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CHKN DRUM, New Orleans, LA (2026)

03/31/2026

Day 519 — 23 days have passed since I last talked about this… and instead of slowing down like a reasonable human being, I accelerated. I didn’t even know that was possible?!! I’ve entered a new phase. A darker phase. A greasier phase. At this point, I don’t even order it anymore. It just… shows up.

I’ll hear a knock at the door. I didn’t order anything. I didn’t even open an app. But there it is. A warm box. Waiting. Like the universe itself is enabling me.

I asked the delivery guy once, “Who paid for this?” He just looked at me and said, “You know who.”

I don’t. I really don’t.

Today has changed me. I’ve stopped pretending this is a streak. This is now a lifestyle with consequences. My body makes noises it shouldn’t make. Not pain—just… crunch-adjacent sounds when I move too fast. I stretched this morning and my knee popped like crispy skin and I had to sit down and reflect. Also, I think people can smell it on me permanently now.

Not in a bad way… but in a concerningly consistent way.

A girl hugged me yesterday and paused mid-embrace. “…why do you smell like that?” —I said nothing. Because how do you explain 519 days of fried chicken without sounding like you’ve lost custody of reality?

The worst part is, I tried to take a break.I really did.
Yesterday I said, “Alright, let’s eat something clean today.” I bought a salad. A full, responsible, adult salad. Sat down. Took one bite.

And I swear to you… my body f**king rejected it like a bad organ transplant. I just stared at it like, “What is this? Where is the crunch? Where is the purpose?”. Five minutes later I was eating fried chicken again like I had just relapsed after a 30-second recovery journey.

At this point, I’m starting to think Day 500 did something to me. Like I crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to cross. A threshold. A gateway.

So now? Shiiii Uhhh now I don’t crave fried chicken…
fried chicken craves me. Keep a lookout for 4/17 🍗

03/08/2026

It’s Sunday. Day 496 of fried chicken.

Most people wake up on Sundays and go to church, drink coffee, maybe call their parents. I woke up thinking about fried chicken before my eyes even fully opened. Not casually either—like a full mental IMAX preview of the crunch.

Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. Reflection. Peace.

Meanwhile I’m standing in my kitchen staring at a box of fried chicken like it contains ancient wisdom. Other people read scripture on Sundays. I’m studying crispy skin patterns.

my ahhh body doesn’t even question it anymore. My stumpy just clocks in like, “Alright boys, shipment’s here.”

The weird part is my senses are changing. I swear I can smell fried chicken from blocks away now. I walked outside earlier and my head slowly turned like a shark that just smelled blood.

My food delivery apps don’t even pretend to recommend other food anymore either. The algorithm just wakes up and says, “Yeah… we know what this guy wants.”

Anyway. It’s Sunday…Some people are finding God today. Not me im looking for dem fried chicken finger lickin good bayyybeee

03/07/2026

Day 496….sorry i haven’t posted in awhile but just hear me out. Four hundred and ninety-six days of waking up and immediately thinking about fried chicken before my feet even hit the floor. At this point the obsession isn’t even a habit anymore—it’s more like a lifestyle choice that slowly evolved into a personality trait, then quietly became a medical mystery.

This morning I woke up and stared at the ceiling for a moment, just reflecting. Not about life goals. Not about personal growth. Just thinking about fried chicken. Somewhere in the distance a deep fryer probably turned on and my brain reacted the way wolves react to a full moon.

Day 496 means my body has fully adapted. My stomach doesn’t even ask questions anymore. It just clocks in like a factory worker when fried chicken shows up. Efficient. Professional. No paperwork.

My kitchen smells like a long-term relationship with fried chicken. Not the fresh smell either—more like the kind of scent that has soaked into the walls, the furniture, possibly the spiritual fabric of the apartment. If historians ever excavate this place they won’t find artifacts. They’ll just smell fried chicken and write papers about it.

At some point around day 300 I stopped pretending I might slow down. That ship sailed, hit a bucket of grease, and slid straight into a pile of drumsticks. Now when people ask what I’ve been eating lately, I don’t even answer with words. I just give them a look. They already know.

Physically, I’m starting to suspect changes.

My reflexes are faster when food arrives in a cardboard box. My nose can detect fried chicken from distances that frankly feel supernatural. If there’s a batch cooking within a two-block radius, I’ll know. My head will slowly turn like a shark that just smelled blood.

But the weirdest part today is the calm.

I’m no longer fighting it. I’ve accepted my role in the universe. Some people meditate. Some people run marathons. Some people study philosophy.

And then there’s me… quietly continuing a 496-day streak involving fried chicken, wondering if day 500 is when my final form unlocks.

At that point I probably won’t even order it anymore.

It’ll just… find me. 🍗

03/06/2026

Day 496….sorry i haven’t posted in awhile but just hear me out. Four hundred and ninety-six days of waking up and immediately thinking about fried chicken before my feet even hit the floor. At this point the obsession isn’t even a habit anymore—it’s more like a lifestyle choice that slowly evolved into a personality trait, then quietly became a medical mystery.

This morning I woke up and stared at the ceiling for a moment, just reflecting. Not about life goals. Not about personal growth. Just thinking about fried chicken. Somewhere in the distance a deep fryer probably turned on and my brain reacted the way wolves react to a full moon.

Day 496 means my body has fully adapted. My stomach doesn’t even ask questions anymore. It just clocks in like a factory worker when fried chicken shows up. Efficient. Professional. No paperwork.

My kitchen smells like a long-term relationship with fried chicken. Not the fresh smell either—more like the kind of scent that has soaked into the walls, the furniture, possibly the spiritual fabric of the apartment. If historians ever excavate this place they won’t find artifacts. They’ll just smell fried chicken and write papers about it.

At some point around day 300 I stopped pretending I might slow down. That ship sailed, hit a bucket of grease, and slid straight into a pile of drumsticks. Now when people ask what I’ve been eating lately, I don’t even answer with words. I just give them a look. They already know.

Physically, I’m starting to suspect changes.

My reflexes are faster when food arrives in a cardboard box. My nose can detect fried chicken from distances that frankly feel supernatural. If there’s a batch cooking within a two-block radius, I’ll know. My head will slowly turn like a shark that just smelled blood.

But the weirdest part of day 496 is the calm.

I’m no longer fighting it. I’ve accepted my role in the universe. Some people meditate. Some people run marathons. Some people study philosophy.

And then there’s me… quietly continuing a 496-day streak involving fried chicken, wondering if day 500 is when my final form unlocks.

At that point I probably won’t even order it anymore.

It’ll just… find me. 🍗

01/24/2026

Hold the green button. Do it.

12/20/2025

ITS FRYDAY x Final CHKN DRUM of the year 🐤
Tonight is special. Tonight is CHKN DRUM’s final party of the year, which in my religion is basically Christmas, New Year’s, and the Super Bowl wrapped in greaseproof paper. I walk in already vibrating because I know there’s going to be fried chicken on the dance floor. Not metaphorical fried chicken. Real, actual, life-altering fried chicken—out in the open, under club lights, sweating grease like it’s been working out harder than anyone there.

The DJ drops the beat and my heart drops with it, because right there—between the speakers and someone doing an unnecessary body roll—is fried chicken. On. The. Dance. Floor. I’m not even dancing anymore, I’m pacing like a kid at recess who just spotted pizza day. Every bass hit sounds like “fried chicken, fried chicken, fried chicken.” My pupils dilate. My soul leaves my body briefly and comes back holding a drumstick.

People are grinding, drinks are spilling, but I’m locked in—watching fried chicken get passed hand to hand like currency. A thigh brushes my elbow and I get goosebumps. Someone yells “LAST PARTY OF THE YEAR” and I yell “WHO GOT THE FRIED CHICKEN” like it’s a public service announcement. This isn’t a club anymore, it’s a sanctuary. The floor is sticky, the air is hot, and somewhere near the booth someone just raised fried chicken over their head like Simba.

At this point, I’m not even drunk—I’m fried chicken high. I dance harder. I smile wider. I feel things. If this is how the year ends, surrounded by music, sweat, and fried chicken on the dance floor, then honestly? Take me now. CHKN DRUM didn’t just throw a party—they fed my spirit. 🍗🔥

12/18/2025

We’re so back 🙂‍↔️🐤
Day 418 ½. The sun rose, but so did my craving for fried chicken. I checked the fridge like a gambler checking a slot machine—jackpot: leftover fried chicken, cold, stiff, still sexy. I ate fried chicken straight out of the container with my bare hands like a caveman who discovered seasoning. No plate. No dignity. Just fried chicken and destiny. My phone tried to remind me to drink water, but water doesn’t crunch, so I ignored it and ordered more fried chicken instead.

By noon, my body had entered what scientists call “The Fried Chicken Zone,” where time slows down and every thought is either about fried chicken, acquiring fried chicken, or recovering from fried chicken. I smelled fried chicken on my clothes even after I showered. My cologne? Notes of pepper, grease, and poor decisions. A stranger hugged me and whispered, “Damn… is that fried chicken?” I nodded solemnly.

That night, I tried to be strong. I said, “Maybe I’ll eat something else.” The universe laughed and handed me fried chicken with a biscuit on the side like a peace offering. I blacked out and woke up with crumbs on my chest and fried chicken dreams in my soul. At this point, I’m not eating fried chicken—fried chicken is eating me. And honestly? I’ve never felt more alive. 🍗

12/17/2025

It’s been 418 days of eating fried chicken. Today I woke up and for breakfast I ate fried chicken—cold fried chicken, standing over the sink like a raccoon with goals. I went to work and picked up some fried chicken for lunch, because nothing says “career-driven adult” like scheduling meetings around fried chicken availability. By mid-afternoon, my body wasn’t running on caffeine or motivation, it was running strictly on fried chicken grease and delusion. My coworkers don’t ask my name anymore, they just say “the fried chicken guy is here.”

Dinner? Obviously fried chicken. Not just one kind of fried chicken either—dark meat fried chicken, white meat fried chicken, that mysterious gas-station fried chicken that tastes like regret and freedom at the same time. My doctor says I need vegetables, but fried chicken is a vegetable if you emotionally believe hard enough. My arteries are coated in fried chicken memories. My bank statements read like a love letter to fried chicken. I don’t hear my conscience anymore—just the whisper of fried chicken skin cracking when you bite it.

At this point, my personality is fried chicken. My zodiac sign? Fried Chicken Rising. If I go more than half a day without fried chicken, I start shaking, questioning reality, and googling “closest fried chicken near me” like it’s an emergency service. S*x is cool, but have you ever had fried chicken that’s still hot in the box, steaming like it knows it’s about to ruin your life? Exactly. If loving fried chicken is wrong, then arrest me, bread me, deep-fry me, and serve me with a side of fried chicken—because this isn’t a phase, it’s a lifestyle. 🍗

12/17/2025

Don’t miss TORO’s debut 🪩🐤
THIS FRIDAY @ POORBOYS

12/11/2025

12.19.25 POOR BOYS BAR 🐤

CHKN DRUM

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