We kinda finished this big project at work, recently, and everyone went out for a celebratory lunch, today. Everyone, of course, except me. They all paraded past the TV and headed out the door, as I sat there in my basement with my freezing thumb up my icy asshole. The only consolation is that they ended up going to "Uncle Julio's," perhaps the shittiest Mexican restaurant in Chicago. I mean, it's shitty by Okemos standards. I remember having their "Burrito con Gristle" once, and almost hurling my cacahuetes off. I hope they all choked on their goddamn chimichangas.
That reminds me of a job I had over one of the summers during college. I was a line cook at Chi-Chi's in Northbrook, Illinois. It was a shitty job in that it was hot, I didn't earn shit and I still have the scars on my hands from the splattering grease from the thousands of tortilla chips we had to fry up.
The great thing, though, was that the other guys I was working with were complete stoners. They were lifers and, realizing they were probably going to die in that kitchen, they'd stand there and pass a one-hitter down the line as we prepared the meals. Imagine being, like, 19, getting baked and having Mexican food just sitting there right in front of you. Handfuls of shredded cheese, a scoop of refried beans here, a ladle-full of guacamole there. Fried ice cream? Yes, please. I literally gained 15 pounds that summer. I also remember having a lot of diarrhea. It was a give and take kinda gig.
That was also the place where I realized that you should NEVER send food back to the kitchen for ANY REASON. The shit they used to do to the meals that were sent back -- holy fuckstain, it was nasty. One guy killed a fly and rolled it up in a burrito. I know many a loogie ended up in chimichangas and I'm pretty sure an errant pube or two made their way into the odd flauta. Seriously, if it's undercooked, eat it anyway. Life's too short.
Now go listen to Miss O's song in the last post, if you haven't yet, goddammit.