Your girlfriend loves her fried chicken more than she loves you, her parents, life, or the limitless freedom to excel and prosper granted to every citizen of this great country.
“Fried chicken beats all that shit,” she likes to say. In fact, right before she rips the lid off of another bucket (which she has no intention of sharing) she says a little prayer of Grace, listing all of the things that she thinks are far less important than a good hot bucket of fried chicken.
“A child’s laughter. Kittens playing with an apple in a baby’s crib. Being asked out by a guy who’s rich. It’s all shit compared to my next bucket of chicken.”
You love this woman and you want her to marry you. You’ve given the girls behind the counter at Kleinfeldts’ Fried Chicken Cabana your engagement ring and you’ve asked them to deposit it at the bottom of the next bucket of chicken your girlfriend orders. You’ll be sitting across from her after she finishes her fifth piece of chicken and finds that shiny diamond ring sparkling up at her from the bottom of the bucket.
You’ll say, “Will you marr—“
Before you can get your proposal out, she’ll smack you across the head with a wing, screaming about how you fucked up her bucket of chicken. Apparently, she likes to keep her buckets pure of foreign objects, no matter how expensive they might be or how deep the love they represent.
“We’re through!” she’ll shout. Then she’ll run through the plate glass window of the Kleinfeldts’ and take off sprinting down the street. The Kleinfeldts’ assistant manager on duty will tell you that you’re gonna have to pay for that window, and that it just wasn’t meant to be for you two.
“But at least you put yourself out there,” he’ll say. “There’s always a chance you’re gonna find out you matter less than a bucket of chicken, and it’ll hurt, but you’ll never know for sure if you don’t take that risk. The window’s 800 dollars.”
Happy Bucket Of Heartbreak Day!