No, this is not a post about the terrors of cock-fighting. Last night, on the way home from a brief bout of shopping, I was feeling the stomach growling as I made my way home on Michigan Ave. The bus was fairly empty, and I had a seat, a new book and my iPod tunes. I was happy.
Then a woman boarded at the last stop before the Lake Shore Drive underpass with the worst thing to bring on a bus. Terrible. Cruel and unusual.
She was toting a large take-out bag of fried chicken.
You think it is safely sealed in those plastic containers? Yeah, no.
The smell of fresh, crispy, warm, seasoned fried chicken flooded the bus. People looked around, noses perked up, stomachs audibly responded.
As a girl from the south, I know some good fried chicken when I smell it. And that was finger lickin' good chicken.
I had to use everything in my power keep myself from getting off at her stop and following her home for dinner.
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