After my harrowing experience with the Double Down, I needed some time to collect myself, ponder the meaning of such reckless grease, and find the motivation to continue with my investigation. I recently returned to the same KFC/Taco Bell to experience another terrifying day of life outside the bun. The next subject: Taco Bell’s XXL Chalupa.

Some things are just too big for their own good. I like to think of these things as, much like the Roman Empire, too big not to fail. Two such things are the XXL Chalupa and the New York Yankees. Perhaps that’s why Yankees manager Joe Girardi and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera star in a commercial for the XXL Chalupa. The commercial centers around the difficulty people have with finishing the XXL. Well I can tell you first hand that the difficulty comes not in finishing the chalupa, but in reconciling yourself with what you eventually realize you just ate.

When you open the box, the XXL appears by no means insurmountable. It is roughly the size of two regular chalupas. And while it takes a little longer to eat, you don’t feel full at the end (you don’t feel satisfied either, but that’s true of many things at Taco Bell). Only about ten minutes after you finish do you realize your folly. Like a compressed file, it unzips and extracts itself upon entering your stomach. You begin to wonder how much ground beef and fried-something-or-other you actually just consumed.

Because of this unique trait, the XXL is better suited, in my opinion, for another purpose. Instead of nourishment, it should be used as a weapon. First we confuse our enemies by giving them what looks to be a free meal. After they consume said meal, they become incapacitated by nausea, stomach aches, and indigestion. We could end wars without firing a single shot. We could apprehend our enemies, as they would be throwing themselves at our feet, begging for some sort of medical attention. Yes, friends, the XXL is the Trojan Horse of chalupas, and it should be wielded as such.

But with great power comes great responsibility– which is why I am disappointed that Taco Bell has recklessly introduced the XXL to the general public when it truly belongs in C-17s en route to combat zones. In the wrong hands, this toxic agent presents a danger to society and a threat to our way of life. So please join me in asking Taco Bell to remove this powerful weapon from their menu, so that it may serve our country without being served to our country.

There comes a time in every reporter’s life when he or she becomes aware of a higher purpose, hears an undeniable calling, and is ready to take the next step. Risking life and limb simply becomes part of the job, as they attempt to tell a story in all its truth. For some, this means reporting from a battlefield as an embedded journalist. For others it means standing on the beach with nothing but a camera and microphone as a category five hurricane barrels down on them. For this correspondent, the revelation came when I stared down the most menacing foe I have ever encountered: the Kentucky Fried Chicken Double Down sandwich. Something told me I had to write about it. But first, I had to–against my better judgment–eat it.

The Double Down is packaged in the same Colonel Sanders-adorned,  innocent-looking box into which KFC might put, say, their moderately healthy grilled chicken sandwich with extra tomato, hold the mayo, please. But the box is meant to draw you in and deceive you, for when you open it, you are greeted by the villain in disguise, the Double Down himself.

The sandwich consists of two fried chicken breast fillets, bacon, American cheese, and a tangy sauce whose purpose, I would venture to say, is to distract you from the fact that you are holding a breadless chicken sandwich in your hands.

As any seasoned journalist would do, I first stared at the sandwich for a while. Then I took pictures of it. Then I asked it a warm up question. Then I asked it a trick question. After eliciting no response from the sandwich, I determined that it was at least somewhat safe to consume. And the adventure began.

There’s something oddly unnerving about holding fried chicken fillets in your hands. And there shouldn’t be. Fried chicken is often considered finger food. But that’s when there are bones to eat around and little morsels of unknown goodness to uncover, or when the chicken is in the form of fingers or nuggets. When you’re holding two slabs of meat glued together with cheese, bacon, and sauce, an internal warning bell of etiquette violation starts ringing immediately. The experience is permeated by the constant thought, “Did I lose the bun?” Surely this is not what Taco Bell meant by “Think outside the bun,” even though I did purchase this sandwich-like thing from a KFC/Taco Bell.

The bottom line for the Double Down is that the novelty wears off after ten seconds. You have grease all over your hands and all you really want is a bun. Or a fork. Or a trash can.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been through the Munich train station. But I know exactly how many times I’ve used the restroom in the Munich train station, because each time, I had to cough over 80 euro cents. But in a land of potato salad, sauerkraut, and endless beer, 80 euro cents is well worth the peace of mind of knowing that relief is just an escalator ride away.

At chicken and rice, we frequently pay homage to the food and drink we consume, but rarely do we talk about the latter half of the digestive process. At the Munich Hauptbahnhof’s Rail & Fresh Water Closet, that’s all they can talk about. Or so I assume– my German is admittedly not so great.

The experience begins when you walk to a central desk and announce your intent to relieve yourself to a receptionist who smiles, holds out her hand, and says “achtzig Cent, bitte.” If you do not have 80 cents already counted out, you may have to awkwardly fumble through your pockets for a moment. Don’t be afraid to give her a full euro. Sometimes she’ll give you 20 cents back. Sometimes, she’ll just keep the euro. If this happens, convince yourself that you wanted to tip her 20 cents anyway, as this is easier than starting an argument in a language you only half understand while your bladder and/or colon is telling you to move along.

After paying for your toilet time, you choose your side. If you are male, turn right. If you are female, turn left. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of going to the correct side. Not that it matters that much to the other restroom goers. The whole facility is, in fact, open and visible to everyone. But you’ll feel like an idiot if you find yourself surrounded by members of the opposite sex when you could have avoided the mess by simply going through the other turnstile.

Around this time, you begin to notice the immaculate ambiance surrounding you. The walls are white and light blue, and they glow from some magical floodlight whose source remains invisible. The people washing their hands at the randomly placed sinks are nodding their heads in time with the treble-heavy Euro techno-pop that plays over the sound system. You begin to feel like you are in the cleanest place on Earth, a refuge that is constantly sterilized with auto-tuned German phrases and synth hits. And something smells like springtime. Truly, this must be what heaven is like.

You then enter your own private one square meter room. The music intensifies. The light brightens. The rest is history.

If you are planning on traveling to Munich in the near future, you must visit the Frauenkirche, the Deutsches Museum, and the train station restroom. The Rail & Fresh Water Closet has a funny way of glorifying the icky and mundane to such a point that, yes, it does smell like roses.