KFC in Broken Arrow

“I drive from South Tulsa to go all the way to this location because the way they treat their customers. They treat me better than my family. Both sides. From the manager Debbie who is Hands-On to the help they're always eager to help. Today I requested potato wedges which I have not had decent at a KFC in years and they were absolutely the bomb. Going back tomorrow to load up family size. I drive out of my way to this location because of their hospitality. I'm closest to the KFC in Jenks that closed because they were so rude to the customers. But I gladly drive all the way to this location because of how I'm treated and I watched how they treat other customers. They should use Debbie to train other managers on how to treat customers. Love this place and my son Brickle loves it too!“

“Picture this: The hour is late, a chill-warm breeze has caressed the cement of the evening, reflecting the streetlights like miniature stars upon the cracked concrete. And you, a fool in some regards, have taken it upon yourself to get KFC.

It is a pattern that you oft forget, but nonetheless you find yourself with that delectable finger lickin' good chicken, and you gorge yourself with it. All the whole, the grease coats your hands, a precursor to a battle you are soon to fight.

As the chicken runs its course, exhaustion sets in, and you cozy yourself into bed; perhaps to rewatch an Episode of the Legend of Korra, you think, none the wiser to what the rumbling in your stomach Truly means. When the episode ends, so too has the Walmart closed, leaving you bereft of a safety system you are yet to know you will need.

Exhaustion takes hold, slithering underneath your eyelids and coaxing you to sleep. But that's when it happens again; a rumbling, like the yawn of some violent titan coming to rest upon the innards of your stomach. And with it? Pain. Pain unlike any other, and a deep, inconsolable need.

You would swear that you were flying as you landed yourself upon the toilet, slamming down and expecting some form of relief. But the minutes pass, and you have nothing to show for it. Oh sure, your stomach plays a mighty toil, but there is nothing to leave it, no offering of peace so that you may finally find sleep.

Hours change hands like a slimy salesman is making deals upon your chance at peace, at Nirvana. You have never felt more regretful to have eaten fried chicken in your life. The pain does not leave, your Tums are expired.

It is only as the hour strikes five that the Piper prepares to finish with the Toll, granting you serenity. And as you cry to whatever Gods you can that you will never make the same mistake again, you know in your heart of hearts that you likely will.“