If you don’t crap yourself at least once a year, you ain’t living. That’s one of the things my dad used to tell me. The last few years, he hasn’t told me, or anyone else, anything. I’m also fairly certain he hasn’t crapped himself, although it’s entirely possibly his ashes might have been confused for cat litter. I’m not sure that would count, but he would get a kick out of it.
I’ve decided I want ragweed instead of flowers at my funeral to make sure everyone cries.
Based on the “crap yourself” standard, I’ve been living it up this week. The first Code Brown was my own fault. Let me start by saying that I love fiber tabs. Not just any fiber tabs, but the discount WalMart brand bigger around than a quarter. They taste like flavored chalk and turn into gummy lumps of artificial fruit-flavored goodness that have to dig out from between my teeth with my tongue.
I won’t take fiber pills. I turn my nose up at those silly Gummi bear fiber things. Powdered fiber only reminds me of Tang and makes me crave toast. I want to feel like I’m working for my gastric relief.
After forgetting to restock my fiber supply and going without for a couple of weeks, I was feeling a little…I’m sure you get the idea.
Twenty-four hours after taking double my normal dose with no results, I took another dose and a half (because doubling-down a second time would be inviting a repeat of the Ex-Lax Incident when I was twenty) and went to bed.
The second time I lived it up this week wasn’t my fault. After chaperoning a disappointing third-grade field trip to the Huntsville Space and Rocket Center where I not only chewed out a trio of negro boys roughhousing in line ahead of us without using any language that would be bleeped on television and inadvertently telling a mildly retarded boy on the G-Force ride I didn’t give a shit whether he flew out of his seat or not, my wife and I wanted to salvage the day by trying a new Mexican restaurant.
In my defense, the boy didn’t appear retarded at first glance. It wasn’t until I saw him interacting with his mother that I realized his handicap. I honestly thought he was being a smartass asking me to check if his safety belt was properly fastened.
If there was some sort of international symbol for retarded, the kid could wear a lapel pin to clue in jackasses like me to take it easy on him. But if his mamma doesn’t want people to treat him different from anybody else, he’s going to have to take his lumps once in a while. Sorry, Corky. I thought you had the Stifler haircut and expression because you’re a douche-bag.
Growing up in California, living in Texas, and having spent a decade and a half within rifle shot of the Mexican border, I have extensive experience with Mexican food on both sides of the border, so a restaurant with the tagline “Honest Handmade Tex-Mex Cuisine” had better bring its A-game. From what I experienced, Little Rosie’s is an insult to little old Mexican ladies everywhere.
My first clue should have been when I walked in. There wasn’t a Mexican to be seen on either side of the service counter. Even the cooks were Anglos, which concerned me.
The closest thing to a Texan or a Mexican in there was me. The best they could muster was a Filipino girl delivering plastic baskets of ground beef burritos they called “steak.” Not a good sign at all.
My party couldn’t find a place to sit for several minutes, which I took as a good sign. If the joint is standing room only, can I be faulted to presuming the food served in a dingy, nondescript shithole is fantastic? I mean, the drive-thru line was easily fifteen cars long.
Well, you know what happens when you assume; you wind up wishing you had gone to Taco Bell instead.
So, if you’re ever in the Rocket City, skip Little Rosie’s Mexican Taqueria. Their website looks fantastic, but it lies like an Alabama politician. The only thing I can conclude is the margaritas are the best in the world because it sure isn’t the food that drew in that many people.
I wouldn’t know, since I like to drink at home. I’m not a cheap date to being with, and considering my taste in liquor, it’s a far more financially manageable affair if I purchase my whiskey wholesale. It’s also cheaper in terms of court fines, restitution, and bail money.
A friend once described me as a professional drinker with a writing problem. I disagree. I’m a drunk magnet. Maybe it’s because people confuse me with the German Mechanic from Raiders of the Lost Ark and decide I’m their huckleberry for the evening. When you look like I do, people know when you walk into the room. Because of that, I would make the world’s worst bank robber because I’m too easy to pick out of lineup.
Not wanting to admit defeat because of either what was literally my first bad experience chaperoning one of my kid’s field trips or what was arguably Huntsville’s worst Mexican food, I went home where I raided the refrigerator, the freezer, the liquor closet (don’t judge me), and the humidor; in that order.
Apparently, my wife’s delicious quesadillas don’t mix well with ice cream sundaes, Makers Mark, and Upmann cigars. You would think I would know that by now.