What Would You Do-ooo-ooo For A Chicken Sandwich?

One of my favorite ad campaigns is for the Klondike Bar.  I'm sure you know it, but in the rare case that you've been living under a rock in Borneo for the last few decades (and if so, welcome back) the basic premise of the commercial is that the Klondike Bar is so unbelievably good that a perfectly rational person would do anything to have one.  All together now:  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a Klondike Bar?"  One poor schmo, instead of leaving the dirty dishes on the countertop, would put them directly into the dishwasher.  Another would massage the crusty corns of his mother-in-law.  Why, there's even a man who would act like a (gasp!) dog in exchange for the frozen treat.  A dog!  Can you believe it?  A dog! 

Three thoughts:

1.  It's a brilliant campaign because the Klondike Bar is a pretty lousy product.  I can think of ten other frozen bar treats off the top of my head that I'd rather have than a Klondike Bar.  It's mediocre ice cream enclosed in a so-so chocolate shell.  That's it.  That's the whole shebang.  There's not even a stick so eating the darn thing without getting it all over yourself humanly impossible.  Don't believe me?  Well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser and Dr. Raymond Stantz and their crack team at Princeton University who proved the theory!  All of that being said, when I see a commercial or the jingle inexplicably pops into my head, I want a Klondike Bar.  Nay, I need a Klondike Bar!  And I would do-ooo-ooo anything for it.

2.  As fun and kitschy as the commercials are, I'd like to see them taken up a notch or two.  Everyone would bark like a dog for a free ice cream.  I mean, who wouldn't do that?  But, what about something really extreme?  Would you climb the Himalayan Mountains and bring back the head of the Yeti?  Would you eat a used diaper filled with Indian food?  Would you watch "Untamed Heart?"  No, of course you wouldn't. 

3.  The Bar is not from the Klondike.  It's from Youngstown, Ohio.  Just south of Cleveland.  I just thought you should know.  I'll give you a few seconds to regain your composure.

OK?

The Klondike Bar jingle bounced around my head last night as I walked into the local Chick-Fil-A for a free chicken sandwich.  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a chicken sandwich?"  Well, I would do just about anything for a free chicken sandwich — especially a free chicken sandwich from Chick-Fil-A.  Afterall, they invented the darn thing!  (Or so they say.  Now, does anyone actually think that S. Truett Cathy was the first person in the history of the world to put a piece of chicken in between two pieces of bread?  No, absolutely not.  Don't believe me, well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser...)  And what do the find purveyors of the nation's second largest chicken-based fast food restaurant ask in return for the free sandwich?  That you simply wear a shirt with your favorite college football team's logo on it.  Wear the shirt.  Get the sandwich.  It was that simple.

Well, like most things in my world, it wasn't that simple.  My favorite college football team is the University of Michigan.  For the record, I didn't have a choice in the matter.  I was raised to be a Go Blue fan and a Go Blue fan I am, for better or for worse.  So the only college t-shirt I have is a faded blue shirt with "Michigan" in big, block, yellow letters.  Oh, forgive me, they're not yellow — they're maize.  How silly of me.  Anyway, here's the problem, my local Chick-Fil-A just happens to be down the road from the University of Notre Dame.  The same Notre Dame that is one of Michigan's hated rivals.  The same Notre Dame that Michigan plays this weekend in Ann Arbor.  I didn't have a choice though.  I would have gladly worn a different shirt but I don't have another college shirt.  Not a shirt from my alma mater.  (Which is a real shame.)  Not a Kentucky or a Louisville shirt.  And I sure as hell wasn't going to put on a Notre Dame shirt.  (When I was a kid, I was raised to believe that Lou Holtz was the antichrist.)  If I wanted the chicken sandwich I had to wear the Michigan shirt.  Period.  There was no other way.  And not just to the restaurant.  First I had to stop by campus.  There were errands to run.  I would have to walk around Notre Friggin' Dame with a Michigan shirt on five days before the big game.  People have been killed for less than that!  I would have to endure the taunts and the harassment.  The threats and the leers.  I would have to risk my life for a stupid chicken sandwich.  It would be like Daniel walking into the lion's den while sporting a snappy vest made out of veal shanks.

But you know what?  It was worth it.  In fact, it might very well have been the best chicken sandwich I've ever had.

 

R