I'm awful sorry you got pissed
Mexican Cousin - Although this is the story - based on possible urban legend, but a story nevertheless of a proud Greek man named Marco Esquandolas. As we begin our story, Marco is sitting on a beach blanket in San Diego, with a very irritated look on his face. He is thinking to himself, what the hell I am doing here. Marco is a proud man, who has had a few things not go his way in the course of his life.
Looking back - he seemed to have it all at one point, a good job, decent home - and he let it all slip away. It can happen to any of us, unfortunately it just happened to him. It always seemed that people were out to get him, and he would seem to find enemies without even looking. He had some bad habits, would hit the bottle and the cigarettes - but what really seemed to do him was the worst vice of all - the ninety nine cent burritos. Once under the influence of them, he would say and do things he later regretted - to the point where he had even run afoul of the law. Long story short, he was living in some run down beat up welfare apartments in the city of San Diego, and although he was there, he seemed to feel like he was above it all - and looked down at all of the "lowlifes" who lived there, even though some - looking at him in the same setting, might have placed that same label upon him. Well - one of those lowlifes, a middle aged woman about his same age (he was a little over 50) had asked for a ride to the beach, and he had to think twice about it - but finally decided - what the heck, I got nothing better to do (he always told anyone who happened to ask how incredibly busy he was) and he felt a little sorry for her, so why not.
Well - now sitting on that beach blanket with her, he was regretting it more and more. He was seeing more of her body than he really felt comfortable with - her tattoos, unflattering portions of her lower extremities - and starting to smell a distinct body odor from her he did not care for. To bring out his lowlife impression further, she was sipping booze from a brown lunch bag (he in a state of revulsion said no when she asked him to share some). When she was not running off to take a leak every few minutes, there was not really much to talk about. She was slurring her words, it was becoming more tense, more awkward, and more than anything - he just wished he was back home, in his smoke odored apartment, thinking about the next person he could consider filing a lawsuit against.
Finally - he got his wish and they piled off into his beat up 25 year old used vehicle, I am not aware of the make, but let's just say it was something like an old Lincoln that would on a good day get about 5 miles to the gallon. It may have been cheap and beat up, but he took pride in its condition. He was obsessed with cleanliness in general, always wiping down everything for fear of germ contamination. Some had referred to this obsession of his as obsessive compulsive disorder, but he really never cared much for those "hippie horse shit" labels anyways, as he also did not care for those with darker shades of skin color, but I digress from the subject matter here.
It was about 15 minutes to his apartment, and thankfully his "date" had fallen asleep, so there was no need for awkward and forced conversation. He was kind of grateful for this, although (here comes the foreshadowing) later he would regret this. As he looked over at her, smell of cheap liquor and sweat protruding, he became more and more judgmental of her, but kept thinking - just a few more minutes and it will all be over. They pulled up to the apartments, thank God - and he woke her out of a liquor induced slumber. She slowly descended from the vehicle. He reached over to check the dashboard, and then his hand slipped onto the passenger seat. Something did not seem right. There was a gap between his senses - as his processing brain could not quite comprehend the information that was being conveyed. And then - he realized - his hand was touching something wet - and very wet. The seat was soaked in something - liquor maybe? Close - and partially true - it was liquor induced anyways and contained some elements of it - but in fact it was pure, 100% - urine - piss - whatever you want to call it.
Marco was shocked, offended, revolted as the smells rose to his nose. His date meanwhile seemed a little disoriented, standing outside the vehicle. In a somewhat offended voice with suppressed rage, he said "excuse me". She turned slowly - and he pointed out to her what he had just found on the seat, in a somewhat accusatory tone. It took her a while to put two and two together, but when she finally did - he asked again "well - was that your doing, and what are you going to do about it"?
The immediate answer was silence. That tension that builds when one is waiting for an answer - any type of answer - to a question - but no answer is coming. It almost seemed like the whole world got quiet in conjunction, all of the world was joining in with the silence - the streets got quiet, the cars stopped passing by - as if it was clear something big was going on. As the silence continued, Marco's rage and frustration were growing. The silence - it turned out - to be - was a pregnant silence. It felt like the ground started buzzing, as if something - like an earthquake or explosion - was about to burst. Just when Marco was about to ask this offended question one more time, the silence was interrupted - by what turned out to be - the answer to his question.
The answer came, but about two feet lower than where he expected it - as this answer did not come from the vocal cords. It was an explosion of sorts - a man made (or woman to be specific) of epic proportions and implications. It was an answer that vocal cords were not capable of producing, and it was produced through the bottom of a swimsuit - and out the flabby legs that he had been somewhat revolted by earlier. "Fart" would not be quite the word to use. This word implies short - quick - to the point. This one seemed to go one for what seemed to be an eternity. It started out a low rumbling, but picked up in intensity and volume and seemed to echo through the San Diego hills, filling the void of the silence that had followed earlier. And if the sound was not enough insult to injury, combined with the putrid odor of the urine in the seat, it was almost as if a skunk had lifted its tail and sprayed directly into his nostrils. A sense of complete nausea and disgust took over, and the next even that followed after this never ending noise: the digested contents of his last AM PM purchased ninety nine cent burrito - descended back upwards, and joined the already contaminated passenger seat with a pool of chunky vomit.
Marco - advised this woman in writing - that she was all sorts of things I cannot share with you here, but the point being - he did not ever want to see or hear from her again.
Looking back - he seemed to have it all at one point, a good job, decent home - and he let it all slip away. It can happen to any of us, unfortunately it just happened to him. It always seemed that people were out to get him, and he would seem to find enemies without even looking. He had some bad habits, would hit the bottle and the cigarettes - but what really seemed to do him was the worst vice of all - the ninety nine cent burritos. Once under the influence of them, he would say and do things he later regretted - to the point where he had even run afoul of the law. Long story short, he was living in some run down beat up welfare apartments in the city of San Diego, and although he was there, he seemed to feel like he was above it all - and looked down at all of the "lowlifes" who lived there, even though some - looking at him in the same setting, might have placed that same label upon him. Well - one of those lowlifes, a middle aged woman about his same age (he was a little over 50) had asked for a ride to the beach, and he had to think twice about it - but finally decided - what the heck, I got nothing better to do (he always told anyone who happened to ask how incredibly busy he was) and he felt a little sorry for her, so why not.
Well - now sitting on that beach blanket with her, he was regretting it more and more. He was seeing more of her body than he really felt comfortable with - her tattoos, unflattering portions of her lower extremities - and starting to smell a distinct body odor from her he did not care for. To bring out his lowlife impression further, she was sipping booze from a brown lunch bag (he in a state of revulsion said no when she asked him to share some). When she was not running off to take a leak every few minutes, there was not really much to talk about. She was slurring her words, it was becoming more tense, more awkward, and more than anything - he just wished he was back home, in his smoke odored apartment, thinking about the next person he could consider filing a lawsuit against.
Finally - he got his wish and they piled off into his beat up 25 year old used vehicle, I am not aware of the make, but let's just say it was something like an old Lincoln that would on a good day get about 5 miles to the gallon. It may have been cheap and beat up, but he took pride in its condition. He was obsessed with cleanliness in general, always wiping down everything for fear of germ contamination. Some had referred to this obsession of his as obsessive compulsive disorder, but he really never cared much for those "hippie horse shit" labels anyways, as he also did not care for those with darker shades of skin color, but I digress from the subject matter here.
It was about 15 minutes to his apartment, and thankfully his "date" had fallen asleep, so there was no need for awkward and forced conversation. He was kind of grateful for this, although (here comes the foreshadowing) later he would regret this. As he looked over at her, smell of cheap liquor and sweat protruding, he became more and more judgmental of her, but kept thinking - just a few more minutes and it will all be over. They pulled up to the apartments, thank God - and he woke her out of a liquor induced slumber. She slowly descended from the vehicle. He reached over to check the dashboard, and then his hand slipped onto the passenger seat. Something did not seem right. There was a gap between his senses - as his processing brain could not quite comprehend the information that was being conveyed. And then - he realized - his hand was touching something wet - and very wet. The seat was soaked in something - liquor maybe? Close - and partially true - it was liquor induced anyways and contained some elements of it - but in fact it was pure, 100% - urine - piss - whatever you want to call it.
Marco was shocked, offended, revolted as the smells rose to his nose. His date meanwhile seemed a little disoriented, standing outside the vehicle. In a somewhat offended voice with suppressed rage, he said "excuse me". She turned slowly - and he pointed out to her what he had just found on the seat, in a somewhat accusatory tone. It took her a while to put two and two together, but when she finally did - he asked again "well - was that your doing, and what are you going to do about it"?
The immediate answer was silence. That tension that builds when one is waiting for an answer - any type of answer - to a question - but no answer is coming. It almost seemed like the whole world got quiet in conjunction, all of the world was joining in with the silence - the streets got quiet, the cars stopped passing by - as if it was clear something big was going on. As the silence continued, Marco's rage and frustration were growing. The silence - it turned out - to be - was a pregnant silence. It felt like the ground started buzzing, as if something - like an earthquake or explosion - was about to burst. Just when Marco was about to ask this offended question one more time, the silence was interrupted - by what turned out to be - the answer to his question.
The answer came, but about two feet lower than where he expected it - as this answer did not come from the vocal cords. It was an explosion of sorts - a man made (or woman to be specific) of epic proportions and implications. It was an answer that vocal cords were not capable of producing, and it was produced through the bottom of a swimsuit - and out the flabby legs that he had been somewhat revolted by earlier. "Fart" would not be quite the word to use. This word implies short - quick - to the point. This one seemed to go one for what seemed to be an eternity. It started out a low rumbling, but picked up in intensity and volume and seemed to echo through the San Diego hills, filling the void of the silence that had followed earlier. And if the sound was not enough insult to injury, combined with the putrid odor of the urine in the seat, it was almost as if a skunk had lifted its tail and sprayed directly into his nostrils. A sense of complete nausea and disgust took over, and the next even that followed after this never ending noise: the digested contents of his last AM PM purchased ninety nine cent burrito - descended back upwards, and joined the already contaminated passenger seat with a pool of chunky vomit.
Marco - advised this woman in writing - that she was all sorts of things I cannot share with you here, but the point being - he did not ever want to see or hear from her again.
posted by Zook at 7:48 AM
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