Grassy Knoll

My friend Kris and I were drained and beat up after a formal suit and tie family function. My irresponsibly late 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 here : Taco Hell; only this particular munchy hunger had an experimental feel to it.

We decided to order about 20 dollars worth of food which translates into about a thousand tacos. Only we didn't choose the 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 sun which we felt would expand our Taco Bell horizons for future drunk visits.
After the first bite I took of that random ass guacamolito I realized we likely made a gross mistake.

There is no such thing as luck. Luck is simply when a two idiots, 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 I threw a Roger Clemens lazer burrito right through the open Cadillac passenger window reminiscent of the JFK assassination. Those ponies were seriously ready to kill us. But still, I imagine it's difficult to think and drive rationally with sour cream and alpo meat stuck to the fake Versace's.
I easily 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 LOU HARVEY OSWALD in this bitch. It wasn't about the tacos anymore. It wasn't even about the accuracy. It wasn't even about the laughter from my buddy. I just got blood drunk with burritos. It was like fishing with dynamite! I'm sure the nice young couple out on a date didn't expect two enchiladas to smack 'em in the pelvis? What about the four spring breakers coming out of Señor Frogs brimming with all the allure that Miami brings? Did they in their wildest dreams foresee getting Rambo'ed by a Taco Bell Grande? Probably not.

Looking down at my side it seems Kris was turning shades of purple. 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 Operation Shock and Awe. All of these actions have their penalty in the eyes of karma which is something I can deal with. Let a bird shit on me at a football stadium 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.

Regardless I know I went too far when I flagged down two corner spot pushers on a Grand Avenue backstreet. As they approached the car to negotiate for what they thought was a few dime powders, the onslaught of remaining tacos and burritos bursted out like a Fidel firing squad. One dude actually fell off his bike riddled by soft and crunchy shell ammo. I'm sure those guys have seen it all on the mean streets of the grove but they'll be hard pressed to brag about this particular shooting. It was the funniest memory of the night, but I easily could have gotten us killed. The lesson I take with me is that fast food can kill in a number of different ways. It's best to just go home early and make a sandwich. You'll definitely live longer.