The mullet toting, flannel wearing bastard brain child of Truett Cathy. Like the Kmart of chicken products.
"The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases.
"For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?" -Douglas Adams
Chick-Fil-A is not the answer to any of these questions. As a matter of fact, the only question Chic-Fil-A is the answer to is where chicken hell is. Let us have an in depth look at the plight of the average consumer when confronted with the decision to eat at this particular establishment.
When one enters a Chic-Fil-A at any given moment there is an average drop in one's IQ of atleast 4 million. This is a number supported by studies conducted by The Bureau of Chicken and Chicken products, a well respected organization that I just made up.The employees are soulless representations of what Intelligence and humanity used to be.
Now on to the 'Food'. Let me be clear. To call the crapitty crap crap that you order off their menu 'Food' is to insult your intelligence as a human being and I just cannot bring myself to do that. Its just wrong. If I were to throw the word food around like that, we might as well start playing the game my mommy taught me 'Drink-everything-under-the-sink ball.' To test a theory of mine, I put a Chic-Fil-A chicken sandwich next to a live hand grenade and presented it to a(live at the time) German shepherd. Long story short, the damn dog killed itself in the most masculin way possible. I think it might've taken its place as number one on my "favorite forms of suicide" list (sorry auto erotic asphyxiation). The animal that was given a choice between death and Chic-Fil-A food decided to die instead of eat. 'Nuff said.
Pinesol tastes like sunshine! Lemony sunshine!
Now on to the only bright ray of sunshine in this otherwise dark and dismal hell of culinary negligence. The waffle fries. The bastards at Chic-Fil-A have managed to produce one of the most delicious forms of fried taters I have had the pleasure of consuming. I can only compare it to getting shot in the head and having the bullet ricochet off of the inside of you skull and kill the tumor you didnt know you had growing on your brain. My only assumption is that they fry potatoes that were grown in the Elysian fields and hand picked by gorgeous supermodels . After they are cradled in the gorgeous bussom of said models thay are then treated to the most advanced lazer-light show ever by none other that Ronnie James Dio. After their tearful goodbyes( and liberal fellatio) they are then flown via magike carpet to whatever bullshit establishment Chic-Fil-A has set up shop in (probably a strip mall) and sold to us, the loyal customer.
This has been a Leashie production.