All kfc famous bowls will get you are famous bowels. Ha ha ha ugh.

I suppose it’s no coincidence that “bowl” is also part of a toilet. The slogan should be “one good bowl deserves another” or “from our bowl to yours.” Oh ho, I crack me up.

We might as well toss it all in a blender and make a convenient drink. And do you know anyone who eats like that? People in ads always engulf their food in such unconvincing, often gross ways. They do the same thing with hot dogs* and Snickers Bars. First, they hold it sideways, in a Price is Right inspired position. Then they open their mouths really wide in a “wlahhhhw” fashion and slowly grind down on the thing and pulsate their mouths around while nodding their heads as if to say “oommmm hoommmm!” Who has time for that? I never did that. Even when I was six years old and I always loudly exhaled “ahhhhhhh!” after drinking Coke from of a can I didn’t do that.

*actually, I think the proper way to eat hot dogs is sideways. What I mean is that people hold the things upright, which is sideways from the most efficient way of eating one. Ehhh.

In the rare instance people not from the 1970s are shown eating the titular product (”Kentucky Fried Chicken”), they’re always holding it at opposite ends the way nobody does and smiling kookily even though it’d be impossible to take a satisfying bite out of with such a weak grasp. If you tried you’d drop it. I just thought I’d mention that.

I realize that in the making of ads like these people typically have to pretend to eat continuously throughout a day of filming because… they’re obviously really bad at making it look natural and so require a lot of takes. And yet we still end up with this as a final product. I forgot what my point was. Which is good, because it was a counter-point to what I was already saying. I face quite enough doubt already without adding my own.

There’s always room for doubt! I’ll see you shown!

But ehhh, I’m tired of KFC scheming up new ways to trick me into buying things from it other than what its name is. If there actually was a KFC within fifty miles of here, I’d make this well known. Get it: I don’t want your “sides!” I don’t want smaller pieces of chicken! I don’t want more paper and cardboard junk to throw away! This last point is alarmingly and increasingly prevalent among many food servicers. I can’t figure it out. I went to Target, recently, in search of the green Chex Mix, the primary reason I go to Target. It was not present.

There was CHOCOLATE Chex Mix, though, and a pleasant space where the green Chex Mix should have been. Because what better complements a salty savory snack than chocolate? I’m surprised KFC doesn’t put that in the famous bowls. While there are chocolate covered pretzels, I never seem to find them in my mouth.

And when I say “green chex mix” I mean the “hot m spicy” variety, not apple cinnamon, which is also much more ridiculous and much easier to locate.

What I did purchase found itself wrapped in two plastic bags at the buying counter while my attention was diverted by enormous scary monochromatic people painted on the wall. Quite a devious tactic, I must say.

I don’t even know what to do with one bag, and now I have two!

And no, the suggestions printed on the bags concerning what to do with the bags don’t help. If it was up to me, I would have figured you out you wouldn’t be trying to give me plastic bags. In conclusion, Target without good Chex Mix is Wal Mart, and I don’t need to travel to Old Saybrook or wherever to find one. Also, this.

KFC Famous Bowls are like Hungry Man dinners without the organizational skills

…I typed out of apparent whimsy a few weeks ago. Yesterday, I discovered that not only did I lump all parts of a Hungry Man’s smorgasbord together into one section, I also prepared it beside chicken meat-like-products. Not pictured: the leftover Wendy’s salt packlet I emptied in the vicinity of food-stuffs that were already 80% sodium. There’s probably more nutrition in the oven mitten. How have I survived this long?

And before you go home tonight from the grocery store trip reading this has no doubt inspired thinking that I, Quilfip Unidar Earvanbib Glinkob II can only eat two Jose Ole (great food with an accent!) brand taquitos, I should inform you that they come 15 to a box and of the items you see before you those are the only ones my sister also will eat so I hate to hog them. I can’t imagine what she finds off-putting about the rest of it.

This reminds me:
For years, in various supermarkets I’ve seen Hungry Man frozen bad dinners and Hungry Jack frozen bad breakfasts.I wondered quasi-recently, what precisely is the difference between Hungry Man and Hungry Jack? At this time I have but a theory.
Jack gets so hungry at night that he forgets his own name. He is now just a man. A hungry man. Jack has become a meat-eating beast with no identity. What does he hunger for? I don’t know what it is, but it’s inside a thin cardboard box and can stay there for years without spoiling. Jack’s affliction doesn’t… afflict me; I only eat good frozen rubbish.

I always make sure in advance that it’s at least approachable.

Ehhh, I’ve seen enough.

Although I confess, I’m intrigued, I’m simply too busy at the moment. Tell Kid Vid I said hello. Liars.

Concerning NEMITZ.

The remarkably uninspiring true story of how a badly drawn yellow and red animal exposed Valerie Plame and fired numerous U.S. attorneys out of spite and felt no regret or remorse, but plenty of regurgitation. Half reckless self-indulgence, half painful self-digestion, leaving me less of a person than I was when I began. All for you! This has been mostly done for days, now, but nemitz’s lawyers kept making me go back and change things, which has kept more than a few, I would think, more important things from getting done.

I think exceptions to this rule ought to be made if the fire is on the stairs. As for the the apparently casual pace of our victim here, you’d hesitate too if the stairs had not yet been completed and your only option appeared to be to reach for some E. One must maintain one’s composure in an emergency.

Well, I’m not, so I didn’t. Not that I would have anyway, but I definitely could not have, even if I’d wanted to. Which I wouldn’t have. Shut up!

That’s some niche marketing, right there. I was 18, for about a year, but that was a while ago. I was 18 years old, that is, what, I mean to say. It occurs to me that age is not specified. This mysterious solicitor, who I presume is hiring and training folks to jump into volcanoes, may be seeking groups of people numbering exactly 18, using the internet together, as a team, which to me seems an even stricter demographic. Though the handlers at a school I once attended seemed confident in their belief that two students could “share” a computer (in my situation, using the Age of Empires II demo), I have to think even they would not recommend numbers exceeding five.

Awk, you might as well share a flute. Which reminds me:

Do not share a flute.

I had some Chicken McNuggets recently, for the first time in over ten years, I reckon.
I thought they’d have matured over the years (Which is not to imply these nuggets themselves were ten years old, but I wouldn’t have put it past them), I thought they’d be different, given all that “now made with white meat!” bit McDonald was going on so much about a few years back, and right now, still. But I was mcstaken. The ‘gets* were exactly as I remembered them being. The same unpleasant skin-like breading process, the same empty taste, the same mc. A person known only as Yamamanama insists the taste is styrofoam, but considering that I ate ten of them I don’t want to think about that at the moment. The only thing perceivably different to me about the nuggets was the packaging, which more resembled the style of the Burger King chicken nuggettender box. Hey, why isn’t there a Burger King around here? I’d much rather go there than McDonald’s. And why do I suddenly have a desire to coat these nuggets with a fine layer of Morton brand salt?

*A popular rumor from the ’80s states that in America… there are no ‘gets, which I still don’t understand the pervasiveness of

If you were (or are, I suppose, but I doubt it) a woman, would you trust a man known only as Slick for any reason? In any decade since the 1950s?
And that nicely awning’d doorway with “boutique” printed across it… you can’t even go in that way.

Slick, wisely, perhaps, doesn’t want anyone seeing what goes on in there. While I can confirm this is not the structure I saw the clown fortified light shield within, I predict acts no less sinister than those of clowns are carried on up the stairs, second store on left.

I bet she’s a clown, too. The whole clan ought to be locked up.

Or don’t. Fine. It’s not my problem. I’m perfectly well being ware on my own. Stupid animal. Like I wanted your company.

If you’re going to try and be fancy by purchasing stained-glass-ish lampshades, the ones with clowns on them might not be your best bet. Especially clowns who, judging from the cartoon stench lines, have no respect for the sterility of an eating environment. And this was no accident. That’s one proud clown, quite regardless of the fact that even the most noble clown has nothing to be proud of. I’d close the window blinds if I had any idea how they worked. The blinds on the wall can be left as they are.