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Last night was no different. I think it's gotten worse because of Holley. I make smartass remark. Kara smirks. Holley laughs and adds another smartass remark. Next thing you know, we're out of control and Kara's sitting there, looking like she'd hit us with a tire iron if she had one handy.

By her own admission, it's not a meal unless Kara winds up wearing her food. She blogged about that recently, but I can't seem to find it. You'll just have to take my word. I'm much the same way. As you read the following, I want you to keep in mind that the mean, vicious person doing the teasing is the same person who had The Pepper Incident on a date. We were eating Chinese food, and I was looking all cute in a rather low-cut shirt. Just as I lifted a large slice of green pepper - on a fork, mind you, because chopsticks are far beyond my dining skills - my date looked at me in time to see me get the pepper to my lips, only to send it tumbling, sauce and all, down my cleavage. Having to dig a chunk of a kung pao'd veggie out of ones boobs while ones date laughs himself to the point of hemmorage is rather humbling. But damn if I didn't marry that man anyway.

Anyway, my point is, I'm a big ol' pot, Kara's a sweet little kettle, and I'm jumping up and down like a ninny, screaming and laughing at how black she is.

Last night she was wearing a very cute red shirt that had an elegantly draped neckline. Like this. It looked great on her, really. And she totally looked better than my lazy t-shirt-out-of-the-hamper-wearing-ass. And an added bonus: I noted that when she dropped bits of her pad thai, she'd be able to arrange the drapes on her shirt to hide the stains. Fashionable and functional!

And from there, it just snowballed out of control. For some reason, I envisioned Kara losing a fried chicken wing in the drapes of her shirt. "How embarrassing," I said. "You're gonna be making out with some anonymous stranger and whoops! A chicken wing just fell out of your shirt!" Kara glared the stink-eye. Holley laughed.

As the evening wore on, that little imaginary chicken wing grew. Kara had made a visit to the bathroom, and in her abscence Holley and I lost all control and the next thing we knew we've got a scenario in which Kara's smuggling an entire bucket of Colonel Sanders' finest in her shirt.

Do you know the comedy potential that comes with such an image? Do you? It's extreme, my friends. Extreme. But with great potential comes great responsibility, which Holley and I beat to death with a crowbar.

"I smell chicken!" I said. "Must be Kara!"

"She's wearing Eau Du Cluck," Holley added. "Hey, you got any cole slaw in there?"

"No Holley! You don't even wanna know where she keeps the slaw!"

When Kara returned from the bathroom, she found us in a heap, our rampage slowed only by the the physical limitations caused by laughing ourselves into a state of incapacitation. Kara didn't have to say anything. And even if she had, we wouldn't have heard her because we were delirious. The look on her face said it: "You people are fucking retards and I know this is something really stupid about me and I so wish I had a tire iron and could beat you."

And yet, what did Kara do? She added fuel to her fire by chosing this particular moment to empty her purse onto the table.

"She's looking for the mashed taters and gravy!" I tried to say, but I only got a few words out before I fell out of my chair, pissed myself, and started convulsing.

I would like it noted that in the many years I have been allowed to be friends with Kara, I think I've only seen her eat fried chicken two, maybe three times. It's not like she's got some huge fried chicken-flavored monkey on her back. No. The monkey on her back is actually a macaque, whose name is Dak. Dak's eyes are black and she has an enormous rack and do you see how fucking easy it is???? Because now not only do you have an image of Kara with a bucket of chicken in her shirt, taters and gravy in her purse and slaw in an indisclosed and private location, but she's also got a large-breasted black-eyed primate on her back!

At the end of the concert - yes, we did pay attention to the quite good concert - I noted that it was a good thing Kara was parked directly across the street from the show's venue, while Holley and I were parked several blocks away. Kara wouldn't have to endure the walk past the Church's Fried Chicken up the block with us.

Of course, all these terrible teasing had an instant karma effect, because I left the show with a fried chicken craving unlike any I've ever experienced. Do you know how hard it is to find decent fried chicken at 11:00 on a Friday night? It's hard, People. I found myself wishing that I had a bucket of chicken stashed in my shirt and mashed taters and gravy in my handbag. Luckily, I'm not a fan of the cole slaw.

Next week when Kara and I go to the Weezer show, I fully expect her to require me to wear several layers of duct tape over my pie hole so that she can get at least one evening of peace and quiet. And I'll submit to her request. It's the least I can do.

You know, I kid because I love. That's how I show my affection. I'm not a hugger. I'm not good at saying the L word. But if you're one of the rare people I'm fond of, you can bet that I wish you a shirtful of chicken, a purseful of taters and gravy, and panties full of slaw.