I went to El Pollo Loco the other day, presumably because I hate myself. Have to bring that up with the shrink. Anyway, while there, I found myself surrounded by people I’d rather not be eating with. Most notable of these were the three profoundly stupid women with asses large enough to form Voltron when attached to one another (I say this as a fan of big asses). Most notable among the three of them was the one who said, “I don’t know why I can’t lose this weight, I work out four times a week.” She said this as she was eating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone while waiting for her lunch.
She was eating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone while waiting for her fucking El Pollo Bowl.
At this point I was holding the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger – as you might expect – but generous soul that I am, I wasn’t praying for her death. Then her friend took all three cups up to the drink fountain. The dumbass with the ice cream cone yells across the room at her, “Suicide! Suicide! Get me a SUICIDE!”
Really? A suicide? A fucking suicide? Jesus Christ, wasn’t the time to stop drinking suicides over with about forty fucking years ago? The last time I heard anyone talking about drinking a fucking suicide I was still young enough to think that girls had cooties.
At that point, I had to leave. I had to leave because she was pushing fifty and she wanted a fucking suicide and because she couldn’t figure out why her enormous ass wasn’t shrinking after a work-week of ice cream before lunch and because she probably hadn’t voted once in her entire life which just makes me fucking crazy even though she’s so stupid that I’d probably regret it if she did vote.
Surprisingly, the urge to kill didn’t fuck with my digestion.