Since I didn't have to report for work until well after noon today, I decided to get good and loaded last night. I assembled a loyal group of chughappy ruffians and we proceeded to quaff with enthusiasm. The first can was cracked at sundown.

We spent several hours downloading music and searching out lyrics. With these tools at our disposal we sang horrible hoarsethroated karaoke to a captive band of terrified pets. We spilled upon ourselves, belched in staccato, and toasted to frivolity and merriment.

Six hours and two cases later, the inevitable occured. The genetic memories of ancestors long dead whispered from deep within my addled brain to moan a chant imploring me to hunt and kill. My sauced brain translated these gutteral urges into a modern desire: burrito time.

After failing in our search to find a shack that would deliver burritos, we methodically triangulated the locations of several establishments until we zeroed in upon one that we could walk to with minimal chances of getting arrested for public urination.

As I swayed along the sidewalk, chemistry and biology conspired within me. Beer roiled within my gut, slapping at the soft pink walls of my stomach with incessant violence. Bile foamed upon the crests, straining and grasping at my esophagus, desperate to induce heartburn that would exact a deserved revenge upon me for abusing my digestive tract with nary an acknowledgement of prudent limitations.


Stomach lining is fascinating.

Nice try, internal gastronomic nemesis. I am made of hardier stuff, and I haven't finished with you yet.

We arrived at Lazo's Tacos at 3am. I wobbled over to an empty table and lowered myself into a chair. One of my friends made it safely to the table. The other was seen using his hands to clench his asscheeks shut as he pogoed to the bathroom.

"I thought the uncontrollable shitting was supposed to occur after the burritos."

"He had two pots of coffee for breakfast and refried beans with jalapenos for lunch."

"He should rent a powerwasher and come back here tomorrow. It's the polite thing to do, I think."



This was no time to be talking about dribbling anuses. We were about to eat. When I'm sober I'm sensible enough to order Mexican food with steak or chicken in it. Solid respectable meats that produce solid respectable poops.

When I'm drunk I order chorizo. Chorizo is unlike any other meat. It glows a reddish orange color. It seeps into the rest of your food, radioactive lava slowly spreading downhill, filling every crevice, staining every surface it touches. It creeps through the lettuce, across the beans, out the tortilla, over your hands, up your arms, and into your ears. You become the Elvis of farting. Amber grease pools up in your mouth, drips from your teeth, and sprays out in a fine mist speckling formerly pristine surfaces everywhere you breathe. You become an oozing toxic beast of a person. You find yourself clipping coupons for diapers.

The chorizo you ingest is no better. As silt it settles quickly in the bottom of your gut, clogging the drain into your intestines. Intestinally it swirls like sand grit, scraping loose the ancient wads of chewing gum and stray embedded cartiledge flakes that snuck in as unidentified ingredients in the relish dog you bought at the convenient mart two years ago. The chorizo/bile muck oils down your guts so thoroughly that your resident tapeworms lose their grips and fall shocked and cold right out of your ass. You're a human noodle factory and your toilet (hopefully not your pants) becomes a habitat for the excreted eels. Your sphincter is stained as if you rubbed too much fake tan lotion on it. Fiber has nothing on chorizo.


Hymenolepis: The rat tapeworm.

I got about halfway through my burrito before I could take no more. My digestive tract had stopped complaining, now long dormant and silent in cowering fear. I felt like a real winner. What a meal. What a night!

I'm hungry. Time to go nuke the leftovers. 8:10 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm