Like all decent, hardworking Americans, I enjoy going to church every Sunday. And why shouldn't I? After all, Church contains the three vital components of what it means to be a member of this great country: sitting quietly, feeling shame, and being fed small wafers by a senior citizen. The ol' priest-hole is where I reflect myself like the largest and most beautiful rhinestone in front of our Lord, but it's the post-Church meal that I have come to value even more than my usual pre-service ritual where I tell the congregation who I think is a homosexual. Say what you want, but I think little Jimmy Woodruff's pants are just a little too tight for him to
be a limp-wristed daisy-puller. He may be eight, but if you crack open that little sequined purse he carries around with him, dollars to donuts you'll find original cast recordings of Broadway hits from Jew York City.
As I was saying, though, it's these post-Church meals where I can really unwind and tell my family what I think of them, and nothing's better to a good ol' boy like me than a bunch of fried chicken while I make fun of my wife's diabetes. But this has been a damn-near impossibility. Chik-Fil-A, the only chicken restaurant to not give me trichinosis, sees fit to close its doors every Sunday because of the Lord, the very same Lord that gives me reason to pull my hair into a very special ponytail and also to not whip my kids with anything stronger than an extension cord. I remember a particularly hot Sunday morning, walking up to those Chik-Fil-A doors, seeing the "closed" sign, and my mind immediately filled with nightmare visions. I wanted everyone to be sick, flesh to rot from bone, worldwide suffering, giant sandworms, and rivers of blood to clean the streets of sinners and oil stains. Thoughts of stockpiling weapons and storming the White House crossed my mind, but my militia meeting is every Tuesday and - let's face it - those guys aren't the strongest ropes on the lynching tree. These repeated maddening experiences are why I, Charles "Chuck" Mannwich, along with Dumpster brand waste disposal units (the official waste disposal units of Chik-Fil-A) have brought Chicken Sunday - the only chicken-exclusive restaurant open on Sundays - to your town!
Can you guess how many toddlers were once buried under these floorboards? Here's a hint- it rhymes with "matey!"The first thing you may ask when you get to one of our restaurants is, "Are we at Chicken Sunday, or that shack I saw on the news where all of those homeless people's body parts were made into a terrifying Lincoln Log set?" The answer is "Yes." We at Chicken Sunday aren't partial to the style of today's "modern" fast fooderies- what with their buzzing fluorescent lights, air conditioning, electricity, and road access. In order to provide a little of that Southern rustic charm that has been missing from places like KFC ever since they got rid of their segregated tables, every Chicken Sunday locale has been purchased at an incredibly low price from police auctions. And, thanks to the atrocities that have once taken place in these abandoned hovels, you'll find us affordable, not to mention memorable. While we try to renovate our Chicken Sunday locations as much as possible, we do leave a few curiosities here and there for your entertainment and - more importantly - your morality. For example, seeing the word "whore" written in blood and entrails on the ceiling may be a good conversation-starter, but it also teaches a valuable lesson: don't tart yourself up or someone will write "whore" on the ceiling of a wood shed with your blood and entrails. If you're partial to decapitations, 10 of our locations in Alabama alone have been the scenes of numerous head-choppings, all deserved in one way or another. After all, if the Lord doesn't stop someone from slicing you up, he's probably got one hell of a bone to pick with you. Just like The Weatherman Slayings that took place in our Montgomery location - a prime example of His work.
If you prefer your entertainment to be less grisly, we have a saying here at Chicken Sunday: "Too bad." If it's Sunday and you're eating chicken, you're going to be at Chicken Sunday!
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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