Once I found myself deep in Kentucky. If you have done this yourself you know that whatever you are doing, something special is about to happen. I was in town to DJ a wedding, which is special in its own right that I ever DJ’d a wedding. Anyway, upon arriving in Southern Kentucky, my buddy and I decided we needed to eat, and our options for dinner were either from a gas station or a KFC. KFC won.
At the counter, I ordered a three piece meal:
I saddled up to the counter. “I’ll have the three piece meal.”
“Would you like regional or crispy?” Said with an emotionless expression.
This is your brain, this is your brain in Kentucky. What the hell is regional chicken? My mind is scrolling through the possible options. Maybe this is locally grown chicken? We were in Kentucky, and this was a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Maybe things are done differently here…
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I probably looked very confused.
Blank response: “Regional or crispy?” This time, more annoyed than the first.
Still not grasping what exactly the hell is happening, and not wanting to extend the conversation, I completely gave up.
“Um, what is regional chicken?” I ask during one of my more confused moments of my life.
“O-Regional or crispy?”
“Oh, I will take original.”
Third world country accents are a bitch.