I thought I'd seen a lot in my 24 years old this planet. Some shocking things. Startling things. Things that've given me a home, then taken it right away. But I've never seen anything like this: the Popeyes Dip'n Chick'n. Revolution.
Do we know how Popeyes forms each nugget into a scoop form? No. Do we want to know? Absolutely not. Perhaps some kind of hydraulic press. But whatever form of unholy poultry alchemy is at work here, I am on my knees in admiration. Literally, collapsed to my knees, struggling to type right -- now.
What use does man have for Christianity? Popeyes and its parent company are man's true savior. We're now spared—spared from the toil of dipping inaccurately, sauce sliding off our nugget like some crude oil spill. Now the dip will sit where it belongs—atop the nugget, like a crown on the head of King Henry. What's next? I can only hope the tide of food and technology will crash into a chicken singularity, whereupon grease and fried chicken skin will be injected directly into my spine via some sort of cyborg feeding tube. Until then, I await my Dip'n Chick'n, served with Blackened Ranch Dipping Sauce, Cajun Fries, and a Biscuit, for £2.50. [FoodBeast]