KFC Fever
by theycallmetim on March 2, 2008 

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It occurred to me late one night while I was honing my skills in the fine art of underwater basket weaving that KFC had good chicken. I thought of going to the local KFC and partaking of the delicious fried goodness, but the thought came to me that the local KFC only has imitated fried chicken. In order to taste the natural purity, I must go to the source and that means going to the original KFC in Kentucky. I reasoned that fried chicken had to taste better in its home state just as an athletic team plays better in its home field.

Other analogies concurred with this theory. When you make a copy of a piece of paper, the quality of the copy is not as good as the original, and the more copies you make, the greater in quality deficiency. I figured the local KFC in GA is a copy of the original KFC in Kentucky; therefore, the quality of the GA fried chicken cannot be as good as the original. At this point it became apparent to me what I had to do: I must trek to Kentucky and eat the best fried chicken ever made.

After recruiting another guy to come along, I started the 6 hour drive to Corbin, Kentucky (Home of the original KFC) the next day. On the way, my friend asked if I thought anybody had ever driven all the way to Kentucky just to eat fried chicken. I thought my logic that Kentucky had the best fried chicken was obvious, so many people must have thought of it before me. However, when we reached the original KFC, the employees where stupefied that somebody would drive that long just for fried chicken, so I guess I was the first person to ever think of the KFC pilgrimage.

The initially stupefied reaction of the KFC employees eventually turned into amazement, and they embraced me as weary traveler and provided me with all the delicious fried chicken I could eat. They gave me a tee-shirt to commemorate my journey (for $10) and made me a honorary fry cook (at my request). The t-shirt was a must, so I could say, “Been there, done that, and bought the t-shirt.”

Upon my return, most people asked me if the fried chicken was indeed better in its home state. I answered, “Yes, it was indeed more delicious, but like any good pilgrim, I fasted during my 6 hour journey, so I was starving by the time I got there. They could have fed me a shoe, and I would have eaten it and enjoyed it.”

The trip lasted 13 hours: 6 hours to get there, 6 hours to get back, and about an hour to eat and bask in the glory of my achievement. Now, whenever anybody says, “Who would be stupid enough to drive to Kentucky just for
fried chicken,” I can simply reply, “Me.”

The people over at Humor-blogs prefer the other white meat.