Fried Chicken

First, an AWPC from Friday. This one comes from a black co-worker of mine on his dining experience at Dennys.

E: So I order up some fried chicken and I'm like what the hell is this? I look back in the kitchen and there's a brutha back there. What brutha doesn't know how to cook fried chicken?

Exactly. That is why when I craved some fried chicken today, I drove the extra distance to go to Popeyes on MLK. Every metropolitan area has an MLK and every MLK has a Popeyes. And when a white boy walks into the Popeyes on MLK, no matter what city it is in, the odds are that he is the only white boy in the place. And being that it is Sunday, this white boy in ripped Carharts and faded shirt found himself surrounded by folks in their Sunday best. Which always looks better than the white folks in their Sunday best who insist on using the drive-through. Women were in big, beautiful hats that matched their over-done dresses. Men had on neatly pressed stetsons with their immaculate pin-stripes. Even the minister at the register next to me had a shimmering baby blue silk shirt and shiny silver crucifix on a thick silver chain. The whole scene is rich, warm, and friendly and this is only a freakin' Popeyes! To top the whole thing off with some grand irony, the sound system was pumping some Dr. John,

I been in the right place but it must have been the wrong time
I'd of said the right thing but I must have used the wrong line
I been in the right trip but I must have used the wrong car
My head was in a bad place and I'm wondering what it's good for

My only regret is that I decided not to get a beverage. A grape soda would have really topped off my meal.