Monday, April 12, 2010
Before I get into a review of the KFC Double Down, let me dazzle you with an edict I will enact once I finally come to power: All standalone KFCs must be shut down.
Hold up, now, before you start planning a coup d'état (phrase totally cut and pasted from Wikipedia), focus on my exact wording: STANDALONE KFCs are what must be shut down. And the same goes for Taco Bells. No KFC or Taco Bell should operate separately, but rather must be joined into glorious Kentacko Bells, such as the one located about a mile from my home. The place where a lifetime of misery ended and my new era, filled with regular doses of the Double Down, began.
The reason for this union can be found in the Bill of Rights, which states plainly that man was not meant to survive on a meal of fried chicken alone, because what's he supposed to do about his Grilled Stuffed Burrito fix? Nor can a human subsist simply on microwaved pseudo-Mexican food. You need a biscuit to be complete. And while we're reaching for ideals here, let's accept Kentacko Bells as only the minimum scenario for utopia, yet strive for Kentacko Huts, which also add Pizza Huts into the fold, and which seemingly only exist in northern Phoenix. For the Lord to have manifested such a perfection in such a bilious hellhole is to prove his providence in placing shreds of hope in darkest despair.
Another mark of Godly excellence is the Double Down, pictured above. It's a cheese and bacon sandwich with two pieces of fried chicken replacing bread slices. Some have railed against the sandwich as a sign of the wretched excess of our times. Yet these people have railed wrong, because the Double Down is not too much, but not enough. Roughly the size of a Snack Wrap, the Double Down is laughably overpriced at $5. Resultingly, the calorie count is but 540. You get more calories that if you accidentally swallow some toothpaste.
Despite the overwhelming cost, I struggled throughout the day with the quandary I knew I'd face come dinnertime. The angel on my left shoulder sternly demanded I get only one Double Down, and thus risk withering down to nothing, while the devil on my right shoulder insisted I get two of them, and as a result have so little money left over that I would surely face foreclosure on my home.
I placated the angel and devil by telling them they were both right. As they congratulated each other in smug satisfaction, I interjected "But you're also both wrong! I am smarter than you ninnies and have devised a better solution: I shall have one Double Down and also a bean burrito! For this is a Kentacko Bell and I will taste the rainbow, beyotches."
So I ordered the Double Down and burrito, remembered to snap a picture of the former, and during the 90 seconds it took me to devour both noted that I could taste neither the bacon nor the cheese because fried chicken, especially the kind the Colonel makes, was not built to complement or yield to other flavors, but to dominate them. And of course I was still hungry after eating the Double Down, so luckily I had that burrito to stave off manorexia.
So there you have it: Do not order the Double Down to fill yourself up, or to appreciate the bacon that is rumored to be contained therein. Order it to fly too close to the sun, to dream like an insomniac and plan for a better world.
And don't forget that bean burrito chaser.