Let me tell you how a $5 chicken nearly cost me my dignity and possibly my driver’s license.
I got an express Spark order. You know, the kind that’s supposed to be lightning fast because someone really needs 7 things—two of which, I kid you not, were Sam’s Club Rotisserie Chickens.
So, I arrive ahead of schedule like the responsible adult I pretend to be and start shopping the list.
As I’m rolling past the meats section, I suddenly remember:
THE CHICKEN.
It hasn’t popped up to scan yet, but since I’m here… I might as well grab them now. Or so I thought. I stroll over to the hot foods counter, expecting poultry heaven.
What I get instead is:
- Zero chicken.
- A line so long it looked like folks were lining up to see Beyoncé and Jesus.
I stand behind a dude in all black with a skull cap on. He looked like he was about to drop a fire mixtape. After a solid five minutes of no movement, I decide to abandon my cart, a place holder in the line and grab the rest of the order.
When I return, the line is exactly the same. Except now, Skull Cap is flirting with a woman in a bright yellow jumper who clearly had her hands full—three kids, an unusually shaped backside (believe me I have no room to talk), and a chest that defied gravity and good judgment.
I pretend not to stare, but it’s hard when this is the only thing happening and the line still hasn’t moved. I check the heat lamps. No new chicken yet and 15 more people have shown up behind me.
At this point, I realize I may as well get a chicken for myself because clearly, this poultry has narcotic properties. People are showing up like it’s a Black Friday sale on chicken. Fifteen minutes later, the golden chickens are finally placed out.
I snatch up the two for the order and one for me—because I’m not leaving empty-handed—and dash for checkout.
That’s when Spark hits me with the warning:
“You have 19 minutes to deliver or the order will be canceled.”
And mockingly:
“Idgaf if it is 16 miles away in Sunday traffic.”
All I see in my mind is the money flying away like it had wings.
Not today, Satan!
I put on my driving gloves, blast Lil Jon Crunk Juice Edition, and became a certified Spark NASCAR Champion. I was weaving through traffic like my life depended on it. I made it in exactly 19 minutes.
No ticket.
No angry customer.
Just me.
And my rotisserie chicken.
If this gig doesn’t work out, I’ve clearly got options:
- NASCAR Driver
- Defensive Driving Instructor With PTSD
All that to say—Sam’s Club Rotisserie Chicken is not food. It’s a controlled substance.
And if you see someone gripping the steering wheel like Jason Bateman in Horrible Bosses with chicken in the backseat, just know—they’re under a ton pressure because Spark be playing in people faces.
Now excuse me while I eat this chicken like I didn’t just risk it all.
