Kentucky Fried Girlfriend

Dear KFC,

My name is Peter Valchek. You don’t know me, but I sure as fuck know you.

I have loved your chicken for years. Your chicken is the most beautiful thing I have ever known, and the Colonel does not deserve her. That’s right.

As you probably are aware, I tried to confront the Colonel about this years ago. I approached the matter like a man. I wanted to talk, to reason with him. I know he’s not kind to chicken, he doesn’t respect her. I know chicken is not happy.

I can make chicken happy. I know I can be the man that chicken deserves.

All this I have tried to tell the Colonel. I have written letters, I have called, I have even used the email. Nothing. No response. I don’t know if he just refuses to listen, or if he is knows I am right and won’t admit it. He won’t even meet with me face to face, like a man, so we can deal with this once and for all. I had to go through his underlings, some guy named Elroy in a red tee shirt.

Elroy didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. How convenient for you.


I have moved on. It wasn’t easy, but I found other ways to satisfy my need for the Colonel’s chicken.

I bought my own.

That’s right, KFC. Check mate.

For a while, I had my own chicken. I bought her from a real life farm, it took me all day to get to it and get back home again, but I did it. I called her Ronda and she was beautiful. I almost felt like I was cheating on KFC chicken, but she chose to stay with that cruel bastard Colonel, so she’s a lost cause anyway. I can’t help chicken if she doesn’t want to be helped. Ronda and me would go for long walks together. She would eat seeds, and I would give her barbecue sauce. She liked it, and I loved her for it. We talked for hours about the future, about the time when she would grow fat and delicious with barbecue goodness, and we would consummate our love. Time went on, my Ronda grew fatter, and my hunger ached for her.

I had to buy a new deep fryer, one big enough for my new love. It wasn’t cheap. Do you see what you have driven me to? I hope you feel happy with yourselves.

The day came, Ronda was plump and eager for her delicious fate. Full of seed, feed and fat, I gave her a kiss before dropping her in the boiling grease bath. She flapped a lot more than I thought she would, but I guess it was pretty hot. She stopped flapping after a minute or so, and then I just waited. I am not a professional chicken-er, and I didn’t know how long I had to cook Ronda for.

Do you want to guess what happened? Do you?

That’s right, the chicken ended up tasting nothing like KFC. Not one bit! It was terrible. My beautiful Ronda was wasted, all that time, the money I spent and everything – it was a fucking waste of time!

I hate you so much.

of a bitch.

I met a woman. He name is Kelly. She has yellow hair and wears a lot of make-up. She’s pretty. Well, she’s pretty pretty enough, you know. I don’t know a lot of women, but she’s cool. I go to this place and drink beer and eat wings on Wednesday nights and she talks to me then. She works at the place, but that’s not why she talks to me. She doesn’t have to talk to me. She does it because she wants to. I could make her happy. I think she could make me happy too. I have to buy a bigger deep fryer first, but I’m sure I could use the internet and find something cheap on the eBay. My buddy got a car for cheap on eBay, so I could probably find something the right size.

Maybe Kelly will work. Ronda didn’t work, but it was my first time. I’ll do it different this time.

I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I have moved on. You won’t be getting any more letters or phone calls from me. I know I will never get through to the Colonel or to his chicken, that I might as well be yelling at a brick wall. I don’t need this bullshit anymore. I will have Kelly and I will never need KFC again. She will make me happier than chicken ever could, and we will be so happy together.

I will eat her.

I want you to know and remember that all this is because of you. You and your goddamned pride. Your goddamned greed.

Why did you have to keep chicken all for yourself? Why?

You son of a bitch.

Good bye forever,
you cruel fuck.


Peter Valchek.

P.S. Fuck you and die.

Published by bernardsbarnes

Writer. Artist. Performer. A little boy dreaming of the stars.

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