Please, don't read this post.

You are not ready to read this story. It will disgust you. I am grossed out of my mind just thinking about it. I know apologies in advance seem disingenuous, but I am sorry for what I am about to tell you. The only balm to my straining conscience at this point is the knowledge that you asked for it. Even though you may not have been prepared to reap the fruit of that request, the blame does not lie on my shoulders alone.

One day I was riding with my friend Jeph here in Kalamazoo. His car was in the shop so I was driving him home from work. We passed a gas station that had a sign for
"Chester Fried Chicken" I laughed out loud and started mocking it.
"Come on Jeph!" I said, "Who is going to buy chicken from a gas station?" Several other unlikely shops were brought up. "Welcome to Larry's Mechanic and Cheese shop! A free wheel of Brie with your alignment."










It is amazing how fast life makes hypocrites of us all. The very next day I was going to visit my wife (We were dating at this point.) Between her apartment and mine there was only one stop where food could be purchased without going out of my way. You guessed it...Chester Fried Chicken. I had an ironic chuckle at myself, turned into the gas station, topped off my tank and bought a box of the Chester.

My wife gave me a dubious look when I offered her the box of chicken. "You got this from a gas station?" she said. But it smelled delicious and it was golden brown and so we ate it. It tasted pretty good. I'll say that much. We went out and rented a movie and had just come back to watch it. But now I have to come to the part of the tale that we both know is coming. The part that you don't want to read and I don't want to tell.

It started with my wife. She was having stomach pains and she thought it might be the chicken. I did what I could to comfort her but by that point my own intestines were making balloon animals.
"I think I need to go lie down," she told me.
"Maybe I should go home, babe." I said. At that point I had a decision to make. Should I tempt the fates by trying to drive back to my apartment without having a bowel movement in the driver seat, or should I shame myself by nuclear bombing my wife's apartment (three other girls lived there.) At that point the matter was decided for me when my small intestine made a poodle. My wife went to use the bathroom closest to her room, so that left me with the only other restroom in the apartment. The second bathroom was through Amanda and Stephanie's shared bedroom. I was in a bit of luck as both of them were out shopping, but they were returning soon so I knew I had to be quick.

I will spare you the details of the struggle I had in that tiny restroom, the hollering, the tears, the clenched eyes, the sticking my feet straight out and grabbing the seat with both hands. At any rate it came to an end and that is when the most disgusting fact presented itself.

The smell.

It smelled . . . Delicious.

It smelled exactly the same as when I opened the box. It smelled like hot, fresh, fried chicken. I don't know what kind of Plutonium chicken it was, but my digestive process had no effect on it whatsoever. So I am standing there shocked and I hear the front door to the apartment open. Oh no, Steph and Amanda are home! I did some quick paperwork while they are going over their findings with my wife and I came out just before they entered their room.
"Something smells good." said Amanda. I blushed. "Did you guys cook something?"
"No," I said, head down. "That was me. I just pooped."