Or is it, “Discretion is the better part of valor”?
It’s funny, The Blog has been reading a lot of post-Double Down recaps online. Lots of brilliant observations with a few that seem to miss the “purpose” of eating a Double Down but for the most part, top shelf reporting. Most, however, only concentrate on the actual eating of the Double Down. First impressions, reactions, etc. Very few deal with the aftermath of eating a Double Down.
Each Double Down is packaged in its own bag to prevent them from mating, like Tribbles and subsequently ravaging the countryside in a wake of ectoplasmic bacon grease…
Well gentle reader, wonder no more. I shall work backward like that lovely little romp “Memento” and regale you with a tale of horror from my bathroom around five thirty this morning. I awoke feverish with a patina of glistening sweat on my forehead. My baby was kicking with reckless abandon in my stomach until I realized I wasn’t pregnant. (Late Edit; Management). “The horror, the horror” was whispered as I passed out on the cool tile floor of the bathroom. The Blog had received a premonition from beyond the grave pertaining to this morning’s “battle” based on an phantasmagorical William Blake-styled dream I had the preceding night before. Basically, I was Billy Crystal’s character in “Running Scared” and a zombie version of Gregory Hines was force feeding me cube-sized bits of Double Down as he sang Steve Miller’s “Jungle Love” sotto voce while a filth covered Colonel Sanders rubbed his hands together and laughed maniacally in the background. Yeah, it was weird, but the subtext was clear. Preceding this most unsettling of unsettling dreams, The Blog’s tummy felt like a beehive alllll afternoon. It was a constant, buzzing hive of sharp, pain. I knew I was in trouble. The ride home was especially disconcerting as the only thought running through the head was “These bibs aren’t going to come off quick enough. If I try and rip them off, they’ll only stretch. Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts if it happens. Let adrenaline take over and just pedal standing up… then jump in the Congaree River.” The Blog had no idea the Double Down would shred his insides so thoroughly. It’s the perfect, human-engineered killing machine that has turned against its human creators. A culinary Rutger Hauer.
Speaking of killing machines, in order to get to the KFC, receiving wunderkind, bon vivant and mutton-chopped Lothario, Chris Maret was gracious enough to chauffeur us in his PT Cruiser. Chris drives like your typical Massachusetts native: A mixture of Steve McQueen and Speed Racer, both in the throes of a meth binge the day before the earth is to be struck by an asteroid. Chris also chats like your typical Massachusetts native. The topics came fast and furious: Pirelli Tires, Junk Shop Tetanus Shots, Ant-Filled Alice Cooper Records, The Rarity Of Blackberry Slushees, Paris Honeymoons, “Buffalo 66″, Vincent Ghallo’s Inexplicable Aversion To Jewish Hobbits (seriously), Greek Food Masquerading As Italian Food, Cop Shoot Outs, Moog Synthesizer Pricing: English Vesus American and The Inadequacy Of Live Neil Diamond Performances. These topics were touched upon in a span of 15 minutes. You can ask Chris OR Josh, who rode in the back just trying to keep up. In fact, the ride to KFC was almost as intense as the Double Downs themselves. In
conclusion, the Double Down will completly dominate the lower half of your body with extreme prejudice. Iron stomach? Titanium stomach? DARK MATTER STOMACH??? You can’t win. Just remember these words that were shouted by the KFC employee who took our three Double Down orders” “GIMME SIX FRIED CHICKEN BREASTS!!!!”
Here is a list of 10 awesome pre-death monologues that you TOO can repeat before you eat this abomination: READ ME