Chicken Salt. Really.

True story.

Two days ago, I filled up the car at the local Shell station.  It’s a real fancy place… new pumps, clean toilets, fried chicken, the works.  I was starving and the chicken looked as good as gas station chicken can look so what the hell, I bought three legs.  The guy rang it all up and asked a question that would forever change my life: Would you like salt or chicken salt? Salt I could see, but chicken salt? 

Chicken salt is very unique in that has only one purpose to its existence, and that is to make chicken more chickenier.  So I said, sure, let’s live a little, I’ll have some chicken salt. The gas station gourmet sprinkled it on and away I went.

I was about a mile down the road when I started having intrusive thoughts, as my shrink would say.  I had to eat that chicken.  So I did.  I took a bite and it was the next best thing to crack, except maybe meth.  The chicken salt had not only made the chicken more chickenier, it was the chickeniest chicken I had ever had in my entire life. It was so chickeney that I wanted to inject the chicken salt crumbs right into an artery but instead I just satisfied my new oral fixation by licking the wrapper instead.

And now I’m a chicken salt junkie, just jonesing for that gas station fried chicken leg. I know it is wrong but I can’t help it; I feel like a priest at band camp. I just can’t get enough.

That’s about it.