Monday, March 3, 2003

After walking in from Alaskan weather and a saccharine sweet showing of Spike Lee’s Bamboozled (by “saccharine sweet,” I mean multilateral racial tensions ending in a HAIL OF GUNFIRE), it’s safe to say that I’m in an oh-so-happy mood. Those of you who have met me in person will probably agree that I am the brightest ray of sunshine ever to grace the known world. Why am I so chipper? I’ll tell you why, gentle reader. I take life’s gosh-darned lemons, mutilate them, and then proceed to make unsweetened lemonade out of the PULPY mess.

I once maligned a certain shop for producing sandwiches that don’t keep well. I was wrong to do so, dear reader, and I shall be more open-minded. You see, not only can I dish out vitriol to one joint, but I can also dole out vitriol to two ratholes. Let me tell you how my day went.

After eating lunch today, I Googled “disgusting” and do you know what I got? Baja “Fresh”. Because you care so much, gentle reader, I will tell you that I ordered the “Burrito Ultimo” from the cheery folks at the counter. It turned out, however, that it wouldn’t have mattered whether I ordered the “Burrito Ultimo,” the “Fajita Forte Fortissimo,” the “Chips de la Puke,” or “el Pollo Vomito.” You see, I found out their little company secret. All of the chicken dishes? They’re actually from the same line of food.

“The same line of food?” you ask in your tuberculosis-ridden Oliver Twist voice.

“Yes,” I nod gravely. “The Chicken McNASTY line.”

What was wrong with my burrito? I think the burrito-gicians forgot to check out the Big Book on Food Texture from their culinary library. Everything tasted like sand. In fact, I hiked over to Lighthouse Beach afterwards, and you know what? They should call it Lighthouse Lake now. To top it all off, I found a horribly mangled piece of asparagus–or scallion, perhaps–underneath my burrito. Where the HECK was the parsley?

Suffice it to say that I wanted to kow-tow to the porcelain goddess, but decided to soldier on and digest the burrito. Should I ever desire another burrito, however, I will head back to my first love: Chipotle. Forgive me for my infidelity.

“Where’s the chipper part?” you ask, eager to catch me in a hairy contradiction.

At the end of the day, dear reader, I’m thankful for the character-building that this experience afforded me. I’m thankful for the 6.30 I paid to a yuppie Mexican joint. I have nothing to complain about. Oops, too late.