This trip to Chik-Fil-A was different than the others. I had a feeling of purpose - perhaps it was destiny. Days before, on my daily commute i saw a billboard extolling the virtues of Chik-Fil-A's newest submission to the chicken sandwich war, which had raged on between fast food restaurants for decades.
The most recent newcomer prior to this was McDonald's McChicken-squared which was an entire chicken shoved in the ass of a slightly larger chicken. In addition, these chicken's were forced to cohabitate with one another their entire lives knowing all good and well that one would end up shoved up the back end of the other. This desire to be the larger of the pair often drove the chickens to eat and grow up to three times a large as a normal force-fed factory chicken. After their untimely and unsightly demise, they were fried in the tears of baby chickens which were collected as they were passed through a chicken processing plant. McDonalds had tried to appease PITA by collecting baby chicken tears in various other ways, but found them to be less cost effective and thus, completely unfeasible. McDonald's also saw fit to inscribe the names of the two brave chickens who lost their lives for your pseudo-carnal tasting delights on the wrapper in which it is transmited from restaurant to customer.
Chik-Fil-A's new sandwich was not out to take prisoners, but to blow the competition out of the water. On this day, the Cluk-inator was born.
A lightly-yet-brilliantly-battered white-meat chicken breast on a wheat bun which was baked in the oven of Apollo with the wheat of the gods. The chicken meat-stuffs came from the 8 headed chicken-devil of Uclasea known is ClukStaur. This he-she, hermaphroditic, egg-laying beast of a chicken creature had 17 breasts, each weighing approximately the same as a GMC Jimmy. It's talons have been heard miles away as they whistle through the air and tear apart men and women like they were but so many half-cooked gingerbread cookies. The eggs of ClukStaur, upon hatching, are not mini-ClukStaurs, but small yield nuclear bombs capable of leveling 15 city blocks and molesting the outlying land with nuclear fallout. It is best advised that when confronted with the ClukStaur that you adopt a scorched earth policy, or run. Running is preferred.
Overall, the sandwich presented no difference in taste from countless other chicken sandwiches that i have, on many occassions, found fit to consume. I was slightly disconcerted when i discovered a fragment of artillery shell on my second bite, but I was assured by the staff that those were left in or purpose as a monument to those who die in the yearly ClukStaur hunts. I was also told to count myself luckily that i did not bite in to a round of live ammunition, which apparently happens on a fairly regular basis. This sandwich can also be described as a seasonal rarity, as ClukStaur hunts are so costly and deadly for Chick-Fil-A that it can take months to put together a hunting party. Be prepared to sign the waiting list or pay outrageous prices.
Also, it had pickle, which i don't care for.
Bottom Line: Chik-Fil-A's newest sandwich had me wishing for a sandwich devoid of pickle and shrapnel, but the whimsical imagery that this sandwich calls forth combined with the lore and the excitement surrounding the ClukStaur will keep me coming back for years to come. My imagination can scarcely comprehend the (literal) blood, sweat, and (baby chicken) tears that have gone into this sandwich. Bravo, Chik-Fil-A.
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