There is a wealth of sheer depravity buried deep inside the guts of the dedicated boozehound that contributes largely to our debauched society. All one has to do is step inside the halls of Alcoholics Anonymous on any given day to hear rounds of checkered tales about how a lust for liquor has dragged these lost souls of a sudsy nation down a grave rabbit hole of raw dog promiscuity, legal complications and countless nights locked inside a foul-mouthed love affair with a toilet bowl. Indeed the grips of alcoholism is often a schizophrenic beast with puke breath just trying to make it past another vicious hangover to one more happy hour. But there is a point of no return—a rotten, stinkhole of a place, where the true bruisers of the bottle gather before the bitters end. This hellish scene, we are beyond sad to report, is apparently at Kentucky Fried Chicken, the birthplace of gravy cocktails.