Yummy Like Angelina Jolie’s Lips? by khemistry

3Jane’s Deliciously Wicked and Sadly True (well…mostly) Guide to Guys – Part 3 (Or is it 4?)


Ok, so I’m eating at my local KFC and thinking about sex. I know, I know…I’m ALWAYS thinking about sex in one freaky form or another–so why bring the Colonel into this? Well, I believe in Full Disclosure when it comes to confessional sex bloggery. And I’m noticing that–more and more–KFC corporate dogma is down-playing the Colonel’s “old white plantation massa” image. Which I suppose is probably their idea of “sensitivity” and corporate responsibility…or politically-correct business acumen, maybe. But I kinda MISS the OLD colonel.

Ok, I admit it. I’ve fantasized about the colonel.

Does that make me a sick, twisted little girl? Probably. Usually, my KFC sex fantasy (which does NOT involve chickens or grease in any way whatsoever) goes like this: I’ve served one-too-many customers extra crispy when they clearly asked for original. The manager–a short, Quasimodo-like man who drools into the mashed potatoes and wears nipple clamps under his starched KFC manager’s bib–has reported me. When I report for work in the wee hours of the morning (to begin slavishly making the gravy for my KFC masters), Glen Danzig is waiting for me. He is wearing one of those leather S&M slave masks with zippers over the eyes and mouth, but I know it is Danzig because he’s got that big silver skull belt buckle he always wears. And because it’s MY fantasy.

Anyhoo, Danzig is just a messenger boy. He’s got a scroll written on old-fashioned parchment and sealed with the KFC logo and a chicken leg, dripping blood. It commands me, lowly vassal of the KFC Empire, to present myself at the House of Punishment and Occupational Humiliation in Kentucky. Danzig sings “Mother”, then ties me on top of his big, black stallion. I’m wearing my favorite PJ’s (Wonder Woman underroo’s I bought on eBay to replace the pair I’d had since I was 9 and worn to shreds) and my hair is immaculate. We stop on the way at one of those Vietnamese nail salons to get a manicure–but the nail girl doesn’t wear one of those little white surgical masks, because they make me think everybody has bird flu even though I KNOW it’s wrong to think that. The Vietnamese girl is REALLY hot, and we make out after my manicure while Danzig gives me a pretty good shiatsu massage and calls me a “slut” but in a nice way.

When we arrive at the Kentucky House of Punishment and Occupational Humiliation, Danzig carries me inside to meet the Colonel. Which takes place in a blue-green (my fave color) velvet room. And by that I mean the walls, ceiling and floor are upholstered in velvety-soft velvet. I’m left in the room with the Vietnamese girl, who as it turns out isn’t REALLY a nail technician but is in fact a member of an all-grrll punk band that also includes Angelina Jolie and “Papa Don’t Preach”-era Madonna on drums (?). Her name is Purr Ng, and she’s also a surgeon and a fighter pilot for the US Navy, and she’s a princess in Monaco through a really complicated series of pre-nuptial agreements.

Purr licks me clean from head to toe, because (she says) the Colonel has OCD and wants to make sure I’ve been professionally laundered. (Ok, this is NOT a cheap Asian stereotype joke….I already used my allowance for that with the nail tech/bird flu thing, besides it’s MY fantasy so shut up).

When the Colonel comes in, he’s wearing his white Kentucky Colonel clothes, with the little black string tie. His hair is like a perfectly white pillowy cloud, and let me assure you the carpet matches the drapes. After a good, stern talking to (in that cute Foghorn Leghorn southern grandfather voice), the Colonel puts on some Barry White, touches a hidden button and a bed (with white satin sheets and a comforter with a really outrageous thread count) slides out of the wall. It’s covered with chicken grease (I LIED BITCHES!), and we go at it like rutting dogs for a while as Purr Ng snaps polaroids so I can blackmail the Colonel later and be a millionaire and quit my suck-ass job making gravy for fat white people.


Now, as I finish my piece of extra crispy (a breast, natch), I can’t help but overhear these two dorks arguing loudly in the booth next to me:

“…yeah, I guess it’s pretty good,” one guy says. Is he talking about the chicken? I was deep into my fantasy, so I didn’t hear that part.

“No, it’s not just good,” his dork friend says, primly. “It’s super yummy.” Do people actually still use that word? YUMMY? Come on! Like “Yummy, yummy, yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy”?? that always makes me think of swallowing instead of spitting. With all the chicken grease, I’m starting to feel a little sick.

“Yummy, like…uhm…like…” his friend is trying to come up with something yummy enough.

“Yummy like Angelina Jolie’s lips!” The guy yells.

A fat white woman with two little whiny kids looks over at ME, like I’m the one who said it.

“Don’t look at me, honey,” I tell her, “I’ve got Colonel Sander’s in MY tummy.”



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Hair extensions are made from a range of human and synthetic fibers. Synthetic fibers include Kanekalon and Toyokalon*’;

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