Do Vegetarians Taste Like Chicken?

One from the archives. First published in 2003

A Note from Dubious Wisdom:

Occasionally I like to look back at some of the stuff I wrote when I was younger. Since I’ve got over 30 years worth of columns in the archive, it’s a pretty good glimpse of what I was thinking, and how I was thinking, as a younger guy.

Sometimes I shake my head . . . but sometimes I get a laugh. This one, from 2003, still cracks me up. Enjoy

Being a Southern boy, I like chicken. I like it baked or broiled or broasted or barbecued. It's hard to beat a mess of fowl that's been soaked in buttermilk, rolled in corn meal and dunked in the deep fryer. I've never been quite certain whether or not chicken prepared in this manner really tastes like chicken - you could probably batter-fry the backseat of a Chevy and receive a similar gustatory sensation -- but that's beside the point.

Chicken tastes like chicken, which tastes like fish, which tastes like gator, which tastes like bull-frog, which tastes like snake, which tastes like rabbit, which tastes like the aforementioned rear cushion of a 68' Impala. The Fry Daddy is an equal opportunity appliance. If you really want to mess people up when eating chicken, take a big bite and loudly exclaim "ummm..ummm. Tastes like bull-frog."

I'm partial to the skin of the chicken, which is where the health giving nutrients inherent to a heavy batter are located. I'm particularly partial to the skin if it's of the "Extra Crispy" variety. The invention of "Extra Crispy" is the reason that I place the late Colonel Harlan Sanders, founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken, on the same pedestal with such visionaries and humanitarians as Henry Ford, Mother Teresa and Rush Limbaugh. Some folks went weepy when Princess Diana shed this mortal coil. Others rent their clothes when John John Kennedy splashed into the Atlantic. Millions mourned because Elvis got all drugged-up and fell off the toilet.

Me . . . I shed a tear when Colonel Sanders went to that big ol' red and white revolving bucket in the sky. That's why I'm offended, on a spiritual level, that the fine culinary institution which bears the Colonel's name and visage is under attack by the heinous miscreants known as People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals.

PETA is launching a boycott against KFC's parent company (Yum Brands of Louisville, Ky., and no, I didn't make up that name) with allegations of animal-rights abuses. PETA is whining that KFC chickens don't have nice living quarters (no maids...no satellite dish) and are sent to their reward in a barbarous manner.

Since PETA people consider the mere consumption of a critter an animal-rights abuse, I put little faith in their claims. Instead, I will side with Yum Brands, as they have a stellar track record in regard to gastronomic principle.

Along with KFC, the company owns Pizza Hut, Taco Bell and Long John Silver. These are all fine firms, but I'm particularly fond of the latter, assuming of course that they still give out flimsy paper pirate hats and eye patches. One cannot help but enjoy a blood-thirsty buccaneer motif while eating deep-sea denizens prepared in boiling oil. Personally, I revel in donning such apparel and yelling "Arrrrrgh...Ahoy Matey" at highly inappropriate times. This may explain why I don't have a lot of second dates.

PETA folks though . . . they're a soy and tofu, "bless the beasts and children" kind of clan with zero regard for pirate costumes or the blessed memory of kindly old Southern Colonels. They don't like to chow down on anything with a face, and right there is a sign of severe mental dysfunction.

They pretend to be concerned about the "rights" of all living things, which is pretty funny since it was recently reported that the group publicly gives money to domestic terrorist organizations such as the Earth Liberation Front. I really respect an outfit which places the entitlements of moles, rats, possums, crabs, tapeworms and barnyard birds above those of humans who could well be burned alive when the ELF crowd torches their mountain-side condo.

PETA is largely supported by Hollywood celebrities and Democratic sympathizers. Since these sub-cultures are usually of a pacifist mindset, it only makes sense that they would advocate giving Foghorn Leghorn the right to vote, buy beer and receive government subsidized tattoo removal. Their commonalties with chickens are readily apparent, once again proving the old adage that "it takes one to know one."

Because of this insidious boycott against the legacy of the Colonel, I plan on eating at KFC as often as possible. They offer a dandy buffet for about seven bucks. It features not only all the batter-fried chicken skin you can swallow, but also their famous mashed taters, gravy and a host of other epicurean delights. PETA's rationale that KFC's "crude and ineffective electric stunning and throat-slitting of chickens" is inhumane will only lead me to order more Extra Crispy.

Frankly, that electric stunning bit strikes me as an awful lot of unnecessary work. When I was a kid we would just slap Henny Penny on a stump and whack her head off with a hatchet. It's fairly interesting work, as the decapitated fowl nearly always makes a mad, spurting, flapping dash of 30 or 40 feet before succumbing to the noggin-ectomy procedure.

Nature is a teacher, and the lesson learned from acephalous poultry is that you really don't need a brain to run around like a dang-fool idiot making a spectacle of yourself.

I'm certain the PETA people can relate.