Captain James T. Pork here, commander of -- christ, I'm not the commander of anything! But I do love a fine fried chicken. Lord knows I've traveled all over the place searching for the best fried chicken. These are the tales of my voyages.
It was a sultry summer evening and I wanted pizza. No, just kidding, I wanted fried chicken. I was in Harlem, where people like their fried chicken. I stopped in at United Fried Chicken on Lenox for some fried chicken. In past chronicles you may have read commentaries on their fried fish sandwich. I will leave discussion of those matters to others, though, for I claim to be an expert of only one thing.
The fried chicken at United Fried was respectable. There was a good crust and the meat was well-salted. I sat outside and ate my fried chicken and noticed some strange-looking life forms who seemed not to be from this planet. They looked suspicious so I cautiously approached, thinking I would capture them and learn of their intents. It was possible they wanted to cause some harm, or perhaps even sabotage United Fried Chicken. I jumped out from the shadows and quickly tied them to a street sign. After some questioning I learned they were just tourists from Ohio. "Ahem, never can be too careful these days!" I said, and offered them some tips on where to get good fried chicken. They were rather gracious about the mix-up and we parted good friends.
Just another evening of fried chicken and curious new encounters. These are the voyages of James T. Pork.