"Hey!" Kiki chirped through my phone. "What time you starting your Super Bowl party?"
On the list of people with whom I would want to watch my team play in the Super Bowl, chatty Kiki ranks somewhere between Gilbert Gottfried and Bobcat Goldthwait. Her voice doesn't merely penetrate. It punctures and lacerates. I would sooner watch the game while getting a root canal, clipping my toenails in a Cuisinart, and listening to Barry Manilow's Copacabana on endless repeat.
"There is no party," I replied honestly. "I know from past experience that I can't socialize when the Steelers are in the Super Bowl, especially when they lose. I will watch alone."
"Yeah, and it would annoy you because I'm (pregnant pause for effect) ROOTING FOR THE PACKERS."
"I really don't care who you root for, Kiki."
"I'm totally ROOTING FOR THE PACKERS!"
"Name two Packers players, Kiki."
Long pause. Then—
"Favre...and..."