I always go through the same process when I sit down and hurriedly try to write these articles at the last minute before they’re due to the editor. First, what do I have to say? Has anything been deeply impressed on my mind? Then comes the question that has forever been the bane of good writing: what do people want to hear?

I normally choose to express the prior even though it's apparent to me that no one, scrolling between political dialogue and how-to food videos, has any desire to read the errant philosophies of a college student. I don’t care. I normally choose the former because were I to express the latter, I would be putting out shit.

Oh well, I don’t have the time to actually sit down and try to get other people to think every week. So here’s a story about one of my adventures as the Chick-fil-A mascot…

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I stepped into the spotted suit, strapped myself in an ice vest, filled up the Camelback, and pulled on the Styrofoam head – my metamorphosis was complete. I looked at myself in the break room mirror: “Eat More Chikin.”

Some people don’t get it.

“I’m a cow, so I’m telling you, the customer, to eat chicken,” I tell them, “Get it? Like, don’t eat beef because I’m a cow.”

I get a lot of pitying, patronizing smiles. That’s okay. I was 17, so I’d do most anything for money – including strapping on a 7-foot tall Styrofoam behemoth and making an ass of myself in front of a bunch of kids raised on TV and video games who didn’t think I was funny.

I walked out of the break room into the lobby and made eye contact with a bright-eyed little boy. He smiled at me… these are the reasons I work. He yelled that he wanted to pet me… these are the reasons I work. He sprinted at me… it’s good to see kids so excited about advertisement.

He planted the top of his head like a spear into my anatomically human crotch at approximately 25 miles per hour, and I immediately and metaphysically hated all kids. The collision launched me into a brief reflection on what Jesus meant by letting the children come to him, wherein I concluded that this little cow-tipper would certainly not be inheriting the kingdom of heaven.

In a wonderful coincidence, I happened to be drinking blue Powerade out of my Camelback the moment of impact. I inadvertently spit droplets of the drink (through the neck of the cow, where my face is) onto the head of this screaming little zealot and then ran back into the break room, the “Eat More Chikin” shirt trailing behind me.