Tuesday, February 03, 2004
The “danger” in the title refers to my driving. And my lunch choices.
Yesterday evening, Michelle suggested I go out to buy a copy of the Sunday paper. (Yesterday being Monday.) As it was my fault that our newspaper subscription ran out, I felt obliged to go. And I did. The first gas station / convenience store (the 76/Circle K we have not-so-affectionately dubbed “The Ghetto” because you can never get a receipt when you “pay-at-the-pump”) didn’t have any more Sunday papers. So, I drove down The Parkway to the second gas station . . . a Shell. As I was about to turn right into the station, I noticed they were doing construction and had the large orange cones blocking the entrance. “No, no, no . . . fuck!” But then I saw an opening and turned very quickly. At about 40 mph. I hit some mud and slid into one of the cones, dislodging it from its base and sending it flying. When I came to a stop, I took a deep breath, restarted the stalled car, and drove to a parking spot nearest the newspaper machines. I looked back at the car-struck cone, thanked Ms. Jackson’s right tit the cone wasn’t full of sand*, and went about my business.
Today, for lunch, I went on one of my weak-moment runs for the border. They didn’t have the cheddar-n-rice burritos, for some reason, so I went with my less-healthy standby (7-layer burrito and a double-decker supreme). The drive-thru was moving slower than old people fuck, so I wasted significant ‘blogging time in my car. But I was rewarded with nine packets of mild sauce . . . for two items. (It reminds me of a game** we used to play.) However, I was less-than-thrilled to have the entire bottom of my 7-layer burrito be guacamole. Aren’t the layers supposed to run the length of the burrito? I guess, on top of the shame and gastro-intestinal discomfort, that’s just another risk you run eating at Taco Bell.
* When I was 14, my parents and I drove to visit our family in New England (yeah, a long drive from Florida . . . trust me). My dad put a camper top on his pickup and bolted a car seat to the bed of the truck, facing backwards. Somewhere along the way, when I was just watching the cars behind us and we were passing through a construction zone, I saw a station wagon plow into two or three of those large construction cones at 60 mph. The cones were full (are partially full) of sand. Lemme tell ya . . . those motherfuckers were exploding. I was too stunned to speak. (As a side note, mere hours after that experience, my dad would suggest I piss in a bottle while we were stuck in traffic south of Washington D.C., waiting to get on the Beltway.)
** I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this here before but, back in the day (which is to say, between 1990 and 1995), we used to see how many packets of Taco Bell sauce we could scam in a legitimate lobby-counter food pickup. Y’know, being inebriated in some way, but without being totally conspicuous. I think the record was 19 which, in hindsight, seems pretty weak.