It began, one imagines, as a simple question, posed conspiratorially around a gleaming boardroom conference table in an upper floor of AFC Enterprises headquarters in Sandy Springs, Ga.: Why settle for chicken fingers, when you could have an entire horrifying rheumatoid chicken hand that you grimly rip apart like the antagonist of some grisly fucking torture-porn movie?
Thusly was conceived the Rip'n Chick'n, the first and only mass-produced foodstuff that, should the need ever arise, could function as the business end of a sadly ineffective short-range grappling hook.
The cashier at your local Popeyes gives you a little huh, how 'bout that? smile when you order your Rip'n Chick'n, either because you are the first person to actually order a Rip'n Chick'n at that particular establishment, or because you are the first person to order a Rip'n Chick'n at that particular establishment who was not wearing a hospital gown and a thickly-wrapped head wound when doing so. Rip'n Chick'n is a ridiculous thing to say to anyone, particularly if, as a symptom of your vain and doomed sense of linguistic propriety, you unthinkingly honor those very deeply stupid and needless apostrophes. Rip'n Chick'n. Go ahead and say it. It is ridiculous. I'd like a Rip'n Chick'n, please. Somehow, it becomes marginally more natural-sounding if you swap out that please in favor of a vigorous motherfucker. I'd like a Rip'n Chick'n, motherfucker. That's better. I bet that's how you're supposed to say it. I bet they'll appreciate you doing it the right way.