Why Popeye's Fried Chicken can Knobble my Taint

I walked up to the cashier at my local Popeye's, my hands clutching those eight lucky dollars that would soon purchase me some delicious spicy dark meat fried chicken, all of which was to be dipped, nay, bathed in three full cups of Popeye's succulent Confetti sweet & sour sauce.  A food boner was quickly coming to erection within my tummy, and I could wait no longer.  

"Hi, I would like a two-piece dark meat, spicy, with cole slaw and a medium drink, and three cups of sweet and sour sauce," I said.

"Hi, what do you want?" said the cashier, hanging on my every word.

"A two piece meal, dark meat, spicy, with cole slaw..."

"Two piece meal, ok, white or dark?"

"Dark."

"Regular or spicy?"

"Spicy," my voice patiently rasped.  

"And what side order?"

"Cole slaw," I said, as a vein bulged out of my forehead from sheer calmness.  

"Anything to drink?" the cashier asked, keenly aware of how pleased I was with her service.  

"A medium coke.  And three cups of sweet and sour sauce."

"Ok, that'll be $8.71."

I paid, and after watching two other gentlemen receive the same speedy and attentive service, I received my food.  Even though I knew there's no way Popeye's would ever screw up an order, I took a look in my bag anyway.  

Chicken, check.

Cole slaw, check.

Confetti sauce... um, no.  Honey Mustard sauce?  

Ah, a minor mistake has been made.  

"Ah, excuse me," I say, "I asked for three cups of sweet and sour sauce."

"Sorry, we don't have any," replies the manager.  

My heart sinks.  My food boner, which had long been grinding against the lining of my large intestine, begins to wane.  

"You ran out?" I ask, incredulously.  It's lunchtime on a Saturday, how could they have run out?

"No, we don't carry sweet and sour sauce anymore, ever." 

Emotions, primal and long-forgotten, begin to seep out of the periphery of my psyche.  The food court bends and lurches about me.  Reality starts to twist and warp.  The fried chicken in my bag turns into stars.  Those stars turn into white lines, and leap towards me.  

My rage jumps into Hyperspace.  

I wanted to photoshop these two bears screaming "NOOOOOOOO", but that takes like, time and effort, man...

Does the fast food industry not realize that we (by which I mean real Americans) patronize their establishments not for their food, but for the amazing amalgamation of their food and their condiments? What good are McDonald's fries without McDonald's ketchup?  Wendy's ketchup wouldn't be any sane sort of substitute, just as I wouldn't be caught dead putting Burger King's ketchup on Wendy's fries. Their reply, though?  

"Oh, that sauce that you wanted, nay, absolutely required with your chicken, that you totally asked for before you gave us your money?  Oh, no, we don't have that, and will never have it again."  

You remember that scene in Good Will Hunting, where Robin Williams helps Matt Damon recover by repeated telling him "It's not your fault."?  I want to do that to Popeye's, in reverse, until they're more emotionally fucked up than they just made me.  

"It's your fault, Popeye's."

"It's your fault, Popeye's."

"IT'S YOUR FUCKING FAULT, POPEYE'S!"

Surrursly guys - go fuck yourselves.  I don't want your Honey Mustard sauce, your BBQ sauce, your Buffalo sauce, I WANTED YOUR GODDAMN CONFETTI SAUCE!  YOU KNOW WHY THEY CALL IT CONFETTI SAUCE?  BECAUSE WHEN COMBINED WITH YOUR SPICY DARK MEAT CHICKEN IT'S LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING PARADE IN MY GODDAMN CHICKEN-EATING MOUTH!  

This guy is the first image to come up when you google "angry."  And you know what?  Appropriate.  

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why Popeye's shall not know my business again until they reinstitute their Confetti sauce.  And I suggest you do the same, by which I mean boycott Popeye's until their bring their Confetti sauce back.  Please, even if you don't eat there ever, the next time you pass one (well, actually, go out of your way to find one if necessary), go up to the counter, ask the cashier for some sweet and sour sauce, and when they tell you they don't have any, fart. 

This sign now belongs in all Popeye's.  Print one out and do your fart.

That's right.  Sit your fat ass up on that counter and let rip with the most awesome farts you can.  And then, when the cashier has backed away from your awful, stanky farts, proudly yell in their stupid face: 

"GREAT CHANKERY STANKERY SENT ME, AS HE SENDS ALL GOOD MEN, TO TELL YOU TO RETURN TO US YOUR CONFETTI SAUCE, OR WE SHALL FART INSIDE TEN POPEYE'S EACH WEEK UNTIL OUR DEMANDS ARE MET!"

You heard me.  Fly, my pretties, fly.  

Keep it Stankin'