My personal Chick Fil A manifesto

Say what you want to about Chick Fil A's recent outlash against homosexual marriage, but know one thing for certain: their chicken, though perhaps fueled by cruelty, hate, and roughly managed elephants,  is downright delicious. And, for me, I think that's what's really at the root of this whole Chick Fil A media madness, the awful truth I have been hiding from myself for a long, long time, that despite unlikely customer service and amazing taste, they don't have the right to deny me fried chicken just because it's Sunday; that's a hate crime. 
I don't mean to gloss over the seriousness of the issue at hand.  But look, I'm a mountain biker and a working dad.  So I do trailwork on the weekends.  Sometimes it takes a media blitz to spark the sort of personal reckoning I've been meaning to have with myself for a while. Not on their terms though, I have no need to face this dilemma alongside the mainstream media. Instead, and way more importantly, I've got a mouth to feed on Sunday after hacking through rootballs and downed trees - my own.

well, mine and Bender's also. 

Strong news has the ability to be about more than just the news. Strong news, like the death of an icon, becomes the logical jumping off point for introspection that probably needs done anyway.

Ever weigh yourself, frown, then begrudgingly increase the psi in your rear suspension? Ever go up a jersey size and still not fit? These are disconcerting moments. It's easy to skip the brutally honest self-talk that should naturally follow these discoveries and, instead, have another hand spun milkshake (your rear shock was probably just leaking air and those race-cut jerseys are all bullshit Euro sizes which don't count.) That's fine; we do what makes us happy, and as a participant in this whole capitalism thing, I'm all for that. Just don't be fooled by why you can't breathe when you buckle your $350 carbon sidis that shaved 15 grams off your race kit.

I don't care if you're fat.
I don't care if you're gay.
I don't care if you're Christian.
I don't care if you're married.
I don't wonder about whether our government should redefine traditional marriage
I don't bother to find out if the recipe for fried chicken is written somewhere in the back of the old testament. 

I care that the 47 grams of healing, wonderful lard in a #1 value meal are not available to me when I need them the most: Sunday at noon. 
So I'm moooovin' on.  I've got a race course to refine. 

Up, up, up.