I have beheld the abomination of desolation...

...and it is the KFC Double-Down.

I tried it for the same reason one attends a freak show--sheer morbid curiosity, despite knowing you'll feel awful about yourself afterwords.

I went up to the counter and said to the cashier, "It's my birthday tomorrow, get me the double-down."

"Why, so you won't have any more birthday?" she said back. I had no witty retort.

I somehow felt ashamed to be eating that thing alone in a public space, so I took it back to my car to examine. It is in fact as advertised: two chicken patties serving as buns, with cheese and bacon in between. There is no good reason this thing should exist.

First thing I notice is that one of the chicken patties is split in half. For a moment I consider indignantly marching back in to complain about the poor quality of my sandwich, but quickly I consider that once one has ordered a double-down, one has abnegated all one's rights to complain about food preparation.

As I read on-line once, the double-down, like grief, is experienced in stages. The first stage of course is denial. I considered that is wasn't all that large, that really, it's about the same amount of chicken I would normally eat anyways when visiting KFC. Now, I don't normally eat bacon with my chicken, but that's neither here nor there.

I was legitimately hungry at the time, so I scarfed it down rather quickly. One does not regret the double-down while eating it, you see; no, the regret comes immediately afterwords, as that unholy mass settles in your stomach and stays there the rest of the evening. Even alcoholics at least have until the next morning to experience a hangover.

Your body rightfully punishes you for daring consume such a monstrosity.