The Hillbilly, the Poodle, and the Prostitute

The following is a totally true story that occurred sometime in the last few weeks.

I walked briskly away from the CiCi's down Garnett toward 11th. I had just dropped off an application there. Passing by Taco Bell, I muttered to myself "ugh, I've had T-Bell too much recently. I wonder what else is down this way." I skipped Tacos Y Mariscos and found myself standing outside Bill and Ruths. I was about to enter when I noticed the trailer parked in front. For all intensive purposes, this place was called "El Taco Shack." Intrigued by the prospect of trying something new and exciting and the insanely delicious smells permeating the air surrounding El Taco Shack, I soon found myself walking towards it. There were a couple of semi-decent cars outside, and one very out of place Camry. More on that later though.

As I approached the aforementioned trailer, there was one man, tall, lanky, under bite, Einstein-like hair contained under a Steelers cap, covered in dirt, oil, and other suspicious substances from head to toe. The second he opened his mouth flap, this guy INVENTED the hick stereotype.

"Well howdy doo!" His name was Sully or something. "Sheee-it it's a nice day outside, ain't it?" I kicked some of the snow off my Converse and looked at him skeptically. "You e'er eaten 'er before?"

"No sir, this is my first." Those were all the words I managed to get off before, God as my witness, his clone walked up. Tall, skinny man wearing a blue jumper with the name "Greg" on the tag (which ashamedly, I admit, my name is very much so a hick name). He was covered in oil stains. He was obviously a mechanic.

"Waaeeel fukin' 'el, what're you doin' out here!?" Greg shouted to Sully or whoever.

"Wael damn Greg, I'm out here every Sunday!" By this point I was standing as far away from them as possible. I made my order and stepped back towards the Camry. And if it wasn't hard enough trying to understand what the poor little Hispanic boy was saying up at the ordering window over his thick accent and the two hillbillies, he had braces on, which sounded as if he'd got them within the last two days. Every word was a spit-fest, filled with way to many S's and T's. Two fluffy (see Gabriel Iglesias) Mexican men came up and watched their incredibly entertaining conversation and muttering Mexican things with their Mexican grins and quirky Mexican glances.

"Ey! You e'er tried this here beef tongue? It tastes just like roast beef. I always get it on their tortas (pronounced tor-tass). That kiddo over there," he said pointing at me, "got the quesadilla (pronounced queso-dill-ar) with the carnes asada (car-neis ass-a-da). I've had that'un before, and it's DAY-UM good!"

The little Mexican boy, or little tortilla boy, placed Sully or whatever's order up at the ordering window. He walked with a limp to pick it up, shouting back to his friend Greg "Welp, looks like it's my time to skeedaddle! Catcha later holmes!" which I guess was his attempt to be hip. It wasn't, but it sure was risible. He passed uncomfortably close to me, and I could smell with I believe was whisky on him, which only further perpetuates the claim that this man was in fact, from the back-woods, possibly making his own whisky.

I was thinking to myself "surely this couldn't get any better" when suddenly, he burst my bluegrass playing (nothing wrong with that, I love bluegrass), whisky making hillbilly bubble when he opened the door to the luxurious silver Camry. But he wasn't done yet. The second the door opened, a huge white poodle tried to make an escape for it. "Get back in thur!" he said shoving and kicking it back through the door. I backed up some, which revealed what I can only assume was a lady of promiscuous profession. A street walker, if you will. His call girl put her arms around the chest of the poodle and dragged it back into the car. When she leaned over to do this, her scanty clothes revealed a good portion of her... bosom... and I'm pretty sure her pink mini-skirt and go-go boots were made out of plastic.

I really don't want to know what was going to happen between those three later. All I can say is my prayers go up for that poodle and his rectum to this day. And that was the best quesadilla I've ever had. I hope my future returns to El Taco Shack are just as eventful.