Chick-fil-A

Chick-fil-A is wonderful. And I think it's safe to say that everyone (aside from vegetarians and creepy, weirdo vegans) has a deep and profound love for this restaurant.

The original Chick-fil-A sandwich is perfection. And anytime I'm at a function that has a Chick-fil-A Nugget Tray, I make it a gluttonous point to eat enough to cause myself slight discomfort--and it's totally worth it, because they're awesome. There are side items in life I appreciate much more than french fries, but Chick-fil-A Waffle Fries are not only delicious, they're also a modern marvel of culinary engineering. Chick-fil-A Sauce tastes like Divine Creation (though white girls may prefer the Polynesian Sauce). The restaurants are nice enough where you can dine-in and not feel fast-food shame; their employees are at least ten-times more intelligent than the average functionally retarded fast food worker; and they never, ever forget to give your straw in the drive-thru.

And great god almighty, have you had a Chick-fil-A milkshake? Seriously, have you? They're unbelievable.

Undoubtedly, it's hardly a novel or even blog-worthy thing to espouse upon white girls' love (or anyone's for that matter) of Chick-fil-A. But what I have noticed to be truly unique is how white girls justify their love for this restaurant. I've heard way more than one white girl, on way more than one occasion, say something to this effect: "Chick-fil-A is my favorite fast-food restaurant, but it's not REALLY fast-food."

Now, a very important lesson I've learned during 33 years as a human is it's neither wise nor worth the effort to try to comprehend or refute the validity of female logic. So, despite the fact that your meal is presented to you before you can even inhale another breath after stating your order or the fact that you can purchase a Chick-fil-A meal whilst sitting in your automobile, Chick-fil-A isn't REALLY fast food.

If there is an unfortunate aspect of Chick-fil-A (other than the somewhat lackluster, but still delicious, Spicy Chicken Sandwich or the sheer existence of Carrot-Raisin Salad) it would be the hard-to-live-with fact that Chick-fil-A isn't open on Sundays. They say they choose to be closed on Sundays out of respect and recognition for Christianity's Sabbath. And that's a fine, perfectly socially acceptable reason. But I think they have another reason. Everything Chick-fil-A produces (minus that tired-ass ad campaign with the cows) is amazing. And Chick-fil-A knows once you've experienced amazing, it's only natural to want more of it whenever your heart desires. So it is my belief that Chick-fil-A choose to not open on Sundays in order to create a sense of yearning in its patrons. And at the risk of sounding vaguely chauvinistic, I will state my belief that white girls love to yearn.

After all, white girls are human, and I think it's perfectly natural for any human to want what they cannot have. I know I wish I had a nickel for every time I've wanted Chick-fil-A on a Sunday; the end-all, be-all of unattainable cravings.

Now, if you're a white girl and you've read this far and you're currently saying to yourself "I'm a white girl, and I've never yearned for Chick-fil-A--this guy is a jack-ass," allow me to present a hypothetical situation:

You wake up late on a Sunday morning with a powerful hangover. Your head is pounding and it tastes like something died in your mouth, but the wedding reception was such a good time. The bridesmaid dress you wore (it was pretty, but not necessarily what you would have picked out, given the choice) is red-wine-stained and lying in a heap on the floor where you stepped out of it. There was plenty of kick-off-the-uncomfortable-heels-dancing with the girls (likely to songs like "Livin on a Prayer," "Thriller" and of course "Don't Stop Believin") and you have the filthy feet to prove it (for the layperson, this condition is commonly referred to as "Baby WalMart feet"). After a long, hot shower you find solace in your favorite pair of fuzzy socks, comfy pajama pants and that one tattered, slightly over-sized, perfectly broken-in t-shirt. And is there anything on Earth you'd want more at that moment, the perfect companion to fuel your lazy day of recovery, than your favorite Chick-fil-A combo meal and the biggest fucking fountain Diet Coke you've ever seen?

Hell no there isn't.

Unless it's paired with the miraculously-perfect timing of a Julia Roberts movie-marathon on television which, of course, culminates in the powerfully touching "Steel Magnolias."

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