Which is, now that it’s on the interwebs, not so secret at all.
Last night we did something dirrty. That’s right: diRRty with 2 R’s.
But before you judge us, let me first weakly point out that it’s not something we do all the time, it’s certainly not something we’re proud of, and we really don’t want y’all to think it reflects on us as people.
OK.
So here it is:
Last night we had KFC for dinner.
Something about this week has just called out to us in the most depraved way, and it finally found its way into my heart (and gullet) last night. Oh, it was brutal.
Too ashamed to go up to the Village (where we might be recognized), we hopped in the car and drove all the way out to Queen and Portland (practically PARKDALE!) to seek out the dirtiest of birds (KFC, not the Owl, who as it turns out also used to live in Parkdale).
After discreetly parking somewhere out of sight, we pulled up our hoods like pre-teen hooliwhores and dashed inside. Placing our order with the counter-monkey, I mentally pranced in place, ringing my hands and chanting “c’mon! c’mon!” like an impatient Homer Simpson. Once the grease-laminated bag was in my hands, we were back out the door like a flash and into the car.
To avoid the stank of KFC permanently damaging the interior of the car, we left the sunroof open on the way home. It was cold, but it was for the good of the car. Arriving back at the building, it was a mad dash through the public spaces to get into our condo without another living person seeing us (and smelling us) with KFC. We were lucky; the only person who saw us was the concierge, and I’m sure he’s seen worse things coming and going from this building.
Safely ensconced in our home, it was an orgy of grease, that shredded green stuff they call coleslaw and unusually slimy macaroni salad. Thankfully, it was all over relatively quickly.
Now the only problem is coming across the leftovers in the fridge the next morning, like a Coyote Ugly one-night-stand you couldn’t quite chew your way out of
