Flight of the Beaner

My friend Kris and I were drunk driving out of our minds after a formal suit and tie family function. My drunk dials began to lose steam as the discouraging drive back from the beach began to take its toll. It became painfully obvious there was only one true alternative at this juncture: Taco Hell; only this particular drunk hunger had an experimental feel to it.

We decided to order 20 dollars worth of food which at Taco Hell translates into approximately two hundred and seventy five tacos. Only we didn't choose the regular run-of-the-mill tacos we usually enjoy, we decided to get creative. Meximelts, bean burritos, Taco Bell Grandes, enchiladas, crazy chalupas; anything under the Mexican sun which we felt would expand our Taco Bell horizons for future drunk visits.

After the first bite I took of that weird ass guacamolito-thing I realized maybe we made a fateful mistake.

There is no such thing as dumb luck. Luck is when dedication, perseverance, a Santa Claus bag full of tacos, and opportunity meet...

On this night opportunity came first in the form of the ghetto-ist, bass pumping, gold teeth wearing thug-mobile Cadillac I have ever seen. Without a word or warning to my friend, who was on his first bite of something, I threw a Roger Clemens lazer burrito right through the open Cadillac passenger window reminiscent of the JFK assassination. There was no book depository to hide in, just the trust in my heavy foot and my familiarity of the terrain to get us out of this taco party in one piece. Those thugs were seriously ready to kill us but I imagine it's hard to think and drive rationally with sour cream and lettuce to the face.

I lost them going around the block. When we hit the clear peeling down 32nd Avenue I realized my buddy was choking on his first bite from the laughter. I don't think I have ever seen a more sincere laughing attack 'til this day.

As a drove my eyes grew wide. I wanted more. I became a man possessed. I became F*CKING LOU HARVEY OSWALD in this bitch. It wasn't about the tacos anymore. It wasn't about the accuracy. It wasn't even about the laughter from my boy. It was purely the love of the game. It was like fishing with dynamite! I'm sure the nice young couple out on a date kissing on the corner of the Café didn't expect two enchiladas to smack 'em in the pelvis? What about the four blonde white guys coming out of Señor Frogs with their pressed shirts and smiles? Did they in their wildest dreams foresee getting Rambo'ed by a Taco Hell Grande? Probably not.

As I looked down at my side my friend was turning shades of purple and orange. I realized it was time for a good finale similar to the end of a fireworks show on 4th of July. A taxi, an older woman walking her dog, a Johnny Rockets server; nobody was safe from the burrito-ing. All of these actions have their penalty in the eyes of karma which is something I can semi-handle. Let a bird shit on me at a football game, or may my "dude" flop out through my boxers when I bend down to get the morning Miami Herald. Any of these consequences are understandable.

But I think I went too far when I flagged down two corner spot pushers for on a Grand Avenue backstreet. As they approached the car to negotiate for what they thought was for weed, the onslaught of remaining tacos and burritos bursted out like a firing squad. One hood actually fell off his bike as if riddled by bullets. I'm sure those guys have seen it all on the mean streets of the grove but it'll be hard to top that one. It was the funniest memory of the night obviously, but I could have gotten us killed. The lesson I take with me is that fast food can kill you a number of different ways. It's best to just go home early and make a sandwich. You'll definitely live longer.