CHKN DRUM

Day 549 - it’s about to be Friday Night: Grease Has Plans ……The kind of rainy Friday where people pretend they’re going out for music, vibes, “just one drink” instead of staying in with this bs weather. Meanwhile I’ve been pacing my house like a villain in a low-budget crime movie because I already know what’s waiting for me: = Fried chicken on the dance floor… 🍗 Until I realized that the next “fried chicken” party isn’t until May 30th. I’m mad don’t talk to me 🐤

2NITE: SOULJUNK x CHKN DRUM debut at NOLA’s newest venue THE CRYPT. Tixxx in bio. COME EAT N DANCE 💃🏻🕺🏿

Yoooour (only) favorite fried chicken x dance music party hits 2026 with the new venue THE CRYPT in New Orleans this Fryday. Bring ur own hot sauce 🌶️🤣

Yeeppp u guessed it we’re doing a lineup spotlight: Kwench is a bass music DJ/producer blending trap, dubstep, and future bass, built around heavy low-end, sharp rhythms, and immersive, club-focused energy. He’s performed across local clubs and packed events, and has opened for dozens of sold out shows including INZO & Crystal Method; Kaivon, Trivecta, San Holo and many more. His sets are high-impact and bass-forward, designed for maximum flow and intensity on the dance floor. Peep homies set this Friday at THE CRYPT ⚰️

So apparently… there’s a party this Friday. And not just any party. I’ve been hearing whispers. Rumors. Unverified but spiritually believable information that there will be fried chicken on the dance floor. Not in the kitchen. Not in the back. Not “after the party.” No……….:::On the dance floor. The moment I heard that, my entire nervous system rebooted bro. I stopped mid-conversation like I be possessed on some shii. Someone was talking to me about rent or something important, and I just hit them with: “Wait… say that again. Slowly. With intention.” They said it again. “Yeah… they’re putting fried chicken… on the dance floor.” There ain’t no wayyyy. Fr I haven’t been the same since. —I’ve been preparing all week like this is the Olympics. Stretching. Hydrating. Mentally rehearsing scenarios. Because you don’t just casually walk into a situation where there’s fried chicken on the dance floor. That’s not a normal social setting—that’s a test of character. What if the beat drops and someone lifts a drumstick in the air like it’s the Holy Grail? That will fmu fr 😭 What if I make eye contact with a wing mid-two-step? What if I’m dancin’… and suddenly there’s a box being passed around like a sacred artifact? I already know I’m folding instantly. See you at The Crypt on 4/17 Queen.

NEW ROOM Enter: THE CRYPT. 4.17.26

NEW VENUE. WHO DIS? We’re debuting our first party of the year at the NEWEST venue in Nola. Did you miss us or was it just the fried chicken? 🐤 also not sorry @morrisbartlawfirm

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. Oh so I heard a knock at th door. I didn’t order anything. I didn’t even open an app. But there it was maynee. A warm box. Waiting n shi 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.” Umm I don’t. I really don’t. Today has changed me tho; 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, “TF is this? Where is the crunch? Where is the purpose?”. 5 min later I was eating fried chicken again like I had just relapsed after a 30-second recovery journey. At this point, I’m startin to think Day 500 did somethin to me. Like I crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to cross. A threshold. A gateway.. bruh. So now? Shiiii Uhhh now I don’t crave fried chicken… fried chicken craves me. Keep a lookout for 4/17 🍗

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

ITS FRYDAY x Final CHKN DRUM of the year 🐤 @poorboysbar 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. 🍗🔥

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. 🍗

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. Sex 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. 🍗 SEE U FRYDAY AT 10P 😘😘😘