy Fubar Chicken

I used to love original recipe KFC. For some reason, I stopped buying the stuff for a while. A few months ago I came back to it, and since then my opinions from each experience have been unanimous: always a disappointment!

Forest Lake:
I tried the Honey BBQ wings, and found that they used hot wings and just poured sauce over them, gooing up everything and dripping all over. Mostly, all over me. Moreover, the batter on the wings was tough, like they'd been made hours before and sat around somewhere. I'm thinking they had.

They used to fix up a lot of them ahead, and let them sit in a hot place until the excess BBQ dripped off and the flavor soaked in. Now those were honey BBQ wings! With that memory still clear, how could anyone eat, much less like, these pitiful offerings?

Wayzata:
Well, maybe a different location and a different menu item: original recipe 2 pieces leg and a biscuit. She reached into a cooler (heater?) and pulled them out. Again it must have been they were cooked hours before, but this time sealed someplace hot and moist, so the batter just oozed off of the chicken. Appetizing, eh? It landed, you guessed it, all over me. I'm messy enough all by myself. I don't need or appreciate the extra help.

Eagan:
OK, maybe still another location and yet another menu item. This time I picked those boneless thingies in a little cardboard holder, original recipe again because memory of long ago overrides sense. Tiny problem: they were going to take 7 minutes to cook, and could I wait? This actually sounded promising: actually fresh and hot this time? What could go wrong? I agreed, paid, and went as directed to their parking lot to wait for them to bring it out. And wait. I tried to be patient, but after a bit I dug out the receipt to see if it had a time stamp on the sale. It did. They were late. A full 14 minutes, in fact. Goodness: I had been patient! I developed an attitude. In fact, I felt so perfectly justified in having developed an attitude, I took that attitude inside with me when I inquired as nicely as that attitude let me if there had been a problem with my order. Two of them conferred, whereupon one of the went to the counter, picked up my box of food where it had been sitting waiting for - who? the tooth fairy? - to bring it out to me. My nice hot fresh chicken had been sitting on their counter, tucked inside a box inside a tightly wrapped plastic bag, steaming in its own juices until - sound familiar? - the coating just sort of oozed off it when I picked a piece up in its little cardboard holder, which, by the way, dripped juice out of its bottom corner. All over me.

They offered no explanation. They had no apology. They just shrugged and handed it over the counter to me and went back to their much more important conversation. I'm not sure what it was about. I don't speak Spanish that well. But it obviously was more important than serving a customer properly. After all, that's just a job.

I'm starting to hope there's a learning curve in there somewhere. One of these days, when I just have my mouth so-o-o-o prepared to wrap itself around some Krappy Fubar Chicken, I'm going to shake myself awake and tell myself: "ARBYS!"