There is a very memorable speech that Brad Pitt gives as Achilles in the Trojan War cinematic epic, “Troy.”

He speaks on immortality, on how it lies in wait for those who dare to surge beyond fear, beyond despair, beyond the thought of “I cannot do it.”

“Immortality,” he says. “Take it. It’s yours!”

And it appears that the good folk over at KFC seem to have taken this inspirational quest for immortality to heart, launching what initially promised to be one of the most spectacular fastfood innovations known to man: The new KFC Double Down.

This TV commercial inspired me enough to write about it on my food blog some months ago. “At last!” I thought to myself. “A burger that finally understands what it is that us Manly Men need: Protein!”

Here’s how it looks:

And here’s how they described it:

The creation features a dollop of the Colonel’s secret sauce wrapped in a slice of both Pepperjack Cheese and Swiss Cheese, between two slices of bacon and two filets of KFC original recipe chicken that serve as the ‘bread’ of the burger. That’s right – instead of bread, you get breaded chicken. Multiplied by two.

No bread. Just chicken. The unhungry burger for hungry men.

What an amazing concept.

Now, I had been trying my darnedest over the last three days to finally score myself a taste of the KFC Double Down when I heard that KFC had finally decided to offer it to the local Philippine market of strapping, protein-hungry Manly Men such as myself. I confess that my batting average was at 0-for-3; it was sold out across all branches – a fact confirmed via various friends on Twitter to whom I had complained.

And then, I spotted it at KFC along President’s Avenue in BF Homes. It was available. For real.

PhP100 for the a la carte Double Down.

PhP115 inclusive of a beverage.

PhP135 inclusive of a beverage and one Fixin. They suggested coleslaw. I did not disagree.

I did, however, realize that I was a rich man, who happened to have PhP203 in my very luxurious Seiko wallet. And rather than just going Double Down, I decided to go All In.

This is a picture of my custom MDJ Super All In Double Down Gluttony Extravaganza Combo Meal – one KFC Double Down, one regular coleslaw, one regular mashed potatoes, double rice, and a large refreshing glass of Lipton iced tea. That’s the 6 essential Manly Man food groups represented right there.

And so, after months of anticipation, wet dreams, and petition-signing, how did the KFC Double Down actually taste?

In a word: Disappointing.

The chicken patties are literally what you are served in your basic Colonel’s Burger, while the bacon was soggy and almost indiscernible. And I’m not sure what got lost in translation, but the Pepperjack and Swiss cheese promised in KFC’s original advertising copy tasted just like your typical local Eden Cheese Singles.

And most disappointingly, the “Colonel’s Secret Sauce” tasted just like plain old mayo.

But was it filling?

Manly Men don’t demand high artistry in their food; we need substance and size. The KFC Double Down is surprisingly small – despite the multiple Fixins and double rice I accessorized it with, I ended my meal still feeling hungry. It’s no more filling than a standard 1-piece order of fried chicken; I had to get an additional order of Chewy Cheese to satiate my generous appetite. If you have to spend almost PhP300 at KFC to feel full, then it’s probably a sign that you ordered wrong.

Final verdict?

KFC’s Double Down promised to be the immortal deity of glory and goodness on the High Holy Pantheon of Dude Food. It’s no more filling than a 1-piece order of fried chicken – and we all know that no true Manly Man worth his collection of Maxim magazine would be caught dead ordering anything less than two pieces of good, wholesome, healthy KFC.

Give it a shot just to satisfy your curiosity, but don’t expect to make a lifelong habit out of it.

In the quest for immortality, KFC’s Double Down comes up way short. It’s a summer night’s fling rather than a lifetime love.

And we all know that when it comes to love, to commitment, to relationship, real Manly Men like you and me are all about the long view.

The unhungry sandwich? More like the unmanly.

A couple pic taken at a pole-dancing event the other week.

Zee looks pretty. I look like a B-movie action star, only a few rungs down from the likes of Jestoni Alarcon.

Zee is the best girlfriend ever. She takes me to scope out hot poledancers spreading their legs and cavorting around steel poles while dressed in tight leather outfits. The only trade-off is that I need to take her to the Cosmo Bachelor Bash next year.

I love her. If I need to take her to scope out hot veiny men in ripped denim, then I will.

This is an old blog entry I came across from 2007. Funny how the 26-year old me had his thought processes laid out.

*****

“So why did you shift from Client side to Agency? Nobody does that. It’s Agency people who jump over to Client!”

That, in twenty-one words, pretty much sums up the biggest comment I deal with on a bi-weekly basis when people find out that I have shed my Marketing skin (the snake metaphor is quite apt), and plunged all naked and wrinkly into the Advertising world.

I ask, in return, why I shouldn’t have done so.

And they, in response, always point to an answer that seems as obvious to them as an two-testicled penis: “Marketing is better. When you’re the Client, you call the shots.”


(I hope you have noticed, at this point, that when one is an Account Dictator Director such as myself, one never spells “client” and “agency” with small c’s and a’s at the start. These words are Proper Nouns, and must always be accorded the dignity of capitalized, font size 42 first letters. In bold Haettenschweiller, no less.)

I have analyzed and distilled and condensed and filtered and subjected to reverse osmosis my answer to this comment. And what I have to say is this.

“Calling the shots” when you are a Client is an over-simplified truth. As a Client, you are genetically engineered to be capable of just two things: (1) writing a brief, and (2) disapproving (and occasionally actually approving) creative work. In between are gaps in your week that measure about six inches long on your standard wall calendar, filled with dreadfully boring activities that contain about 5% creativity, and 95% Microsoft Excel-driven inanity. Let me explain further.

When reasonably intelligent, well-bred, stunningly sexy individuals such as I are in college, we are brainwashed to believe that Marketing is the hottest profession since sheepherding went out of fashion in the late 1700’s. You’ll do advertising campaigns!, our professors squeal with pride, You’ll launch innovations, change lives! You’ll be able to sell shampoo for P2.00 a sachet!

The tragic reality is that 70% of your day as a Marketer is spent slumped at a workstation, churning out demand plans, profit & loss statements, and forecast variance analyses. You spend hours in meetings with some of the most left-brained people in the world, from factory managers, to financial analysts, to production line workers, to research technicians. You condition yourself to believe that a 15-minute dialogue on the nifty new macro installed in the new SAP upgrade passes as “small talk”. Occasionally, you do get some excitement when your drab little workspace is invaded by sleek, black-clad, turtleneck-and-Gucci-wearing individuals from the Advertising world, but those moments are few and far between.

Things are different when you live the Agency life.

In the Advertising world, you are constantly immersed in a social solution consisting of 90% purely creative people, and just 10% worth of odd contaminants with such curious names as “Production Traffic” and “Finance”. Your meetings are full of copywriters, art directors, producers, and production designers, all of whom are armed with sparkling white (or occasionally black) MacBooks and distinguishedly scruffy pairs of Chuck Taylors. You spend at least ten hours a week chugging down buckets of beer sponsored by some excitable Creative Director, while debates rage around you on whether Comic Sans MT is more evil than your local Church of Satan, or if red Sith lightsabers pack more punch than blue or green Jedi ones.

And really, every day in the Advertising life is a day of exciting output. It could be a clever new print ad, a hilarious new storyboard, or even just a pretty contact report. You get to sit and watch as creative ideas are born, nurtured, and dragged into wild puberty by a room of mildly-inebriated concept teams. You get to be a writer, a designer, a dreamer, a doer, all in a span of just thirty minutes.

You open Excel only about five times a year, and two of those rare moments are just to check if two and two still add up to four in the 21st century (my secretary tells me they still do).

I could go on and on. I’m just so happy.

I do want to establish however that I hold no angst towards my four year Marketing stint. It’s really helped me a lot. I can discourse intelligently, for example, on how a 0.3% cost reduction on a mayonnaise formulation actually helps bring vitality to 80 million Filipino lives. I have learned the difference between induction and conduction sealing. I know how to work thrilling software innovations like ACNielsen I-Sight 6.2 and Microsoft Binder. And most importantly, I can make you believe that increasing my logo by 3/10ths of a centimeter on an advertorial actually helped improve my sales in Tuguegarao public markets by 7% for two weeks last February.

I was really good at my old job. I spent two years on the High Potential list at U-Will-Never, I got to pretend I was Category Manager for six months, and I was always reminded by my advertising, activation, and media Agencies that I was one of their favorite Clients (it was my plunging necklines and plaid pants that did it).

But I really love my new career. If I could pick any Karen Carpenter song to sing about it, I would probably sing a disco remix medley of “Top Of The World” and “Sing (Sing A Song)”.

Calling the shots” is an overrated cliché. What I do now as an Agency person is far more important, and far more fulfilling. It’s called “living my dream.

And that, at the end of the day, is why I did what I did.

(By the way, this is a highly editorialized opinion piece, so none of you are allowed to speak up in defense of the Marketing side of life.)

Click here for Part One of MDJ Superstar’s thrilling, purely fictional Manly Man Manifesto adventures as he stood face to face with the unholy army of the Bieber-Gaga cult of teenybopper pop culture!

*****

MDJ Superstar was trapped. He knew there was no escape. He could either help art-direct the fashion pictorial of the freshly-dolled up Fashion Diva Princesses on the gardens facing Bonifacio High Street’s local hell-hole of pink glitter, Club Princess, or he could burn in eternal damnation on the fiery altar of the Cult of Gaga.

“You leave me no choice, foul princesses,” he muttered, as a single perfect tear welled up in his glistening ochre eyes. “With the help of my assistant models, Trixie and Ara, I will elevate you to fashion immortality.”

Off scampered the Fashion Diva Princesses, with MDJ Superstar trudging sadly in their wake. They lined up in the ever-extending ebony shadow of Club Princess, squealing and giggling with nervous eagerness.

The foul pink soldiers of Gaga forming their demonic ranks, with the assistance of professional models Trixie & Ara.

“Alright girls!” exclaimed MDJ Superstar, his fear now swallowed and digested into a more manageable lump of fortitude, “At the count of three, everyone smile, pose, and shout, DIVA!!!”

The girls tossed their be-glittered hair in the wind, with feathered boas whipping ferociously around them like dragon-snakes searching ravenously for their next victim. A pall of anticipation befell them.

MDJ Superstar gathered his breath. In the distance, the shrill call of a lone wolf echoed through a morose sky.

“ONE… TWO… THREE… DIVA!!!”

The assembled ranks of the Underage Frilly Fashion Diva Princesses.

Will you spare me?” MDJ Superstar intoned, his voice rasping slightly. “Will you allow me to go off to do Appropriately Manly Things such as having my car detailed or downloading scintillating pornography at Flesh Asia Daily 3.0?”

“We shall do no such thing,” squealed the horde of Fashion Diva Princesses. “We shall invite you to partake in some chocolate cake, and possibly even chicken fingers with us at TGIFriday’s, and watch us as we do our fashion walk-off on the High Holy Catwalk of Gaga!”

And so off they dashed to the nearby restaurant, filling the bar area with a throng of pink glitter and giggles.

Zarah is shocked at the ferocious torrent of Fashion Diva Princesses who filled the room with their demonic glitter-gear..

Within, a tall, sombre figure of imposing height towered above the crowd of 7-year old’s, her impassive stare reading into the very nooks and crannies of each of their souls. She was Carisse Escueta, and she knew what it meant to be a Fashion Diva Princess too.

Taking charge: Carisse, the High Holy Priestess of Gaga holds court over the Fashion Diva Princesses.

“Alright Fashion Diva Princesses,” she exclaimed, “Everybody line up on stage and get ready to vamp down the red carpet!”

Getting ready to own the catwalk.

A wild cheer emanated from the assembled ranks of the Diva Fashion Princesses. Catwalks and red carpets were completely familiar territory to them. They had, after all, absorbed every single episode of the last 18 seasons of America’s Next Top Model.

And off they vamped. They ramped, and they stamped. The red carpet was their dominion, and each other’s cheers and giggles were their fire.

“All right Divas,” thundered Carisse once the 19-strong contingent had completed its parade. “Let’s get the birthday girl Bea on stage, and we can have her blow out her candles!”

Getting ready to put out the Fashion Flames burning steadily on the Barbie birthday cake.

An uneven chorus of “Happy Birthday To You” broke out, serenading little Bea with love and appreciation. “Happy birthday, dear Bea… Happy birthday to you!”

And like a gracious duchess bidding thanks to a delegation of nobles, Bea mounted the stage with her beautiful, extremely curvaceous mother, and expressed her heart-felt emotions to her fellow Fashion Diva Princesses.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she purred. “I had so much fun, and hope you all did too!”

And swift as a lightning bolt, it was all over, a shower of warm applause washing over the birthday girl as laser-lights traced constellations around her.

“It was all worth it,” thought MDJ Superstar to himself, nodding with a fresh wave of understanding. “These girls live to diva. Viva la diva!”

Far above him, a single, flawless white dove took flight into the air.

Slowly, it sailed higher and higher into the sky, finally vanishing into a sparkling lake of molten gold as the sun beamed serenely down upon 19 newly-minted Fashion Diva Princesses.

World peace, muttered MDJ Superstar to nobody in particular. It was all about world peace.

The Birthday Girl.


*****

This epic two-part extravaganza is dedicated to two of the most perfect, wonderful, beautiful women in my life – the lovely, talented, and extremely voluptuous Zarah Hernaez, and her wonderfully charming little girl, Bea.

Madonna & Child.

The following is a purely fictional Manly Man Manifesto retelling of the spectacular Fashion Diva party organized by Zarah for the 7th birthday party of her little girl, Bea, at Club Princess on Bonifacio High Street.

*****

“What terrors lie within this festering hellhole lined with glitters and faux fur, and stinking of Melondew and Vanilla?” MDJ Superstar asked himself, as he tentatively nudged open the lime green gates guarding the entrance to the no-man’s-land known as Club Princess.

A lamb about to enter the lion's den.

The intro riff of Justin Bieber‘s Eenie Meenie shattered the air, their Satanic verses casting even more trauma upon MDJ’s already-straining manhood.

“AUGH!!! MY EYES!!!” MDJ screamed, falling to his knees as before him, a parade of fur-trimmed jelly loot bags forming their ranks. They sat menacingly upon the shelves, their gaping jaws lined with the blood of dead glitterkins.

Fur-trimmed lootbags lay in wait, their gaping jaws dripping with the blood of dead glitterkins.

Around him, jewel-colored wigs lined the walls, strange tokens perhaps from the legendary Eastern European War of the Supermodels, in all likelihood ripped from the scalps of Scandinavian fashion models as they lay bleeding to death on leopard-print throw rugs.

Trophies of the hunt.

“Ssssave us…” a trembling spectral whisper beseeched MDJ, as before him, slavering 7-year old Assumptionista girls submitted themselves to strange, unearthly manipulations and hairstyling rituals.

Club Princess torture scars.

MDJ let out an anguished wail, then whirled around in a panicked attempt to escape from the freakish practices surrounding him.

“You cannot leave, Superstar” growled the gaunt, haunted waif of a girl who manifested before him, the electric pink fur of a slaughtered snugglepuff trailing from her claws. “Not until you submit yourself to… the Royal Diva Treatment.”

The Spectral Guardian to Club Princess.

But I cannot do it,” MDJ Superstar screeched. “My abundant pools of testosterone will not allow myself to be prostituted upon the Shrine of Lady Gaga! Just look at the horrors that are being inflicted upon these helpless little girls! The horror, oh, the horror!”

Another victim of the Cult of Gaga.

“Do not mock the Gaga,” intoned the sombre fleet of little girls who had somehow succeeded in barricading our brave, bemuscled Superstar from escaping the softly-perfumed interiors of Club Princess. “We are preparing for… a fashion pictorial.”

The horde of little girls freshly-subjected to the horrors of the Royal Diva Treatment.

You win,” MDJ weakly murmured, his knees melting into a useless mess of potpourri. “I am helpless to resist the combined powers of Arch-Demon Bieber and the Hell Queen Gaga. Where do I begin?”

“Well,” the horde of little diva princesses piped up, “you can help us by organizing our poses for our fashion pictorial!”

“Very well,” sighed MDJ Superstar, his once-proud tenor having devolved into a weak slush of resignation. “You can start by taking your sparkly shades and jeweled boas, then lining up by height outside along Bonifacio High Street.”

The diva princesses preparing for their fashion pictorial posedown.

*****

Did MDJ Superstar survive the hellish ordeal about to be set upon him by the joined forces of the Satanic Bieber-Gaga union? Click here for Part Two, the spine-tingling conclusion of our horrific tale of fashion and frou-frou, only here on MDJSuperstar.com!

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