It was with some trepidation, reluctance, and several other big words that the Maitre d’ can’t pronounce that I decided that my article on the infamous KFC Double Down deserved a follow-up. My stomach regrets that decision, as now I know better. Beware the Colonel bearing gifts, for he brings intestinal discomfititude.
For lunch today, I decided to again try the Double Down, a "sandwich" that replaces the otherwise-normal bread with two pieces of breaded and deep-fried burned replicated bird meat. For those who haven’t read my previous review of it, the Double Down also has the holiest of meats, bacon, as well as jack cheese smashed between the chicken with something that is suspiciously called "Colonel’s Sauce", which fills me with fear (Given that the Chef has at various points in time plotted the extermination of the human race, the fact that it fills yours truly with fear should tell you something about the horror this "Colonel" chap has perpetuated.). After my initial impression was lukewarm at best, I thought it deserved another try.
Eating the second Double Down only confirmed what I said before. I can authoritatively state the following conclusions (and note that my stating them authoritatively doesn’t necessarily make them true, so take them with a fist-sized lump of sodium chloride, good reader).
So, there it is: the Double Down is basically just the usual KFC fare, only sloppier, since you’re holding chicken and cheese and sauce in your bare, sweaty hands. If you like the Colonel’s usual stuff, you’re going to like the Double Down. If you think fast food is gross, you’re going to no doubt call the Double Down an abomination and one of mankind’s greatest sins, second only to Highlander II. (Repeat after me: there is no Highlander II.)
The real problem came afterward. About five minutes afterward, to be precise.
Five minutes after finishing the "sandwich" (when I say it aloud, I make air quotes with my fingers, just to drive home the point), my stomach started to rumble like a 1971 Ford Pinto with a bad spark plug. Feeling a sinking in the pit of my soul, I ran for the bathroom.
I made it just in time. As soon as I dropped trou and parked my gluteus on the porcelain, a stream of fecal matter unheard of outside of the Great Newark Sewer Explosion of 1962 spouted from between my cheeks. It sounds impossible, but I was actually propelled upward by the force of my own feces. In the words of Chainsaw Buffet’s esteemed Busboy, "Explosive diarrhea has never been so explosive".
After spending a good half hour expelling liqui-poop, I finally got to stand up and clean myself off. There can be no doubt as to the culprit: the undead Colonel’s newest unholy creation. The bottom line (pun intended): the Double Down gave me the galloping shits. No ifs, ands, or butts.