Colonel Sanders, in an effort to fashion a satellite dish out of dead animals, has a message for you, and he’s delivering it to the world from atop a mountain of frozen chicken breasts: Fuck you, we use meat for bread now.

My journey took me beyond the Hollywood district and up to sixty-something-eth and Sandy. I don’t remember what the actual street was because I was too busy questioning my humanity to look at the street signs.

Outside the Dollar Tree in the center of the Hollywood/Sandy/39th asphalt pretzel, a man gazed into my soul as he feasted on a package of raw hot dogs. As his lips slowly curled around each bite of hot dog, the man actually frowned and chewed at the same time. Was this sallow face what awaited me on my quest?

As I pushed my way past KFC’s Double Down propaganda and through their bewilderingly placed entrance, my eyes found the menu and I started to weep. My thoughts went back to the hot dog eater. Would I want to trade him when this was all over?

The man in front of me ordered the Double Down assuredly; I was convinced that this was his second, or perhaps third time conquering the beast. Little did the employees know that they’d be crafting two humanitarian-defeating sandwiches right in a row, enough to jade an average person on American culture for at least ten years.

“Another Double Down!” called out the counter employee. The rightfully shocked response: “FOR THE SAME GUY?!”

Indeed, KFC employees know that they’re filling the troughs with the Colonel’s slop from on high, while us lowly piglets lap it up and grow large with patriotism. I ordered the meal option because it’s cheaper than the meat behemoth and a drink. I wanted a medium. I didn’t get it. They were “out” of medium cups.

When at last I received the monolith, I discovered that it wasn’t all that monolithic at all. It was tiny and lukewarm, the temperature being the great folly of sacrificing bread for more meat. My cheese wasn’t even melted. Shame on you, Sanders. When I bit into it, the Colonel’s “sauce” exploded into my beard and I sat my pile of meat down and scrambled for a napkin. Since the sandwich was only slightly warm when I got it, it was unclear how long it would take before the Colonel’s sauce would congeal in my facial hair. The sandwich went down without much fight, but it was in my stomach that the rumble raged on past the point of my control.

I eat habanero peppers regularly. They pose no threat to me at all. Because of this, I’ve managed to think of myself as a man with a cast-iron stomach. However, without the policing of some non-greasy nutritional chaperones to regulate any protein-and-grease tomfoolery, the Double Down got my digestive system into a full nelson and refused to let go. I felt like shit for the rest of the day, but I have to give the Colonel credit; never before have I eaten a meal that made me feel like such absolute dung, both mentally and physically. Congratulations KFC, you’ve managed to piece together the most depressing dining experience ever created. Hat’s off.

I would have had a better experience using the $6.50 my meal cost to buy the rest of those hot dogs off the guy outside Dollar Tree—at least that has a philanthropic angle. All the Double Down accomplished was giving my conscience and colon a simultaneous double ax handle.