Wednesday, January 25, 2006

To The Crackhead Who Ruined My Lunch at Taco Bell

Dear Mr. Crackhead;

Bro, you know I have exactly two options for lunch every day: Taco Bell and Pollo Tropical. While both are thoroughly unappetizing, I must make the inevitable choice or else suffer through an afternoon of hunger pangs and unreasonable outbursts at co-workers and clients. (Goddamit, Katie, why the fuck are the 25 pound weights racked where the 20s are supposed to be?! You think this is fucking Bally's or something?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!) And while lunch at a restaurant that features meat in plastic bags is probably the most unappetizing thing I can imagine outside of this, I try to make the best of it.

Which is why I must ask you why you found it necessary to walk in to the South Dade Shopping Center Taco Bell at the exact time I was sitting down with my number 6, no cheese. Why did you have to pick the precise moment I had finished slathering my Chicken Fiesta Burrito in Fire Sauce to cross over US-1 from your shack in Richmond Heights, stand at the door, and start cackling maniacally for no particular reason? Were you just hell bent on ruining my only real meal of the day? Did you want me to think you may very well have dynamite strapped to your chest, and be preparing to blow me, a Cuban family of six, and the Mensa convention working in the back, sky high? Because I did. Did you want images going through my head of a Channel 7 News-copter showing what was left of my little neighborhood Taco Bell, with a tagline of “14 Confirmed Dead in South Miami-Dade Taco Bell Tragedy?"

Because, dude, I really don’t want the last thing I ever taste to be a chalupa. I don’t even want anybody knowing I eat at Taco Bell, for that matter. If I die, the headline will no doubt read “Marine Killed in Taco Bell Blast.” You know what that means? It means my name will forever be linked with the people who brought us the Double-Decker taco, that’s what. It means that all the Fox News watchers who don’t bother reading articles will say things like, “See honey, things are going just fine in Iraq. They already have a Taco Bell.” They will undoubtedly put my official Marine Corps photo on the news too (which they do every time a Marine dies, even if it is of something completely unrelated to the Corps. Like Chlamydia.) which makes me look like a dorky little kid wearing a hat that is too big for his head. Thanks.

Mr. Crackhead, you forced me to pick up my quasi-Mexican food and take it back to my office. My office, in case you didn’t know, has floor to ceiling windows looking out on a gym. And nothing screams “Fitness and Nutrition Expert” like shoveling a 7-layer Burrito into your mouth. You could very well have ruined my career had I worked at gym with more than 12 members. You are lucky, Mr. Crackhead, very lucky. Because if I lost my job because of you, don’t think the first place I’d go after I got evicted isn’t that back room in your crack house. And I’m warning you, I hit people in my sleep.

Sincerely,
White Dade

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