My Dirty Secret

Once a year, when S goes out of town, I’m a bad man.

I revel in the kind of filth and depravity that would stop your heart, loosen your bowels and cause your knees to knock so loudly you’d swear someone was trying to break in the house.

I eats me some KFC.

I tuck into a bucket of a chicken, a mess of fries and enough gravy to lubricate a car engine, should you be thick enough to consider that sort of thing wise.

Well. Tonight is that night. The night I’ve been dreaming about for months. S is off visiting her parents and I’m prepping for what is surely going to be one of the lowest points in my life thus far. The feeding frenzy.

The plan.

Frisbee game at 7pm, which ends approximately at 8:15.

Order the KFC from the car as I bomb down the DVP in a mad rush to beat the delivery guy to my door.

Cue up two hours of some absolute guilty pleasure movie, I’m leaning towards Saving Private Ryan or The Children of Men.

Then abandon all pretense of dignity as I gorge myself on just about the worst form of fast food available.

I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t do it. I know it’s bad for me. I know that PETA is likely to show up at my door and drench me in fake blood (at least I hope its fake).

I. don’t. care.

I’ve seen the looks on people face’s. I’ve heard the scorn in their voices. I’ve lived through it all. But nothing will keep me from enjoying the finger licking goodness of the Colonel’s chicken.

I am a KFC addict and I wear that badge with pride.