A Vote for Sanders: Colonel Sanders!
Random Memorandum™ to fried chicken proprietor Colonel Harland "Bernie" Sanders: Delighted to fake your acquaintance, citizen! The exceptionalness
of your poultry bird dinners cannot be overstated! Indeed, methinks your cast-iron
skilletry stands Head & Shoulders® above the the dandruff-flaked lesser-thans
serving weak tea in the stripped malls of America and 'tis high time you “flew
the coop” from this rural London location into a properly franchised
international QSR — “Quick Service Restaurant,” as the marketing dopes would have
it — complete with garish storefronts, apathetic counter staff and
"hard-working" direct-response commercials penned by ham-handed adman
Howard Daft. But before you direct your stablery of chickens ‘cross the pond,
allow me to offer a few suggestions to ensure that fame and fortune follow you:
To begin with, do know that your military ranking is impressive and has great potential for drawering what they call "repeat customers." The same hungry charvers who would blithely walk past an overly enthusiastic "Bernie Sanders," would consider it an honour to dine with the noble Colonel Sanders. Colonel Sanders gets your vote! Brilliantine! Also of concern is the name
“Bedfordshire Fried Chicken.” 'Tis too bloody English, mate, and potentially polarizing for the average cracker. Why not throw a
little “south in their mouth" and adopt a rebel state, like Alabammy or
Kanetucky? Shorthand it, if you like, to KFC. Everybody needs a little KFC, haha!
Also, stir some mystery into the pot! Concoct a “secret recipe” of 10 — no,
11! — “herbs and spices” whilst piquing taste buds with a dopey slogan — “fingered luvin' good" or something of that order — and the birdbrains will line out the bloody door! Lastly, dandify
your sartorial presentation—perhaps a white suit and bolo tie of sorts — and
high-haired ladybirds, their drunk husbands and dimwitted brood will eat out of
your hand. If you think me mad, Bern — sorry, Colonel — you may
dismiss this communiqué. However, as someone who knows something about serving
the citizenry — albeit, sans knife, fork and pre-packaged, moistened
towelette — I'm hopeful you'll see the merits of my thinking and ring me at the
station house for further discussion. Bring a box — no, a bucket! — of fried poultry
bird for the mates. (Original, not extra crispy.) Yours Truly, Constable
Dooley®.
Random Memorandum™ to fried chicken proprietor Colonel Harland "Bernie" Sanders: Delighted to fake your acquaintance, citizen! The exceptionalness
of your poultry bird dinners cannot be overstated! Indeed, methinks your cast-iron
skilletry stands Head & Shoulders® above the the dandruff-flaked lesser-thans
serving weak tea in the stripped malls of America and 'tis high time you “flew
the coop” from this rural London location into a properly franchised
international QSR — “Quick Service Restaurant,” as the marketing dopes would have
it — complete with garish storefronts, apathetic counter staff and
"hard-working" direct-response commercials penned by ham-handed adman
Howard Daft. But before you direct your stablery of chickens ‘cross the pond,
allow me to offer a few suggestions to ensure that fame and fortune follow you:
To begin with, do know that your military ranking is impressive and has great potential for drawering what they call "repeat customers." The same hungry charvers who would blithely walk past an overly enthusiastic "Bernie Sanders," would consider it an honour to dine with the noble Colonel Sanders. Colonel Sanders gets your vote! Brilliantine! Also of concern is the name
“Bedfordshire Fried Chicken.” 'Tis too bloody English, mate, and potentially polarizing for the average cracker. Why not throw a
little “south in their mouth" and adopt a rebel state, like Alabammy or
Kanetucky? Shorthand it, if you like, to KFC. Everybody needs a little KFC, haha!
Also, stir some mystery into the pot! Concoct a “secret recipe” of 10 — no,
11! — “herbs and spices” whilst piquing taste buds with a dopey slogan — “fingered luvin' good" or something of that order — and the birdbrains will line out the bloody door! Lastly, dandify
your sartorial presentation—perhaps a white suit and bolo tie of sorts — and
high-haired ladybirds, their drunk husbands and dimwitted brood will eat out of
your hand. If you think me mad, Bern — sorry, Colonel — you may
dismiss this communiqué. However, as someone who knows something about serving
the citizenry — albeit, sans knife, fork and pre-packaged, moistened
towelette — I'm hopeful you'll see the merits of my thinking and ring me at the
station house for further discussion. Bring a box — no, a bucket! — of fried poultry
bird for the mates. (Original, not extra crispy.) Yours Truly, Constable
Dooley®.