Never again, Wendy's $1 Chicken Sandwich. My roommate for this weekend's conference (which I'll write about when I'm not half-dead) and I are utterly slayed by the bacteria you surreptitiously slid down our throats at the pit stop home. I should have known when it took eight people 15 minutes to bring our meal.
Oblivious, I trotted to a free outdoor concert, thinking I'd get in at least 3 hours of real weekend. But you, $1 Crispy Chicken, you had other plans. I ALMOST made it till the Flaming Lips, but ended up barfing in the bushes, locked out of nearby buildings, just as they took the stage. I could have seen one of the "top 50 bands to see before you die" but instead I had to sneak into a dormitory to rinse off my sleeves and shoes, looking to any observer like a vagrant drug addict with my smelly clothes and red, watery eyes.
Let's not forget who's the real culprit here... it's not Wendy's. Billions of people eat there every day. No, the troublemaker is the same as ever, only this time more wily. Florida, I don't know how exactly you're to blame on this one but I know you're behind it so don't go thinking you're off the hook. I will find you out, and when I do it's Chicken Sandwich Time for you.
Thank goodness for Jason who took off from all the fun to drive me home while I puked out the door of his car. Brave soul. By 3 am I finally purged myself of all things Wendy's. I'm almost up for food.
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