These are the people in my neighborhood
I brought my car in for routine repairs this past week. Something about the engine or transmission or something. Whatever it was, while the car was being worked on, I decided to head over to that hallowed place, the sum total of human evolution, the reason why we're here in the first place---Taco Bell.
Yes, Taco Bell. It stands up there with the wheel, the cell phone, and the pocket pussy for greatest inventions of humankind. Where else, I ask, can you obtain a delicious mixture of bean and oniony goodness wrapped tightly in a flour tortilla envelope for under a dollar? That's right. You can't. Sucka.
Upon arriving (by way of joyous skipping) at said purveyor of Mexican treats, I was pleased to note that only one gentleman was in front of me on line. He was a portly fellow, and by portly, I mean blubberingly, horrifically, Jabba-the-Hutt obese. No matter. It's America, and we can eat whatever we want, even our own feces, if that makes us happy.
Assuming that the gentleman had his order in mind, I whistled a happy tune, content that within mere moments, I'd be the proud owner of a bean burrito.
Jabba, however, had other plans. After staring up at the menu sign and liberally scratching his ass, he snorted and began his order.
"I'll have six soft shell beef tacos and three beef quesadillas."
The waitstaff obligingly took his order. But wait!
"Hang on," Jabba stopped himself, "Are the soft shell tacos the same price as the hard shell tacos?"
The charming lady behind the register returned a blank expression and the word, "Que?"
Jabba spoke a bit louder. "The soft shell tacos, are they the same price as the hard shell ones?"
"Que?"
Jabba adjusted himself, loosening the knot of jeans in his crotch. "Soft shell! Soft shell tacos! Are they same price as hard shells?"
"Hard shell tacos?" Register girl asked.
"Okay, good. That's what I was asking," Jabba lowered his shoulders, content that his question was in fact answered. "Switch my soft shells for hard shells, please."
"Soft shell for hard shell?"
"Yes."
Register girl made the switch. Naturally, as any Taco Bell aficionado would know, soft shell tacos are usually not the same price as their hard shell counterparts, but I wasn't about to correct the situation. After all, my hunger had just clicked up to the two-burrito range. Still smiling, I waited for Jabba to complete his order.
"On second thought," he snorted in a gallon of snot, "I'll have three soft shells and three hard shells."
"Que?"
Blast. My hunger had now graduated to three-burrito range. My smile dropped.
"Three soft shell, three hard shell. I want three of each."
"Tres mas?"
"What?"
Register girl's eyes narrowed. "Three soft shell?"
"That's right. Three soft, three hard. Plus the three beef quesadillas from before."
"Three soft beef, three hard beef, three beef quesadillas?"
I giggled as she said, "Soft beef," and "Hard beef." It was harder to sexualize beef quesadillas, though.
Jabba nodded. "Yeah, that's it."
He reached for his wallet, very narrowly averting my hunger upgrade to four bean burritos---
"Ooh!" he bellowed, "You have chicken quesadillas, too?"
"Que?"
"You have chicken quesadillas. How are they?"
"Yes, chicken quesadillas."
"Are they all white meat?"
"You want chicken quesadilla?"
"Yeah. Put me down for one of those, too. That's all."
My four-burrito hunger had arrived, and as it rose, my sanity (being inversely proportional) lowered. Thankfully, this seemed to be the end of Jabba's order---
"Do you guys have any juice?"
Juice? Juice? At a Taco Bell? Where do you think you are, Capone? At freakin' Tavern on the Green? At La Cirque? Sierra Mist is the closest you'll make it to juice around here, bub.
"Que?"
"Juice! You know, orange juice, grape juice, pomegranate juice . . ."
Oh, now this was too much. The day Taco Bell carries pomegranate juice is the day I swear off pussy, which is never going to happen. Never.
"Iced tea," I muttered.
Jabba approves. "Yeah! Iced tea! You guys have iced tea?"
"Yes," Register girl pointed to a big handwritten sign behind her that said, "Yes, we have iced tea!"
My hunger clicked up to the homicidal five-burrito level. Loss of motor control was imminent.
"Okay," Jabba tempted his fate further, "Is it sweetened or unsweetened?"
"Que?"
"Oh, fine. I'll take the iced tea."
Thankfully, the Hutt had decided on a final order. He sat down at the far end of the restaurant and I was free at last to purchase my bean burritos.
While enjoying my lunch, a fellow in a hunter green trenchcoat, evidently a homeless man, with bushels of dark facial hair and grizzled features walked in, pointed at me, and announced, "Don't anger Krishna! Don't anger Krishna!"
Swallowing my third burrito, I asked, "What're you talking about?"
"It's all about Krishna," he replied slowly, eyeing my bean burritos, "Everything."
Noting his obvious interest in my lunch, I pulled the burritos closer to myself. "Don't even think about it. If you want a burrito, the counter is right behind you. Just walk your hairy ass over there and place your order."
His foot scraped at the floor. "Their beef tastes funny today. It tastes of flesh."
I rolled my eyes. "Then order a chicken taco or a bean burrito."
"Krishna eats not beans, nor the flesh of animals."
"You just told me that the beef tasted funny."
He nodded. "Krishna tastes vicariously through others."
"Wow," I muttered, "Even the hard to surprise Jared is surprised."
"Krishna knows. Krishna surprises vicariously through others, too."
"Can Krishna vicariously walk his ass out of Taco Bell and stop bothering me?"
"Krishna must first order a beef soft taco. It tastes of flesh." He walked up to the counter and placed his order, all the time staring at register girl's chest. After placing his order, he turned to face the entire restaurant and shouted, "Krishna approves of flesh!" then licked his lips.
The staff handed him whatever it was that he ordered, and he turned away from the counter. Walking past me, he approached Jabba in the corner. Jabba's countenance visibly paled and Krishna announced, "I want to finger-fuck your fat rolls."
Jabba dropped his soft beef and stood up. "What'd you say to me?"
Krishna, speedily sobering, stuttered, "I---"
"What the fuck did you just say?"
Jabba didn't wait for an answer, instead opting to grab Krishna by the wrists, drag him outside, and beat the crap out of him in the parking lot. I watched as Jabba pummeled Krishna with dozens of left hooks, right hooks, and the occasional uppercut.
As his piece-de-resistance, Jabba picked up Krishna and threw him into an open dumpster. Returning from battle, Jabba re-entered the restaurant and sat back down to finish his meal.
Shuddering at the thought that Jabba didn't even wash his hands, I finished up my burritos and left.
I guess you could say that from this experience, I learned that no matter how overweight someone is, it's important to develop a meaningful relationship with an obese person before bringing up the finger-fucking of fat rolls. Afterwards, it can be an enjoyable activity for both parties.
Yes, Taco Bell. It stands up there with the wheel, the cell phone, and the pocket pussy for greatest inventions of humankind. Where else, I ask, can you obtain a delicious mixture of bean and oniony goodness wrapped tightly in a flour tortilla envelope for under a dollar? That's right. You can't. Sucka.
Upon arriving (by way of joyous skipping) at said purveyor of Mexican treats, I was pleased to note that only one gentleman was in front of me on line. He was a portly fellow, and by portly, I mean blubberingly, horrifically, Jabba-the-Hutt obese. No matter. It's America, and we can eat whatever we want, even our own feces, if that makes us happy.
Assuming that the gentleman had his order in mind, I whistled a happy tune, content that within mere moments, I'd be the proud owner of a bean burrito.
Jabba, however, had other plans. After staring up at the menu sign and liberally scratching his ass, he snorted and began his order.
"I'll have six soft shell beef tacos and three beef quesadillas."
The waitstaff obligingly took his order. But wait!
"Hang on," Jabba stopped himself, "Are the soft shell tacos the same price as the hard shell tacos?"
The charming lady behind the register returned a blank expression and the word, "Que?"
Jabba spoke a bit louder. "The soft shell tacos, are they the same price as the hard shell ones?"
"Que?"
Jabba adjusted himself, loosening the knot of jeans in his crotch. "Soft shell! Soft shell tacos! Are they same price as hard shells?"
"Hard shell tacos?" Register girl asked.
"Okay, good. That's what I was asking," Jabba lowered his shoulders, content that his question was in fact answered. "Switch my soft shells for hard shells, please."
"Soft shell for hard shell?"
"Yes."
Register girl made the switch. Naturally, as any Taco Bell aficionado would know, soft shell tacos are usually not the same price as their hard shell counterparts, but I wasn't about to correct the situation. After all, my hunger had just clicked up to the two-burrito range. Still smiling, I waited for Jabba to complete his order.
"On second thought," he snorted in a gallon of snot, "I'll have three soft shells and three hard shells."
"Que?"
Blast. My hunger had now graduated to three-burrito range. My smile dropped.
"Three soft shell, three hard shell. I want three of each."
"Tres mas?"
"What?"
Register girl's eyes narrowed. "Three soft shell?"
"That's right. Three soft, three hard. Plus the three beef quesadillas from before."
"Three soft beef, three hard beef, three beef quesadillas?"
I giggled as she said, "Soft beef," and "Hard beef." It was harder to sexualize beef quesadillas, though.
Jabba nodded. "Yeah, that's it."
He reached for his wallet, very narrowly averting my hunger upgrade to four bean burritos---
"Ooh!" he bellowed, "You have chicken quesadillas, too?"
"Que?"
"You have chicken quesadillas. How are they?"
"Yes, chicken quesadillas."
"Are they all white meat?"
"You want chicken quesadilla?"
"Yeah. Put me down for one of those, too. That's all."
My four-burrito hunger had arrived, and as it rose, my sanity (being inversely proportional) lowered. Thankfully, this seemed to be the end of Jabba's order---
"Do you guys have any juice?"
Juice? Juice? At a Taco Bell? Where do you think you are, Capone? At freakin' Tavern on the Green? At La Cirque? Sierra Mist is the closest you'll make it to juice around here, bub.
"Que?"
"Juice! You know, orange juice, grape juice, pomegranate juice . . ."
Oh, now this was too much. The day Taco Bell carries pomegranate juice is the day I swear off pussy, which is never going to happen. Never.
"Iced tea," I muttered.
Jabba approves. "Yeah! Iced tea! You guys have iced tea?"
"Yes," Register girl pointed to a big handwritten sign behind her that said, "Yes, we have iced tea!"
My hunger clicked up to the homicidal five-burrito level. Loss of motor control was imminent.
"Okay," Jabba tempted his fate further, "Is it sweetened or unsweetened?"
"Que?"
"Oh, fine. I'll take the iced tea."
Thankfully, the Hutt had decided on a final order. He sat down at the far end of the restaurant and I was free at last to purchase my bean burritos.
While enjoying my lunch, a fellow in a hunter green trenchcoat, evidently a homeless man, with bushels of dark facial hair and grizzled features walked in, pointed at me, and announced, "Don't anger Krishna! Don't anger Krishna!"
Swallowing my third burrito, I asked, "What're you talking about?"
"It's all about Krishna," he replied slowly, eyeing my bean burritos, "Everything."
Noting his obvious interest in my lunch, I pulled the burritos closer to myself. "Don't even think about it. If you want a burrito, the counter is right behind you. Just walk your hairy ass over there and place your order."
His foot scraped at the floor. "Their beef tastes funny today. It tastes of flesh."
I rolled my eyes. "Then order a chicken taco or a bean burrito."
"Krishna eats not beans, nor the flesh of animals."
"You just told me that the beef tasted funny."
He nodded. "Krishna tastes vicariously through others."
"Wow," I muttered, "Even the hard to surprise Jared is surprised."
"Krishna knows. Krishna surprises vicariously through others, too."
"Can Krishna vicariously walk his ass out of Taco Bell and stop bothering me?"
"Krishna must first order a beef soft taco. It tastes of flesh." He walked up to the counter and placed his order, all the time staring at register girl's chest. After placing his order, he turned to face the entire restaurant and shouted, "Krishna approves of flesh!" then licked his lips.
The staff handed him whatever it was that he ordered, and he turned away from the counter. Walking past me, he approached Jabba in the corner. Jabba's countenance visibly paled and Krishna announced, "I want to finger-fuck your fat rolls."
Jabba dropped his soft beef and stood up. "What'd you say to me?"
Krishna, speedily sobering, stuttered, "I---"
"What the fuck did you just say?"
Jabba didn't wait for an answer, instead opting to grab Krishna by the wrists, drag him outside, and beat the crap out of him in the parking lot. I watched as Jabba pummeled Krishna with dozens of left hooks, right hooks, and the occasional uppercut.
As his piece-de-resistance, Jabba picked up Krishna and threw him into an open dumpster. Returning from battle, Jabba re-entered the restaurant and sat back down to finish his meal.
Shuddering at the thought that Jabba didn't even wash his hands, I finished up my burritos and left.
I guess you could say that from this experience, I learned that no matter how overweight someone is, it's important to develop a meaningful relationship with an obese person before bringing up the finger-fucking of fat rolls. Afterwards, it can be an enjoyable activity for both parties.