Burrito Rage

Now listen, before I begin let me just put in a little disclaimer here:

A)  This is in NO WAY an anti-burrito post.  How on Earth could one not enjoy all things burrito?

and

B)  This is probably the dumbest thing ever written.

So, on that note, here it goes:

I’m fucking angry at burritos.  It’s a sweet, sweet love/hate thing.  As soon as I get a good burrito, it decides to flip me the bird and turn on me at the last minute.  Maybe it will decide to leak sauce onto my arms and embarrass me by making me lick my forearms over and over in public (right guys?!).

Perhaps it will mock me after I’ve been drinking, forcing me into the Taqueria JUST AS THEY ARE CLOSING FOR THE NIGHT,  (“los sientos” my ass)  leaving me with burrito blue balls once again.  Or, it could be worse than any of those things.

Like the time back in college when I bought the most delicious burrito of my life (or maybe it just tasted that way because I was dirt-poor and that giant-ass burrito was my breakfast/lunch AND future dinner).  So I get half of it “wrapped up”, which apparently means “carelessly thrown into an overly-large take-out box” (don’t even get me started with leftovers…that’s  another rant for another time) and head on home to my tiny studio apartment.

Driving my enormous and unreliable Oldsmobile back, there was a sudden stop in traffic in which a pile up occured in front of me  (somehow my car aka “The Tank” managed to stop in time-a Christmas miracle).

Unfortunately, the burrito, which was sitting in it’s box in the passenger seat, did not stop in time.  The centrifugal force of the sudden stop caused a disaster.  I looked over, and to my horror, I watched in slow motion as my delicious dinner flew out of the box (which amazingly enough stayed glued to the seat), proceed to UNWRAP in midair, and splatter ALL OVER the windshield, air conditioner vents, and passenger window  (not to mention the rest of the dashboard, seat, and floor).

It had been a particularly difficult week in school, and I was broke as FUCK so what did I do then?  Well I did what any 20 year old girl would do: I screamed bloody murder.  I gripped the steering wheel and screamed for about 30 seconds (give or take 15 or so minutes).  Now, not only was I stuck in a pile up on the freeway, dinnerless, and broke, but burrito juice was seeping into every crevice in The Tank.  And there was a lot of juice in that motherfucker.

I cleaned out my car for about an hour but still, every time I blasted the heat or AC, it smelled like a Giant Burrito…and not in a good way.  This is why you can never trust a burrito farther than you can throw one…and they go far, believe me.