I went to get a burrito for lunch today. I love burritos. They’re like Mexican sandwiches, and we all know how a man like me appreciates a good sandwich. Also, “burrito” means “little donkey” which is an awesome thing to say you’re having for lunch, particularly in the native language. It’s like if we had a food item called “monkeys’ faces” here in the US of States.
“What are you having for lunch?”
Today, however, did not want to let me acquire and enjoy my little donkey in any reasonable manner. It was as if the burrito gods were furious at me, lashing out against me with ordeals that I had to overcome in order to prove my divine worthiness of wee mule consumption. It was sort of like the 12 trials of Hercules except it didn’t involve Hercules (it was me), there weren’t 12 trials (there were five), and I didn’t have to endure them to redeem myself for killing my wife and children (I only wanted a burrito).
Trial One: Uruguay Explorer
I don’t normally allow SUVs to change over a lane in front of me. First of all, I can’t see around them, so I’d rather not have them in front of me. Second, I hate them and I think the people who drive them should be dragged into the street and shot a dozen times in the face, so I tend not to do nice things like integrate them in the flow of traffic.
It was not so easy with Uruguay Explorer, though. Uruguay Explorer was a big, white Ford Explorer driven by some hellbent bitch whose whole driving philosophy was “use the no-look at all times” and had a big, blue URUGUAY sticker across the back window. You know — so people would know she was from Uruguay. She probably got asked that a lot and figured it would save her time in the long run just to put the sticker on her truckasaurus.
The no-look is hard to use. It consists solely of not looking when you change lanes. It takes balls — cojones, perhaps, given that we’re talking about Mexican food — to use the no-look because the principle behind it is being so righteous that you take the lane, and to hell with whoever’s already there. It says, “This lane is mine, and I scoff at your ill-claimed right of way.” Only dudes who are supposed to be there use the no-look.
Well, not Uruguay Explorer. She didn’t take the lane out of divine right. She took the lane because she wasn’t paying any attention to the road and OH AT THE LAST MINUTE DECIDED THAT SHE NEEDED TO BE IN THE OTHER LANE SO OVER SHE SWERVED.
SUV people do this a lot. By nature, they’re selfish cocksuckers, as evidenced by the cars they drive. When cops stop at accident sites, they usually ask, “Where’s the SUV?” even if there’s not an SUV involved because SUV drivers are so monumentally stupid and self-absorbed that they cause all accidents, even the ones they don’t cause directly. It’s true.
Anyway, Uruguay Explorer did this — and then did it again a block later.
At the following light, I shouted at her and spit on her Uruguay Explorer. Then she looked at me like I was the asshole.
Trial Two: Fat Woman Patience Test
I’m at Willy’s Mexicana Grill. Great burritos. Far better than Sodium’s… I mean Moe’s.
The fat woman in line behind me is talking about whatever she ingested the night before, and remarks to her in-line compatriot, “I really need to cut down on carbs.”
No, you loathsome sow, you need to engage in some physical activity, and sweating while you think doesn’t count. Fixing one’s diet isn’t something as simple as simple as cutting down on carbohydratess, and–
Wait a minute. You’re at a FUCKING MEXICAN RESTAURANT. IT’S ALL CARBOHYDRATES HERE. Beans. Rice. Chips. Tortillas made with bleached fucking flour, for Christ’s sake.
People who count “carbs” are rotten from the brain on outward. They’re like those people on the Internet who put “(sp?)” after words they think might be misspelled, just to show you they’re so smart that they know they might have spelled the word incorrectly, yet they can’t be bothered to make the effort to look the word up or actually correct it. Talking about “carbs” — the word is “carbohydrates,” you beasts — shows the rest of the world that the beefasaur in question is so smart she “knows” what’s supposed to be in a balanced diet (even though she’s completely wrong), but that she still wants to pack in the grub.
So fuck you, you fat broad. May you die, go to Hell, and be forever punished by counting the “carbs” ingested in this earthly Limbo by your fellow gut-pigs.
Trial Three: Cell-Phone Asshole
People who use cell phones in public are, as the French say, “used diapers marinated in douche.” I’m not talking about taking a quick call to coordinate plans or using one to find your buddy. I’m talking about the fucksticks who carry on conversations in public.
Look, people: A cell phone is not a sign of affluence or importance. They’re cheaper than home phones. All you’re talking about is what movie your bestial, carb-counting wife wants you to bring home with her rashers of bacon. The call can wait until you’re back at your desk. No one thinks you’re wealthy or important or has any iota of respect for you.
But not for cell-phone asshole. Cell-phone asshole waits in line — and it’s a long line, but I’m not complaining about that because that’s what happens when the food is good — and then, right when he steps up to the counter to place his order, decides that that’s the best time to make a call.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS WRONG WITH THE 20 MINUTES YOU JUST SPENT IN LINE? You were too busy waiting in line to make the call, and did it only when the relatively less complicated process of ORDERING YOUR LUNCH WHILE EVERYONE BEHIND YOU IS STILL WAITING arose?
It’s even more maddening when the dude behind the counter is all “Sir? Sir?” while your stupid fool self is jabbering about your child’s ADD*.
To conquer this trial, I shouldered past cell-phone asshole and placed my order while he was still figuring out where he was. Also, he had a really big head. Even bigger than mine.
Trial Four: DMB
It’s a restaurant. People are trying to eat here. Why are you playing the Dave Matthews Band?
I’ve read before about restaurants playing house, drum & bass and hi-NRG music so that people eat more quickly and get the hell out, thus freeing the tables for more customers, who also eat quickly and hit the road. I can only assume that the principle was similar here, except instead of increasing the speed at which people ate, they induced nausea to convince them to vacate their tables.
Fucking hell. Playing the Dave Matthews Band at a restaurant is like accompanying a pair of people on their first date and screaming “RAPE HER AND THEN MUTILATE THE BODY” the whole time.
Trial Five: Latina Accord
As if Uruguay Explorer wasn’t enough, I had traffic woes on the return trip, too. This time it was a mid-80s Honda Accord with a woman in it who was obviously a space alien sent to Earth and told to infiltrate us by mimicking our customs. The problem was that she couldn’t actually drive, she could only sit in her car and go through the motions of driving.
Latina Accord waited for a good four minutes before pulling out from the parking lot and turning left, with me behind her and honking (and cursing) the whole time. The way was clear, and I contemplated going around her, but I knew that such an act would suddenly be seen as the perfect moment in which to turn and she’d T-bone me.
After finally pulling out from the parking lot, Latina Accord stopped in the center of the intersection. Not because any traffic was oncoming. Not because she was going the wrong way. Simply because she had no earthly idea what she was doing.
By this time, I had the room to whip around her and haul ass back to the relative sanctity of my office, where a nice, solid door keeps the Trials of Shiticles at bay.
* I call bullshit on ADD. It’s not attention deficit disorder, it’s bad parenting and lack of discipline disorder. Give your kids some structure and their made-up affliction vanishes.