A Sexy Dangerous Dance With Death: The Double Down
A question to ponder: Kentucky Fried Chicken’s founder/god Colonel Sanders was born in 1890, only 25 years after slavery was abolished. The man was born in my home state of Indiana and lived his life in Kentucky. Knowing nothing else about the man’s ethics or his personal views, one could assume that there is at least a CHANCE that Colonel Sanders felt discrimination towards black people based on the time and place he lived. Knowing this, how would Colonel Sanders feel today that his product is an associated stereotype with those he theoretically despised?
This has never been a fair stereotype to force on black people; everyone loves fried chicken. You can’t stick a race for liking something every single member of a species enjoys. You know what? I heard the Vietnamese really enjoy oxygen. That’s the new stereotype: whenever you meet a Vietnamese person, offer them a canister of oxygen usually reserved for the elderly. Perhaps you can give them a young sapling, as that also produces Oxygen.
We’re taking racism off the table today; it’s KFC and the Double Down we’re after.
Born out of some perverse combination of KFC marketing and research teams, the KFC Double Down is an unholy combination:
Two fried chicken breasts sandwiching strips of bacon, cheese and a “special sauce”. No bread, nothing else, no ruffage. “Fuck your digestive system.”
We’re used to bizarre food creations at this point, America (KFC Famous Bowls). Think you’ve seen it all? How about the K Pizzacone? It’s crust wrapped in a cone to contain large amounts of cheese and toppings where the ice cream would go. It even has a “K!” thrown in the name for no apparent reason. So if you ever ate a pizza and wished there was an easier way to shovel large amounts of melted cheese into your mouth without losing your dignity, there you go.
New food product announcements are like watching Sin City; after a while of being barraged by endless violence and brutality, you don’t even flinch to see a hooker get her head cut off. The KFC Double Down is like a hooker’s decapitated head.
I tried the Double Down a few weeks ago just for the inevitable story that would follow. Sure, I went into the experience with a slant, but when you’re challenging America to “think outside the bun” with a giant fat chicken monstrosity….well, shit just got real, KFC.
As fried chicken is nothing like a slice of bread, you’d imagine the Double Down to be given to a customer with due protection. Instead, I received a flimsy wax napkin which – like the X-Men Rogue – absorbed the chicken’s greasy qualities onto itself until it became a sponge of slick poultry excretions.
There was really nothing between the giant breasts (I swear if one of you writes “that’s what he said” I will tear down the internet), just a few small strips of bacon, half-melted cheese and a gooey white sauce that was more concerning by appearance than appetizing.
Worst of all, it wasn’t even good. There are plenty of delicious treats one can make when celebrating a victory/getting over a break-up. The Chad Sandwich has been perfected over the course of this last decade: a cinnamon-rasin bagel housing nothing but melted Velveeta cheese and peanut butter (make sure to put the cheese on the bottom layer so it can catch all the juicy peanut butter that will want to drip out of the bagel hole). But this product didn’t satisfy that goal. If I’m going to approach the devil and sign a contract giving away my happiness and eternal soul, he better be delivering unto me a few solid years of amazing guitar skills and robot wings. That’s how these transactions work.
So the Double Down exists as a true menace, offering nothing but pain. I’m fine with this existing. We must know sadness in order to appreciate joy. But can we just come to a consensus that if you’re going to eat a Double Down, you sign away your medical coverage for the rest of your life? There has to be some give and take. I endorse welfare and other social programs because “Mo’ money, mo’ problems” is a goddamn lie, Puffy. There’s just nothing accidental about eating one of these things.
So if we can establish that a Double Down is a conscious choice for danger, why can I not get chicks?
…should be equal to THIS.
A girl should be able to see me leaning against brick walls wearing a leather jacket and a Double Down and think to herself, “I want to fix him”.
Really, eating otherworldly fast food creations is the equivalent of riding a motorcycle without a helmet: they both say, “I’m going to die at an early age”.