Adventures in Mexican Food

God. I’m tired. I have a headache. I just want to eat and go to bed.

It’s amazing to see that, even on a Sunday afternoon in the end of June, there’s still a gaggle of these idiotic frat kids from Western Carolina University (Home of the Catamounts!) still here. Not only are they here … they are here en masse. A person could learn most of the Greek alphabet by memorizing the shirts being worn around here.

I guess one should never underestimate the far-reaching allure of cheap booze and half decent Mexican food. El Pacifico has both.

This is a psychic hell. Everyone around us is talking but saying nothing. The brutish man to our left alternates between discussing his attempts to gain weight by eating “shoeboxes full of peanut butter jars” and his female companions’ text messaging habits. Behind us I keep hearing someone yell about the fact that they couldn’t get in somewhere to leave a job application.

You told me to be there by 3! I got there at 2:30 and the guard said they closed at 2! I couldn’t leave my stuff and I wasted $15 in gas driving up there! I can’t afford to spend money on gas to go back!”

At first, I want to empathize. Miscommunication and escalating fuel prices are unfortunate aspects of this modern world. It sucks. But the mixture of self-righteous indignation and Bud Light has driven this man into a frenzy usually seen only in fundamentalist preachers. He has been wronged and the world should attest to his fury and anger. HALLELUJAH!

I almost want to give him $15 in exchange for shutting the hell up.

Then there’s the thumps to our backs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Lucy and I have made the mistake of choosing to sit at a booth. Booths are usually quite nice – we like the comfortable padded seats by the window. But the backs of the seats are connected to another booth and we can feel every movement these overeager, overgrown adolescents make. It feels like they are jumping with glee every time the waiter brings another round of drinks. It’s time to build morale and kill brain cells.

Is that what makes their lives somewhat livable? Does the drunken haze make it all better? I often wonder about this. I guess people this vapid and inane need something to fill the hole where their souls should be. Booze works about as good as anything. And the rallying cry for the table at our backs is definitely “I want another beer.” A personality can be found at the bottom of a bottle.

I know, I know. It’s my fault. I’m tired and cranky and I didn’t have to choose El Pac for dinner. I’m making extreme value judgments on total strangers based on tiny snippets of conversation. I haven’t even said hello yet I’ve formed a total idea of who they are. I’m the asshole here. I’m guilty as charged.

But I also feel comfortable in stating my belief that there is a lot of karmic debt waiting to be paid off in this room. Start praying for the flood. Someone with gas and matches. Something. Anything.

Lucy says next time, we should just call in a take-out order. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.


~ by J on June 30, 2008.

One Response to “Adventures in Mexican Food”

  1. Love it.

    Welcome to wordpress, my friend 🙂

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