Wingnuts are voracious eaters; they loves them some fried stuff. I’m a voracious reader; so when I happened upon a shiny new copy of WINGNUT magazine in the restroom of The Big Chicken in Marietta, Georgia, I did the Right thing: I totally appropriated it.
I was in Cobb County researching The Big Chicken, on a tip from a, um, fried chicken addict I barely know. The joint was originally called Johnny Reb’s Chick, Chuck, and Shake, but became “The Big Chicken” in 1963 when owner Tubby Davis erected a fifty-six foot “chicken tower” thing on top of the Chick Chuck and Shake. (Yeah, I know it sounds like a low budget porn film, but.)
The structure was originally a nightmare of then Georgia Tech student, Hubert Puckett, (the crazy Cobb County Pucketts are no relation) who has since gone on to become totally anonymous in the giant chicken tower school of architecture.
Anyway, enough about that. WINGNUT magazine is, for the uninitiated, the new chronicler of teh crazy, the morphological placenta spawned by the Reptillicon Party. As any wingnut aficionado knows, there’s big money in them thar crazies, and the genius behind this magazine is raking in the silly puddy— the crazy dough— the moola— the chicken litter— capitalizing on the propensity of the wingnuts to clamor for marching orders direction now that the Republican Party has become the Reptillicon Party— now spiralling towards oblivion under the daily floggings of the dyspeptic Rush Limbaugh.
America’s fascination with all things wingnuttery has grown into a multi-billion dollar industry, but most of that is the salary of the various medusa heads that keep the nuts in a fact-free frenzy, one minute seeing Obama as Hitler, and poisoning Nancy Pelosi the next. (It was the Chicken Moose [sic].) The rest, of course, is t-shirt sales. I can’t wait to see the first versions eulogizing Sarah Palin‘s son Twig, being sentenced to death by an ObamaCare Death Panel. It just doesn’t get nuttier than that. Yet.
Alright. I’ve got my Monday Margaritas blended and my Big Chicken shirt on; time to kick back with the Big Chicken WINGNUT and get my crazy on.