doritos make good taco shells, but they make even better croutons

Despite my having worn dark glasses that day, she could tell I had shifted my gaze her direction. Perhaps there had been a subtle change in my normally cool, placid tone when I bit my knuckle until it bled and made a noise mimicking a 1920s car horn, but the game had begun, and now something had to be said. If a lifetime of watching handsome gentlemen pick up girls in beer commercials had taught me anything, it was that fortune favors the bold, so I struck like a cobra. Spontaneously waving to a stranger walking out of the bathroom as I strode in her direction, I pulled a GPC out of my pocket and nonchalantly did that thing Method Man does where he lets the smoke drift up from his mouth into his nostrils, just like in my Myspace picture. “May I have this dance?” I inquired. She paused long enough to make me briefly consider the possibility that she might not say yes, then put her hand forward, but not without first affixing on her face a no-nonsense look to let me know she had many options for companionship that night and I would be given little margin for error. We glided across the floor, our grace inspiring all the other people in the Rite Aid to begin pairing off at random. This one old white couple shoplifted a bunch of Pez dispensers as they foxtrotted out the door. Soon, a news crew had come to cover what the media had dubbed the Drugstore Dance Marathon, and the nattily dressed reporter approached my lady- whose name I still did not yet know- and me.
“As this extemporaneous act of human kinship and mutual love enters its fifth hour, an inspired city begins hearing offers from possible corporate sponsors for naming rights to the event. I’m Fred Ridgedale, and if I may, I’d like to cut in and dance with this nice young lady here,” he grinned as he tapped me on the shoulder. Things got really quiet all of a sudden, and he repeated the request as the cameras continued rolling. “May I cut in?”
“You can fuck right off,” I snarled, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than she pulled me close and kissed me. On our way to her place later that night, she put my jacket on and once again sensed my gaze on her.
“You should watch where you’re going instead of looking at me,” she laughed, nearly losing her balance and falling off the skateboard I was pulling behind my bike. She steadied herself, centering the water-skiing rope over my back wheel.
“Girl, you look so good I can’t help it,” I breathlessly replied. “You know in cartoons when Daffy Duck or whoever hasn’t had any food in days and everything he looks at looks like a hamburger? Well, you look like a hamburger right now.”
“That’s because I am a hallucination of a hamburger. You’ve been trapped in the mountains with a broken leg. Your descent into madness is caused by hunger, but compounded by the growing realization that the rescue choppers overhead are unlikely to find you.” I gripped the empty granola bar wrapper ever tighter in my hands and parted my blistered, chapped lips to try to scream out for help, but my throat was too dry for it to amount to much more than a whisper.


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April 2012
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