“Foodgasm” Is Spanish For Foodgasm

The mood here at work is fucking grim.  Literally everyone is pissed off and ready to walk.  The only thing keeping that from happening is a fear of homelessness.  Today the factory workers had a Christmas potluck lunch.  One of the guys came into my office and told me Oswaldo wanted to talk to me.  So I went out to the factory and everyone was sitting at a table and eating and Oswaldo pointed to the food and said, “Eat some food, Tim,” and then handed me a plate.  I wasn’t even that hungry but anyone who passes up home-cooked Mexican food (or a genuine offer of friendship from good people) is an asshole.

Total foodgasm.

And for the first time in my life, as I sat with these people in silence, listening to conversations I couldn’t understand, I felt honest and profound regret that I didn’t pay better attention in my Spanish classes back in high school.  I realized today that by not learning to speak the language, I’ve really cut myself off from some genuinely good people and that is something that can only suck.  I was still able to talk to some of them in English but most of the conversation was Spanish and I mostly sat around wishing I could say something other than, “Donde esta la biblioteca?” or “Jirafa de Fuego.”  Still, it was a good time and, once again, a total foodgasm.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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