Here’s a fresh tale of woe for all you out there in Internet land…

So, less than one hour ago, I went on my lunch break, and I drove to a nearby Mexican eatery just down the road from where I work.  The parking lot was full, save for one available parking space.  I went to pull into said parking space, but just as I decided to do so, some tall, attractive blonde girl, who was talking on her cell phone, decided to stand in the middle of the available space.  I waited a moment or two before she finally realized she was standing in my way.

I got out of the car and headed toward the restaurant’s door.  But, the blonde girl, who was still on her phone, stood oblivious in front of the doorway, blocking me.  I stepped to the left; she also coincidentally stepped to the left.  I stepped to the right; she stepped to the right, her back still toward me.  Was I engaged in a dance step I was not aware of?  Finally, she moved out of the way, and I stepped inside.

I ordered my usual, a chicken burrito, and then sat at a table to wait for my food.  The blonde was behind me in line (she was off the phone, finally), and she ordered and then sat as well.

I listened for my number to be called, but didn’t hear it.  I saw the blonde girl get up and get her food.  That’s weird, I thought.  I figured I would have gotten my food first.  A few minutes later, another number was called.

“Oh my God,” the blonde girl said, “I took someone else’s food.”

I assumed she was eating my burrito, well, just because.  I went up to the counter.

“Your chicken burrito will be up soon,” an employee told me, “someone else took it.”

Figured.  So, I waited a few more minutes before I got my food.

I sat at my table and took a bite.  My burrito tasted strange.  I looked down and saw that they had given me a steak burrito instead of a chicken burrito.

Screw it, I said to myself, and went on eating.

When I was younger, I collected baseball cards, and whenever I was in a place other than Mechanicsburg, I always sought out new baseball card stores to visit.

My grandmother lives in Lancaster, PA, and on one occasion when I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old, my family and I stopped by her place for a visit.  For some reason—maybe it was a holiday or something—many of my relatives were also visiting my grandparents that afternoon.  The group of us was so large, I remember, that we had to eat in the basement instead of the dining room.

Now, my grandmother is an excellent cook.  She was born in southern Italy, and to this day, her gnocchi is my favorite food.  As a youngster, I had a sensitive stomach, but I had never had an adverse reaction to my grandmother’s food, though I usually only ate her pasta and not the cooked meats.  On this occasion, however, I decided to eat some kind of beef she had made.  It was delicious, and I remember that it had slivers of what I think were grilled onions in it, which I wasn’t sure if you were supposed to eat or not, but I ate anyway.

After our big mid-day meal, I talked my Dad into taking me to a nearby baseball card store.  Before we left my grandmother’s house, I remember two things: My Dad’s younger cousins were fighting over who got to use their new BB gun first, and my stomach had begun to bother me.

My Dad and I pulled up to the baseball card store and went inside.

“Dad,” I said, “my stomach hurts.”

I don’t remember what my Dad said to this, but he probably wasn’t too concerned because complaints about my stomach were typical.

At one point, while I was standing next to my Dad, I pulled on his sleeve—he was talking to the salesman about some aluminum trashcans emblazoned with the Phillies’ logo I think—and told him again that my stomach really hurt.  He told me to be quiet.  Part of my memory says that he even went so far as to put his hand in front of my mouth to get me to shush.  In any case, I remember with great clarity what happened next: I barfed all over the floor.

Now I had everyone’s attention.  My Dad told me to go outside while the salesman told his co-worker to get a vacuum.

I went outside by the sidewalk and continued to barf.  I threw up all over some leafy plants.  I threw up on my shoes as well.  My barf was pink in color and I saw the bits of grilled unions in there.  I threw up with such force that the vomit came out of my nose and my mouth simultaneously.  I have never thrown up so forcefully in my life.  A mother and her two kids walked by, aghast.  They quickened their pace away from me, the human barf machine.

Eventually, I stopped throwing up and went back inside the store.  I remember that I purchased an old Willie Stargell card and went home, my Dad and I thoroughly embarrassed I’m sure.

So, I did manage to get a baseball card out of the whole ordeal, but even that satisfaction wouldn’t last, as when I got back to Mechanicsburg, I somehow managed to accidentally sit on the baseball card and it got a big crease in it, thus rendering it worthless.  The End.