Thought for the Night - April 26 Edition

Somehow, The Writings have yet to comment on the new sandwich that is sweeping the nation*: KFC's Double Down Chicken sandwich. It's not very often that new product is made available at a fast food chain that can raise one's cholesterol simply by thinking about it, but KFC has come up with just an item.

*Is there a reason that the phrase that reflects an object or idea becoming popular throughout the United States sounds like something coined to describe Paul Bunyan's days as a custodian (after his back went bad and he could no longer swing an axe)?

With this culinary work, KFC reinvents the sandwich by removing what most folks might consider the most essential part: the bread. (Apparently yeast is too expensive these days.) Instead, the breadless wonder smothers two pieces of bacon, slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese, and something called Colonel's Sauce between two boneless filets of chicken. Some call it delicious. I call it the first step to a triple-bypass.

When it comes to this "sandwich," I have many questions.

Is it called the Double Down because of it's pair of chicken patties, or because any person that actually finishes it doubles over?

Can you really have a sandwich without bread? Are we nearing the day when a weave of french fries and onion rings wrapped in bacon is also deemed a sandwich?

What exactly is Colonel's Sauce? After all, Harland Sanders passed nearly 30 years ago. I'm not sure I'm willing to partake in any sauce he created before the Reagan era. (Sorry, but the line has to be drawn somewhere.)

Is it true that the grease dripping from just one of these sandwiches could fill an inflatable kiddie pool?


What is true is that KFC has raised the bar. Until now, folks that wanted to cheat death were limited to skydiving, sword swallowing, and going to Raiders' games. Now, all they need to do is buy a "sandwich."

It's Good To Be (at) the King

Three minutes and 41 seconds ago, I entered my apartment. Considering that I had a Burger King to-go bag in hand and that I had not consumed food of any sort for six hours, one might think that I would have sat down and torn the wrapper off my Tendercrisp sandwich. Yet, here I sit, typing away on my laptop.

What could cause such disregard for my own hunger? Have I suddenly become ill? Did I discover my food has been replaced with rat remains? Is a member of PETA holding me at gunpoint?

No.

I just experienced a magical moment one can only have at a place like Burger King.

Upon my entry in BK, I noticed group of teenage males waiting for their food. Naturally, I thought little of it.

After placing my order with the guy behind the counter (unfortunately the 65-year-old German woman who has worked there since the first Bush presidency was not in), I walked by the awkward group of guys. They were apparently discussing plans for setting of fireworks. The discussion included the following spat of verbal volleys:

"We have to wait awhile. It's not close to being dark yet."
"Yeah, but it can't be too dark. We have to be able to see the stuff."

... Checkmate.

I barely had time to hope that these kids were on the debate team before I noticed something. Something that will occupy my thoughts whenever I enter this royal burger establishment from now on.

Picture, if you can, the two nerds that befriend Billy Madison in the motion picture about the latter's return to school. It's lunchtime and Billy has food dumped on him by the eldest O'Doyle*. Two kids sitting across the table begin to tell Billy that he's become one of them... Someone unpopular (dun dun DUNNNNN).

*O'Doyle rules.

Hopefully, now that the scene is set, you're picturing those two kids. Now quit picturing the fatter one, and focus on the one with long hair.

Now picture the long-haired kid from Billy Madison standing in your local BK, discussing strategies for firecracker usage. This kid was the spitting image of him. I kept expecting him to look my way and reel off some spiel about "loser denial."

I was so taken aback, I could barely fill my Sprite. Luckily, I fought through and was able to hold back from asking him what it was like kissing the "mucus queen" at the end of the film.

This all was too much. My brain was overloaded. I needed the chick who was calling out order numbers with the zest of a death row inmate to give me my food so I could go home.

... Then the guy with the guy with the mullet that made his head kind of look like a black French poodle had suffered a cardiac arrhythmia atop it walked in....