When I was younger, I’d always go over to my best friend Angel Anderson’s house to play. I’d never ever in my entire life dare to knock on their front door, her father scared the living Jesus out of me (And that’s why I’m gay). I felt like he hated me to the core, and I wasn’t about to take the chance of having any sort of confrontation with him. So, I’d sit underneath her bedroom window, sometimes for minutes on end, jumping up with my tiny baby legs, to knock on the glass until she heard me. Once that was done, she’d race to the door to let me in, and we’d go play video games or walk in the creek bed til our hearts’ content.
Well, one day, we got hungry. We were children, so we totally expected someone else to provide our sustenance. And, unfortunately for me that day, that ‘someone’ was Angel’s daddio. I felt like the dude hated me even more now that he had to feed me. So, I just sat patiently waiting for the food, trying to look as grateful and respectful as possible in order to pacify the beast.
I was told we were having burritos, and I basically was thinking ‘Ah, f*ck’, because I’m definitely a super picky eater, and there’s millions of ways to ruin burritos for me. Soon, Papa Anderson dropped the plate in front of me, and I was expected to dig in. And, of course I did. I mean, her bone-chilling father was like right there, and I didn’t want to be next on the menu, if you get what I mean.
So, I looked down, and before me was the “Burrito”. Which was an unheated tortilla crudely wrapped around whatever contents lurked inside. Apprehensively, I grabbed the monstrosity, and took the biggest bite I possibly could, just to get done with this horror show a lot faster. I quickly chewed, and swallowed. It felt like worms were crawling down my throat, as I drowned in this thick creamy sludge, mixed with the cold blandness of the tortilla. It was all bad, and I have a tendency to freak out when things get all bad.
Immediately after that torturous first bite, Angel informed me that we were dining on some yummy Top Ramen noodle/Mayonnaise burritos. I died. You see, I don’t do mayonnaise. Just doesn’t work. So, naturally, I spit out whatever I could, started screaming bloody murder, ran down the hallway, and induced vomiting to purge the sin I was fed. It was a huge scene, which probably put me in a bad light with her dad, but I just can’t be put into that type of situation, and not be expected to scream, run, and puke everywhere. So, I can’t be sorry.
Fast-forward 12 years, and Angel tells me it’s called a Prison Burrito. Lovely name, and it’s totally the first thing I’d think to make when I’m looking for something to feed little kids, forget apple slices or PB & J. The name is honestly fitting though. I couldn’t imagine a worse punishment than being forced to eat something so horrid. Yet, I made it through in one piece. One incredibly f*cked up piece.
