At times we all get disappointed. Heck, read the paper or watch
television news programs lead by Àanchormen" or Àanchorwomen" and
you will find 1,000 reasons to be disappointed. On a more personal
level let's face it, none of our friends or family members ever
live up to the level or standard we alone set for them, thus, we
are all continually disappointed by those that are close to us and
those so far away we never heard of them until the anchorman told
us about them. I have a question for my dear, precious readers.
Warning: This next section may take you to new levels of disappointment
that you never contemplated before, thereby opening up a whole new,
deeper pit to sink with your depression into! The question: have
you ever been disappointed by yourself or your own disgusting acts
or omissions? I have, and in sharing this personal embarrassment
I hope not to jog up any unpleasant reminders among my fans. Please
accept my apologies in advance if this indeed occurs.
15 years ago in San Miguel comida corridas were super popular, with
every centro eatery having their own personal version. I had just
finished a five course, $7,000 peso (pre-devaluation) comida and
had two free hours before needing to return to work. This turned
out to be a real blessing. I strolled into the jardin and decided
to sit a spell and relax, maybe run into a friend or two. Not long
afterwards I felt the tingly pangs that precede a farting episode.
Without panic I bogarted a scope left, scope right, to judge the
distance of those I might offend. With few people around I licked
my index finger and held it up to check the direction of the prevailing
wind while shifting my weight entirely onto my left buttocks. I
was in luck! No gusts with only a slight southerly wind (and I was
facing the Parroquia!) and practically no one around!
I then decided to let one go. Halfway through there was a lump.
I immediately jumped to my feet fearing exposure by my thin white
summer pants. Within seconds I felt something slowly moving south
down my leg. Due to my predicament I flew into high gear, dragging
one leg behind (you know which one) I stepped it to the curb and
flagged a cab. I wore a grimace you see on the faces of Olympic
weight lifters from Eastern Bloc countries as I told him my address
and sat on my hands in his back seat. As we rounded the first corner
and the wind changed direction my taxista got a whiff of my/our
problem. His earlier congenial manner quickly changed and I can
almost swear that the color drained from his face, his eyes darkened
and he quickly took on the persona of Charles Manson at his most
devious. He began screaming epithets so rapidly I couldn't keep
up as we hurdled topes at 50 MPH. My grimace became more pronounced
and entrenched. At my house I asked him with my Easter Bloc grimaceÄhow
much? He said, À$15,000 pesos." The going rate at the time was $8,000
pesos. I gave him $50,000 pesos. He took it and spit a loog within
inches of my Staw Adams. To this dayÄmy definition of disappointment
is a fart with a lump in it. What's yours?
 At
times we all get disappointed. Heck, read the paper or watch television
news programs lead by “anchormen” or “anchorwomen”
and you will find 1,000 reasons to be disappointed. On a more personal
level let’s face it, none of our friends or family members
ever live up to the level or standard we alone set for them, thus,
we are all continually disappointed by those that are close to us
and those so far away we never heard of them until the anchorman
told us about them. I have a question for my dear, precious readers.
Warning: This next section may take you to new levels of disappointment
that you never contemplated before, thereby opening up a whole new,
deeper pit to sink with your depression into! The question: have
you ever been disappointed by yourself or your own disgusting acts
or omissions? I have, and in sharing this personal embarrassment
I hope not to jog up any unpleasant reminders among my fans. Please
accept my apologies in advance if this indeed occurs.
15 years ago in San Miguel comida corridas were super popular, with
every centro eatery having their own personal version. I had just
finished a five course, $7,000 peso (pre-devaluation) comida and
had two free hours before needing to return to work. This turned
out to be a real blessing. I strolled into the jardin and decided
to sit a spell and relax, maybe run into a friend or two. Not long
afterwards I felt the tingly pangs that precede a farting episode.
Without panic I bogarted a scope left, scope right, to judge the
distance of those I might offend. With few people around I licked
my index finger and held it up to check the direction of the prevailing
wind while shifting my weight entirely onto my left buttocks. I
was in luck! No gusts with only a slight southerly wind (and I was
facing the Parroquia!) and practically no one around!
I then decided to let one go. Halfway through there was a lump.
I immediately jumped to my feet fearing exposure by my thin white
summer pants. Within seconds I felt something slowly moving south
down my leg. Due to my predicament I flew into high gear, dragging
one leg behind (you know which one) I stepped it to the curb and
flagged a cab. I wore a grimace you see on the faces of Olympic
weight lifters from Eastern Bloc countries as I told him my address
and sat on my hands in his back seat.
As we rounded the first corner and the wind changed direction my
taxista got a whiff of my/our problem. His earlier congenial manner
quickly changed and I can almost swear that the color drained from
his face, his eyes darkened and he quickly took on the persona of
Charles Manson at his most devious. He began screaming epithets
so rapidly I couldn’t keep up as we hurdled topes at 50 MPH.
My grimace became more pronounced and entrenched. At my house I
asked him with my Easter Bloc grimace—how much? He said, “$15,000
pesos.” The going rate at the time was $8,000 pesos. I gave
him $50,000 pesos. He took it and spit a loog within inches of my
Staw Adams. To this day—my definition of disappointment is
a fart with a lump in it. What’s yours? |
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