Colon Blow (again)

“Daddy, I want to eat lunch there,” she said as she pointed out the window.

I looked up and saw that she was pointing at Taco Bell. This was a strange development. We’ve driven by the place a thousand times since we lived in these parts but have never stopped. I had no intention of doing so this time either.

“Daddy, stop! You said we were on a date and I could pick where we eat!”

“That’s because you’ve been reasonable up to now. You pick Wendy’s every week.”

“But today I don’t want Wendy’s. I want that!”

I swung around and pulled into the parking lot. After ten minutes of reasonable discussion we went inside, against my better judgment. Soon afterward we sat at a table and unwrapped our bounty, which was somewhat disturbing. I have a thing about Mexican food. I like it a lot. I’d lived in California long enough to know good Mexican food and my expectations were minimal—but this was hideous. I made the mistake of looking inside my burrito and it appeared to be made out of brown paste.

“Mine looks like dog food.”

“Daddy, stop saying bad things and eat your lunch.”

I hadn’t been to a Taco Bell in roughly fifteen years. I had no idea what to order so I got four burrito supremes. I could only stomach three of them and it was tough getting them down but I was starving.

An hour later I was watching the game when the storm hit. The first wave wasn’t as violent as I thought it would be, but the next wave had all the elements of a classic green meat attack. I’ll spare you the details, but I was in there long enough to miss almost an entire quarter of the Eagles game. The kid was unfazed and unaffected. The entire time I was on the throne she was drawing pictures and shoving them under the door, which might have cheered me up if they weren’t pictures of doggies eating Taco Bell.

She kept singing, “Fart, fart, fart, FART…fart, fart, fart, FART.” To the tune of the opening of Beethoven’s fifth symphony and then laughing hysterically.

I refused to reply.

My wife eventually got in on the act, humiliating me even further, before taking a more serious note and rattling off a long list of chores that needed to be done, including measuring the windows for the new window treatments and taking the car to the dealership on Monday. All while I sat there, depressed and cramping, and wishing I was someplace else. If you can’t get some peace in there, there’s truly no hope. I stayed in there until they had gotten bored and gone about their business. And I slinked back to the couch and pretended to be asleep for a while.

And thus, another Sunday gone the way of Hades. Mocked by my family and frowned upon by the gods.

Acta est fabula, plaudite!