by Ska Ti Li 스카 티 리

I was recently asked about the significance of my name, my origin, my race, my identity. What exactly does 스카 티 리 mean anyway. I’ll let you figure it out. All I am allowed to tell you right now is about this dude named The Colonel.

Oh I see. The only colonel you know about is the one who used to be on those nasty boxes of chicken and mashed potato glue. A time when a majestic old man, with his all-knowing spectacles, tricking adults and children alike, ruled the plains of America. He conquered city after city installing military chicken bases in almost every neighborhood.

The Colonel walked among the American people with flush pockets of cash. Families everywhere gave freely and often just to be near the Colonel’s secret recipe. While countries have fallen and continue to fall to the Internet safecrackers, no one has EVER cracked the code of the Colonel’s secret recipe.

So out of pure jealousy, that rat Kenny Rogers started up a chicken war and used every underhanded political and economic tactic to try and ruin the Colonel’s massive empire. That fuckstick Kenny Rogers bloated up the size of his poisonous poultry with all kinds of steroids, filler and addictive drugs. This resulted in the exodus of upper middle class chicken lovers out of the Colonel’s establishments.

And for a brief moment in America’s poultronic history, evil was allowed to triumph. The local and state governments conspired together to bring down the Colonel’s Empire. First, it was decreed that all of the Colonel’s establishments were required to carry the outdated logos, slogans, awful employee outfits for a period of 20 years.

The Colonel’s Empire was reduced to a lifeless set of English letters. K F C




KFC - Kan’t Fucking Cook

The sinking of a glorious empire into the cesspool of a third world hangover joint. The Colonel was laid to rest while the pants fell below the crack. The customers knew nothing of the Colonel or the original recipe.

And slowly the former empire melted into the burnt stew of failed fast food conglomerates. KFC A&W aRBeeeeeeeeezzzzzz. That’s where the poor, the homeless and the illiterate go for nutrition - restaurants with no vowels. The restaurants where food and glue are synonyms.

Of course, the Colonel was not allowed to die in peace. There are international investors to think about. So just like fucking curators, who build museums out of junk that extract cash out of bored non-working stiffs, the Colonel’s image was exported to other countries around the world. The old scaffolds, the disco logos and leisure-suit fonts. They live on!! They now haunt the unsuspecting mom and pop chicken peddlers who used to sell the little egg vehicles to the mom and pop grocery store owners. The KFC assault in the developing nations around the world. The myth of the original recipe lives on while the actual secret was buried with the Colonel along with his shoestring tie and plantation suit.

While Americans sink further and further into the ground with their pants, the rest of the world masterfully remakes the Colonel God into their own image for their own agendas. Just as images of Jesus Christ are remade into every possible race, gender and sexual orientation, the Colonel enjoys an afterlife of multiculturalism, cross-economic-pollination, with a twist of transgendervestite and an olive on top.

Just as any myth lives, dies and continuously resurrected over time, it was inevitable that the Colonel would make his triumphant return to America. The latest batch of KFC trough gougers know nothing about the original Colonel or his original recipe. They certainly don’t recognize that the new Colonel was too fucking lazy to hide or change his last name.

All we are told about the new Colonel is that his last name is Sanders. An old man with an old chicken coop turned upside down, so he can stand a little taller among the old pig snouts to share his new agenda.

You’ll have to tune in later to hear what the Old Rooster in new feathers has to say.