Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito

I didn't write this.  I found it here.  But I laughed so hard I thought I was going to have an aneurysm...

Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito:

Have you ever been to earth?

On earth, we use the word “burrito” to describe a tortilla filled with things you eat. Pretty simple stuff, and I’m surprised you at least got that part right. My burrito was, in fact, filled with food. In this, you and I agree and are friends. But this is also where my lifelong hatred begins for you and anyone else whose brain has been repeatedly scrubbed with the same mixture of bleach and Pop Rocks as yours has. Because that should have killed you, but left you around long enough to do what you did to me today. Let me explain:

You’re an idiot.

Let me further explain:

Burritos are eaten from one end to the other. So that means when you assemble a burrito with motherfucking ZONES of ingredients going that direction, you create a disgusting experience for the burrito’s end user. When you make a burrito, you should put the ingredients in layers lengthwise. That way, every bite has AT LEAST A FUCKING CHANCE of getting at least two types of ingredients, and there is little chance of becoming almost hopelessly trapped in a goddamned cilantro cavern.

Have you ever eaten one of the things you make all fucking day? You should try one. They are pretty good WHEN YOU ARE NOT WILLING YOURSELF THROUGH THE FUCKING EMPIRE OF SOUR CREAM ONLY TO END UP IN LETTUCE COUNTRY.

When you eat a burrito, you don’t stand it up and bite down on it lengthwise like a fucking Rancor. Humans can’t usually dislocate their jaws, and I’m not a fucking pelican. But you must think that’s how it’s done, since that would be THE ONLY FUCKING WAY to take a bite of your crapstrosity and have it taste like a burrito.

And guess what else, player? You probably can’t guess anything, because I’m pretty sure you’re just a mop with a hat on it that fell over and spilled some shit into a tortilla, but just in case, here’s what:

Humans also don’t eat burritos like fucking corn on the cob. Like a fucking typewriter from one end to the other a little at a time and then DING next line. But today I wish I had tried that. Because at least THEN I would be able to eat some rice, then beans, then be all like HEY BEANS I’LL BE RIGHT BACK JUST GOING OVER HERE TO THE GUACAMOLE FOR A SECOND.

Nope.

My experience was more like HEY BEANS IT’S JUST GOING TO BE YOU AND I FOR A MINUTE UNTIL I CAN FUCKING EXCAVATE THE RICE FROM BENEATH YOU BUT BY THEN YOU WILL BE A FADING MEMORY OH HEY I WAS WRONG I’M IN THE FUCKING CHEESEOSPHERE NOW RICE MUST BE NEXT I HOPE IT’S NOT ANOTHER FUCKING SALSA POCKET.

You built this thing like a fucking pack of LifeSavers.

And don’t even fucking think I’m about to open this shit up and re-engineer your nonsense 90 degrees. I ALREADY PUT A HOLE IN IT WITH MY FUCKING MOUTH. YEAH. THAT’S HOW I DISCOVERED YOU FUCKING SUCK AT LOOKING AT THINGS. I AM NOT GOING TO DO FUCKING TORTILLA ORIGAMI TO GET THIS SHIT BACK TOGETHER, ONLY TO END UP WITH A BURRITO THAT’S BEEN SHOT IN THE GUT AND IS BLEEDING YOUR INEPTITUDE.

What’s that? I should ask you to mix it up first next time? IS THIS JAMBA JUICE? I DON’T WANT TO DRINK MY FUCKING BURRITO THROUGH A BENDY STRAW, AND I DON’T WANT A PILE OF BURRITO SOUP IN A FLOUR CAN.

I just want a burrito.

In conclusion:

You’re the worst thing that has ever happened to the universe, you owe everyone everywhere an apology for this burritobomination, and I hope your babies look like monkeys.

UPDATE FOR EVERYONE WHO SAID “JUST EAT IT WITH A FORK”:

A fucking fork?

I DIDN’T ORDER THE FUCKING COBBURRITO SALAD.

If anyone ever handed me a burrito with a fork, THEY WOULD BE WEARING A BRAND NEW BURRITO HAT FROM MY FALL COLLECTION TEN SECONDS LATER.

That’s like buying a car and having them hand you a fucking wrench with the keys. Like YEAH WE KNOW THIS MOTHERFUCKER’S GOING TO EXPLODE AND BE SPREAD ACROSS EIGHT LANES AS SOON AS YOU HIT THE GAS, BUT SHIT, WE GAVE YOU A WRENCH, SO BE COOL.

Jesus already gave me two burrito forks. One at the end of each arm. They’re called fucking HANDS.

A fork. My god. I haven’t cried since I was six, but I’m fucking sobbing now.

People eat burritos with forks?

God is sorry he made us.

What I Remember About 9/11

My son was four so we were up early, breakfast was over and I turned on the TV in my bedroom, sat on the bed with my coffee cup to catch up on the latest news and celebrity gossip on my morning show while he played in his room to the same video he's watched for 43 days straight...

Then:  Breaking News.

First the picture that one of the Twin Towers on fire.  I was shocked, how horrible!  And the very first thing that went through my mind was the bombing in the World Trade Center in 1993.

I thought, "My God, they did it again."  The news anchor was listening for updates and not speaking yet.  Then the announcement that a plane crashed into the building.

I called, my friend and neighbor, who also had a four year old, always up early, and they came over immediately.  She put her daughter with my son and came in my room.  A second neighbor, just walked in and sat on the bed.  The three of us silent, transfixed.  All of us, still in pajamas.

I called my parents, "Are you watching the news? Well turn it on!", then hung up.

We sat together, staring at the horror, when this appeared on screen:

We reached for each other and held hands.  "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."  We were two military wives, one military member, and we knew what this meant.  

One is tragic, two...deliberate.

We sat in silence watching the news, the children happily playing, oblivious, as report after report rolled in of other hijackings, potential hijackings, and fear for which target would be next.  

Then the Petagon...

As the towers fell, as the panic ensued; our fear, anger, and worry set in.

"We need to donate blood."  It was something Amy and I did once a month, but I felt compelled to do it right now.

We hurriedly dressed and headed to the Red Cross, while Johnnie got called in to work.

We were listening to the radio about the crash in Pennsylvania, while heading down the road to helping the only way we could. Upon our return to the military base we lived on, it was locked up tight, cars were being searched, bomb sniffing dogs, confusion, and panic.

We spent hours together silently tending our children, eating a tasteless lunch, before she took her daughter home and I held my son.  The world had changed and we would never be the same.  Attacked in our own country, on our own soil.  

Trying to explain to a four year old little boy what it meant, why Mommy was crying, and later... why Daddy had to leave us for so long...

At 8:49 EST, every year, I say a prayer for the ones who were lost, the families left behind, and those (like my husband) who fight to prevent these things from happening again.

Although much more profound, I think of this a "The Kennedy Tragedy" of my generation.  A Nation shocked, stunned, and immobile, before getting angry and seeking revenge.

I will never forget that morning.

Genius Ideas During Insomnia

I do my best thinking in the middle of the night.

So I may not be the first to think of this idea, but I didn't read about it anywhere.

I have these gorgeous dishes I bought at Pier 1 (Vallarta, 12 place setting -- plates, salad plates, bowls, & canisters) ages ago and they were extremely expensive.  They have little nicks and chips along the edges from normal wear and tear...

They bother me.  I'm embarrassed to serve visitors and use my good china for guests even if it's hamburgers/hot dogs.  I didn't want to throw them out, they don't sell them any more and I've been stumped on what to do.  

A marker would still leave the dent and fade in the dishwasher.  The rough edges would still be there.

Backtrack:

So I never paint my nails because I work with my hands and my nails look wretched, but I do paint my toenails in summer wearing sandals.  I have a ton of colors and it got me to thinking...

Nail polish is smooth, it's waterproof, and comes in a million colors.

I was at Target and staring at all of them on a wall.  The manager walks by saying "Tough choice, I know."

But she didn't know.  I kept thinking of that paint commercial, "Not like a puuuuuuurrrrrple, but more like a puuuurrpppple."  

I needed just the right shade of blue and not metallic.

Voila!

One dab and it hardly shows, patience and two coats and yes, it's held up through washing, the dishwasher, and my family!

I'm telling everyone I know because my dishes look new again and I can use them once more without embarrassment!!  Who knew?