RIP: Flavor Flav’s Fried Chicken

Uptown Flav Wants You!

After a spectacular four-month occupancy as a roadside attraction at the junction of WTF and FTW, Flav’s Fried Chicken is no more.  It came as a whirlwind, whipping off the Iowa prairie amid a miasma of disrupted topsoil, trans-fat vapors, and crack cocaine smoke.  It left as an acrimonious fart, embarrassing all within its association.  In its wake, we are left with only bitter recriminations and chicken bones.  And beautiful memories.

I was there, but to avoid incurring the wrath of the haters who missed the boat, I’ll switch to the second person point of view, and write about the experience as if it is happening in real time to *you*.  You are there.  You drove all the way to Clinton, Iowa with your ladylove and four year old child because you insisted on doing something non-suburban in celebration of surviving another year in the suburbs.  You are also occasionally plagued by the phantom smells of bacon and are sometimes distracted by the hooting of your own private flock of owls.  But I digress.

You (yes, *you*) sit in the parking lot in dazed amazement.  Once you get your head around the fact that rap star/reality show oddity Flavor Flav has, in true fever dream fashion, reinvented himself as a restaurateur, then you must come to grips with the fact the restaurant in question is indisputably a former Long John Silver.  Which is located right next door to a Kentucky Fried Chicken.  As you walk across the parking lot, you can feel entire paradigms shifting like tectonic plates beneath your feet.  By the time you walk into the door, you don’t know your ass from a Salvador Dali in the ground.  You feel sane and healthy for the first time in a long time, because this time, you are not the only one losing your damn mind.

A chicken restaurant inhabiting the reanimated corpse of a Long John Silver’s

Inside, you become a temporary citizen within a four dimensional pastiche of rap legend: the decor is a more visceral take on the opening credits of “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire”, Flav’s catchphrases rage in red graffiti on the walls all around you.  You are surrounded by various phases of Flav.  There’s Viking Flav, Classic Flav, Uptown Flav, Oddly Resembling Muammar Gaddafi Flav.  In short: The Flav is with you.

You order the Mack Daddy Special: a breast and a leg.  You order greens, too, but there are no greens.  You are told maybe there will be greens next week.  Or possibly next month.  No matter!  There’s still plenty of deep-fried corn on the cob to go around!  As you settle in by the bay window overlooking the Bay of 2nd Street, you are smug in the knowledge that you have already received a huge return on your investment: you are far, far away from the world from which you came, the person you are, and the time you inhabit.  In short, you have become another Iowa redneck trapped in the 80’s.  Congratulations.  You may call yourself Junior.

But the goodies just keep coming.  To bastardize and misappropriate the words of lesser hip-hop legend LL Cool J: the chicken is delicious.   With each bite, you can almost hear the Colonel rending his clothes and gnashing his teeth next door.  It is so good; you briefly consider biting the bones, but then you have to remind yourself (yet again) that biting is an inappropriate expression of enthusiasm in the broad daylight.  You don’t know how you lived before you encountered this chicken, not that it matters anymore anyway. You know you will never be the same.  You have your picture taken with Uptown Flav as a souvenir of your rebirth.

But as you reveled in your new life, the FFC was already entering its twilight.  Perhaps the dearth of greens should have been your first hint.  Less than a month after your visit, Flav severed ties with his business partner Nick Cimino, alleging grievous and potentially deadly mismanagement.

“Let me be straight up with you, I went up inside there on April 2nd and I found potato salad that expired on February 28,” the rapper said. “And it’s then when I realized I can’t do business with this man and I really hope no one ate those potatoes.”

This potato salad epiphany has sparked a firestorm of defamation.  Cimino has retaliated on record, calling Flav out as a “fraud.” I myself happen to take exception to this particular allegation.  It is simply outrageous.  I suppose next we’ll hear that his real name is not Flavor Flav, or that the clock he wears around his neck isn’t synched to International Atomic Time, or that his teeth aren’t really made of solid gold.  Cimino also claims that “the idea” to open a chicken restaurant was, in fact, his idea, a notion that might make Colonel Sanders laugh himself incontinent in his grave.

Coverage on the squalid aftermath of the FFC’s closure has been extensive, but the real story goes unreported.  This is a good thing because if that story were told, there would be no reason to write stories or fry chicken or go around yelling “Yeah Boyee!” ever again.   Let us hope for the sake of the continued existence of the human race, no one ever publishes the words “Flavor Flav’s Iowa Chicken Restaurant Closes Because There Is No God.”

Oops.

No Boyee!

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4 Responses to “RIP: Flavor Flav’s Fried Chicken”

  1. Frag Says:

    Jeez. I can tell you why it REALLY went under. What kind of self-respecting Mack Daddy pimps out bitches with only one breast and one leg? I guess that’s why it was the special, huh? Did it come with a helmet and a ticket for the short bus? What horrible salesmanship!

  2. Laura Says:

    cracky meals lol!

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