The Moment I Turned Into Myself

Life is a series of memories that have, in one way or another, impacted one or more individuals to act in a specific manner from that point on.

I dislike preppy, clique-y girls. I tend to dress in any way I want, without regard to how others might see me. If someone has something to say, I'd prefer it to be said to my face and not behind my back. I like to speak my mind. I don't like going to buy wings from the Wing Stop by my house anymore. I have a deep-seeded hatred for gossip. All of these qualities in myself can be traced back to one specific moment in my life; one memory impacted me in such a manner that all of these things are a part of me now.

It was probably about 9th grade. My dad and I were going to go golfing, because golf is a gentleman's sport,  and we're real sirs. Because of the rules of the course, you have to wear pants or shorts with a tucked in polo, which is exactly what I was wearing. We decided to stop somewhere to get some food before we went out to the course, and I suggested wings, because we had never been there, and also because wings are delicious. So we get there, order some food, and sit down, waiting for our food to get to our table.

At this point, I notice that the only other people in the store was a group of three teenage girls. I remember  the two that were facing me kept giving me glances and all three of them were talking in a hushed manner, and of course, giggling about in their cheeky way. I got up to get a drink, and out of the corner of my eye I could see one of them looking at me and saying "what a fashion faux pas."


Now, first of all, nobody has even said "faux pas" since 1973, so I really don't understand why she felt it was an appropriate way to describe the fact that I was wearing jeans and a polo. Secondly, I was wearing jeans and a polo. People wear that all the time. I could have said the same thing about you and your Uggs and daisy dukes. That's the stupidest thing since Croc's, and Croc's are really stupid. My 1990 Camry is more stylish than you.

I didn't say anything. I didn't look at them, or even acknowledge their existence. I just sat there and quietly writhed around in my hatred for them. I've sat and thought about what I should have said to them. (The best so far is "you ugly anyways," but it's still open for discussion.) And even though I'd love to just reduce them to ruin, I think I'd probably just sit there like I did before and know in good confidence that they'll have at least one kid by 18 and be living off food stamps for the rest of their adult lives.

I don't like you, preppy, clique-y girls, with your secrecy and gossip. I will dress however I want, and I really don't care what you think, because I'm way above you.

So there you have it.

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.