Unkie Trunkie goes to Taco Bravo
09-02-2008, 12:03 PM
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Originally Posted by 8D_In_Trunk,Aug 31 2008, 04:12 PM
So, as most of you know by now, I fart. 
More to the point, at 33, I still delight in my acts of flatulation. . .
. . . well, most of the time. Yesterday and today have been the exception that proves the rule.
About twice a week, I'll go get a burrito. Hand-made burritos from a local Taqueria or Mexican Super are truly a joy. Freshly butchered meats with local seasonings with house-made salsa, slow-cooked pintos, and hot rice (cooked in chicken stock, of course) is a simple pleasure that can truly satisfy the quizzical nexus twixt convenience food and gastronomic happiness. That, and they usually allow me to rip a few quality farts at work: sometimes allowing me to Dutch Oven a conference room.
I was delighted to see a burgeoning local chain, Taco Bravo, take over the old location that was occupied by a Taco Bell. I thought to myself, "Ah-ha! More quick-service Mexican. Local. Excellent!" It came recommended by my buddy Greg as great "Hangover Helper." It's apparently open late, and the food is pretty cheap.
So, noting that said Taco Bravo finally opened, I headed over there yesterday to get myself some brunch. I was hungry.
Upon entering, I was very optimistic. All the Taco Bell stuff had been removed, and everything had been reduced to absolutely Spartan conditions: tub of meat, tub of cheese, tub of olives, tub of beans, tub of salsa. I looked above for the menu, and was delighted to see that the items ranged from $1.19 to $3.29. Everything was shaping up to be okay. I knew that at $3.29 for a Super Burrito, I wasn't going to get the glorious Carne Asada I was used to, I was going to get fast food mystery meat, but hey, it's local. Considering it was $3.29 for a Super; I decided to order two.
I got home, and surveyed my glorious purchase. These things were HUGE given the price; nearly the size of a Mission-style Taqueria Burrito, but at nearly half the price. What happened next was the beginning of the end. . .
At first bite, I should've known doomsday was nigh. Canned refritos. . . worse than that, it had the distinct taste of canned beans from Sysco foods or some other mass distributor of food products. The cheese was equally horrendous. The meat, probably USDA Cutter ground circus animals, had what amounted to be Lawry's Taco Seasoning. . . hell, probably not even Lawry's. The onions and tomato slurry merely added to the great mystery of what I was ingesting.
Now, at this point, one could call into question why I continued eating the thing. My rationalization, such as it was, involved me realizing that while yes, I could've made a better burrito at home, I'd have to drive to the store to get ingredients and then cook it. . . and then I'd have been right back where I started. . .
So, I finished one of the two, and put the other in the fridge. It tasted "worse than homemade." In fact, it was as mediocre as Taco Bell, but with arguably less salt.
What commenced 20 minutes later though, has indeed been my undoing. . .
As with trying any new burrito, the phenomenon of "burrito guts" is pretty common. However, this wasn't burrito guts, this was gastrointestinal warfare. By T + 25, I was on the throne, out of fear that at any second, a sharting rampage was to commence. I sat there, and proceed to unleash farts so loud and greasy, their resonance from the bowl rang out like an echo from the Grand Canyon. I was breaking into sweats from the barrage of flatulence. . . but not even the faintest turdlet was to be had.
45 minutes on, the rumbling came again. . . I dearly prayed that I'd have one heinous baby gorilla arm, and be done with it. While the sharts did not storm the porcelain castle, I did pour some bronze. In fact, I had turned into a never ending smelter of fecal treasure. No king-kong turd could I produce, just the brown ropes intermingled with farts so powerful, I feared for the integrity of my O-ring. The stench was truly the coup d'grace of this cursed escapade. It was not piercing, as if to lead me to believe that I had eaten anything spicy. Rather, it was a dulled but persistent mix of sulfur intermingled with the dead souls of the once-proud Barnum & Bailey animals I had eaten. There was nowhere on the top floor of my split level that was safe from this ill fog.
Two hours later, I thought the worse had passed. I was wrong. I had bombed the shit out of my GI tract, but then came the insurgents. The farts were back, and this time they were taking no prisoners. Every ass blast was long, loud, and greasy as hell. . . I had the distinct worry that I'd have to cancel my evening plans and just stay at home. I didn't need to hit the head, but if I went out in public with my colon blasting away, I'd never be allowed back to the bar ever.
Thankfully, last night's dinner and drinks quelled the demons for a few hours. Thank God I cabbed it; that's probably why it turned out to be a deusy
. . . but this morning, I realized I had made another fatal flaw. In my drunken stupor last night, my other burrito disappeared.
I woke up at 8am, and from the second-worse post-drinking reason; self-asphyxiation from my own farts. Tacoma had nothing on my bedroom. I got up, proceeded to paint the thunderbucket, and go back to bed. 10am, sat on the throne, dropped a brown python into the bowl, and back to bed.
My farts are still vibrating the pleather of my desk chair.
My worse eating fears have always involved food poisoning. Taco Bravo's Super Burrito now makes me fear my own ass.
:f art:
More to the point, at 33, I still delight in my acts of flatulation. . .. . . well, most of the time. Yesterday and today have been the exception that proves the rule.
About twice a week, I'll go get a burrito. Hand-made burritos from a local Taqueria or Mexican Super are truly a joy. Freshly butchered meats with local seasonings with house-made salsa, slow-cooked pintos, and hot rice (cooked in chicken stock, of course) is a simple pleasure that can truly satisfy the quizzical nexus twixt convenience food and gastronomic happiness. That, and they usually allow me to rip a few quality farts at work: sometimes allowing me to Dutch Oven a conference room.
I was delighted to see a burgeoning local chain, Taco Bravo, take over the old location that was occupied by a Taco Bell. I thought to myself, "Ah-ha! More quick-service Mexican. Local. Excellent!" It came recommended by my buddy Greg as great "Hangover Helper." It's apparently open late, and the food is pretty cheap.
So, noting that said Taco Bravo finally opened, I headed over there yesterday to get myself some brunch. I was hungry.
Upon entering, I was very optimistic. All the Taco Bell stuff had been removed, and everything had been reduced to absolutely Spartan conditions: tub of meat, tub of cheese, tub of olives, tub of beans, tub of salsa. I looked above for the menu, and was delighted to see that the items ranged from $1.19 to $3.29. Everything was shaping up to be okay. I knew that at $3.29 for a Super Burrito, I wasn't going to get the glorious Carne Asada I was used to, I was going to get fast food mystery meat, but hey, it's local. Considering it was $3.29 for a Super; I decided to order two.
I got home, and surveyed my glorious purchase. These things were HUGE given the price; nearly the size of a Mission-style Taqueria Burrito, but at nearly half the price. What happened next was the beginning of the end. . .
At first bite, I should've known doomsday was nigh. Canned refritos. . . worse than that, it had the distinct taste of canned beans from Sysco foods or some other mass distributor of food products. The cheese was equally horrendous. The meat, probably USDA Cutter ground circus animals, had what amounted to be Lawry's Taco Seasoning. . . hell, probably not even Lawry's. The onions and tomato slurry merely added to the great mystery of what I was ingesting.
Now, at this point, one could call into question why I continued eating the thing. My rationalization, such as it was, involved me realizing that while yes, I could've made a better burrito at home, I'd have to drive to the store to get ingredients and then cook it. . . and then I'd have been right back where I started. . .
So, I finished one of the two, and put the other in the fridge. It tasted "worse than homemade." In fact, it was as mediocre as Taco Bell, but with arguably less salt.
What commenced 20 minutes later though, has indeed been my undoing. . .
As with trying any new burrito, the phenomenon of "burrito guts" is pretty common. However, this wasn't burrito guts, this was gastrointestinal warfare. By T + 25, I was on the throne, out of fear that at any second, a sharting rampage was to commence. I sat there, and proceed to unleash farts so loud and greasy, their resonance from the bowl rang out like an echo from the Grand Canyon. I was breaking into sweats from the barrage of flatulence. . . but not even the faintest turdlet was to be had.
45 minutes on, the rumbling came again. . . I dearly prayed that I'd have one heinous baby gorilla arm, and be done with it. While the sharts did not storm the porcelain castle, I did pour some bronze. In fact, I had turned into a never ending smelter of fecal treasure. No king-kong turd could I produce, just the brown ropes intermingled with farts so powerful, I feared for the integrity of my O-ring. The stench was truly the coup d'grace of this cursed escapade. It was not piercing, as if to lead me to believe that I had eaten anything spicy. Rather, it was a dulled but persistent mix of sulfur intermingled with the dead souls of the once-proud Barnum & Bailey animals I had eaten. There was nowhere on the top floor of my split level that was safe from this ill fog.
Two hours later, I thought the worse had passed. I was wrong. I had bombed the shit out of my GI tract, but then came the insurgents. The farts were back, and this time they were taking no prisoners. Every ass blast was long, loud, and greasy as hell. . . I had the distinct worry that I'd have to cancel my evening plans and just stay at home. I didn't need to hit the head, but if I went out in public with my colon blasting away, I'd never be allowed back to the bar ever.
Thankfully, last night's dinner and drinks quelled the demons for a few hours. Thank God I cabbed it; that's probably why it turned out to be a deusy
. . . but this morning, I realized I had made another fatal flaw. In my drunken stupor last night, my other burrito disappeared.
I woke up at 8am, and from the second-worse post-drinking reason; self-asphyxiation from my own farts. Tacoma had nothing on my bedroom. I got up, proceeded to paint the thunderbucket, and go back to bed. 10am, sat on the throne, dropped a brown python into the bowl, and back to bed.
My farts are still vibrating the pleather of my desk chair.
My worse eating fears have always involved food poisoning. Taco Bravo's Super Burrito now makes me fear my own ass.
:f art:>>>>2<<<< FARKIN' a that's nuts even if it wasn't crap.
09-02-2008, 12:30 PM
#13
Moderator
Thread Starter
I'm here to say it's all true.
09-02-2008, 12:35 PM
#16
Moderator
Thread Starter
Originally Posted by INTJ,Sep 2 2008, 12:31 PM
Liar, the rectal bleeding would stain your manties.
A bottle of Chimay will work wonders.
09-02-2008, 12:51 PM
#19
Moderator
Thread Starter
Originally Posted by bigygf,Sep 2 2008, 12:36 PM
didn't the o-ring kill those astronauts?
09-02-2008, 12:52 PM
#20
Moderator
Thread Starter
Originally Posted by INTJ,Sep 2 2008, 12:48 PM
Chimay solves many problems, leakage ain't one of them.