When I received the text from Chesty Morgan that she was going to drive all the way out to Knotts Berry Farm for some fried chicken, I knew I had to come along.

I was knee deep in sweat and dust from ancient boxes I was helping my friend move in Santa Monica. “Dude, I have to go, I have something important to attend to.”

As we were seated in the restaurant’s “dining room” I could only focus on the cringe inducing attire of the waitresses. They must lie awake at night, envying the klassy outfits of the Golden Nugget’s cocktail waitresses.

At the “Chicken Dinner Restaurant”, we felt as if we were being fed by a colony of Sister Wives or something!

Unfortunately, they were all missing those nifty braids!

Before the chicken was to arrive, we guzzled down Boysenberry punch and picked at our soup and salad (apparently, the chef got irrate with some iceberg lettuce, showing his hatred by drowning it (and the lone cherry tomato) in a sea of Thousand Island.

Has anyone ever visited that lovely chain of islands, by the way?

After eating several biscuits (and washing them down with more punch) our chicken arrived!

Unfortunately, there was little room left in our stomachs.

But we gave it the old college try.

I was intrigued how the chicken breasts had become malformed into breaded tennis balls. More anger on the chefs part.

Akin to forcing Chinese women to wear those tiny shoes.

I fear the poor chickies were coerced into wearing torturous Elizabethan braziers. Perhaps with some boysenberry flavored feed.

We noticed the park’s admission was half off after 4:00 p.m. so we decided to stay, ride some rollercoasters and ensure the chicken would make a speedy exit from our bodies.

We were surrounded by…teenagers….it was hard to take.

They outnumbered us. They were all on fancier phones than us.

“Delinquents” Chesty, the future school teacher, muttered ever 30 seconds.

These young rufians also seemed to have a penchant for farting in line.

It was unncessary and cruel.

One adult woman tapped a girl on the shoulder saying “Can you PLEASE stop farting?!”

I watched as one coaster appeared to go faster than the speed of sound!

How does this not kill at least one passenger per trip, I wondered aloud??

I feared Knott’s Berry’s idea of maintenance was nothing more than a few squirts of oil.

I don’t know why I was trepadacious.

Each ride was safely managed by a 100% stoned teen, sending out misspelled texts in between starting and stopping the ride that could potentially kill us.

Fun Fact!

Walter Knott assisted in the creation and popularization of the BOYSENBERRY in the 1930’s and you cannot escape this seductive berry while you are at Knott’s Berry Farm.