Damn You, Chick-fil-A’s Dan Cathy

A few weeks ago, it came to light that Chick-fil-A had donated $2 million to anti-gay groups. This is information I could have gone without hearing, and it’s information that, typically, I wouldn’t have because I don’t go seeking it out. I’m not particularly political. I’d enjoy a small government that stays out of my life, doesn’t brutally tax me and is okay with sodomites marrying and women paying professionals to send the wee, unborn babies inside their uteri straight to Heaven if so inclined. Sadly, to have a political party that stands for all of these beliefs is a magical Christmasland wish on my part, so I vote for the Democrats because they at least pay lip service to kid killing, happy homos and corporate controls that stand between us and Wal-Mart turning all Americans into batteries to maximize profits.

Let’s return to the matter of Chick-fil-A, having now established my glorious beliefs (and my equally glorious apathy). I’m a tremendous fan of the Chick-fil-A product, even if it’s a pain in the ass having to look up the company’s spelling every time I write about it. Their basic chicken sandwich is cheap, delicious and contains enough fat and sugar to spike my dopamine levels higher than anything outside of Internet pornography.

So when president and COO Dan Cathy came out saying he defined marriage as a man sticking his dork inside a woman’s tuna and that “[We invite] God’s judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at him and say we know better…as to what constitutes a marriage,” I was displeased, to say the least. I’m mature enough to realize most companies I purchase products from power their furnaces with puppies and their Anglo-Saxon CEOs would view my Greek ass coming home with their daughter like this.

That’s fine. Costco can secretly fund a network of free breast reduction clinics. Target can donate to the Dallas Cowboys. As long as I don’t know about it, what would I care? Do your jobs and quickly and efficiently take my money in exchange for products that will bring me brief glimmers of happiness, you dunces. That’s all I want.

Dan’s loud mouth and belief that I give a shit what he says annoyed me to the point that I will no longer be patronizing Chick-fil-A. (Except for the times I’m really hungry and one’s nearby, in which case, I probably will.) In an attempt to adapt, I tried to recreate the Chick-fil-A experience yesterday with a trip to McDonald’s. A Southern Style Chicken Sandwich in place of my standard filet. Boring, angular fries instead of their delightful waffled counterparts. A milkshake that tasted like it came out the asshole of a snowman with the flu.

The experience was like rebounding from the prom queen with an under-the-bleachers-blowjob from the fat girl in special ed. I haven’t felt that low in a long time, and I still sleep in my childhood bed under a blanket with race cars on it, should you question the volumes that statement speaks. Thanks, Dan Cathy, for opening your fat goddamn yap and robbing me of one of my life’s few joys. Like an elderly, rich husband with a hot, young wife whom he understands needs the occasional outside dick and accepts that as he doesn’t hear about it, CEOs are free to do whatever (legal) stuff they feel they need to in life. Just don’t publicize the fact if it’s something that really bugs me and I like your product, okay?