During my business trip this week, I visited Chipotle to eat great food and snap pics for Nanos – because god knows she hasn’t see enough Chipotles and burrito bowls in her life. Oh, well, what’s one more? Plus, I snapped a cool picture of the Chipotle truck, which was like photographing Bigfoot or the Yeti.
However, I didn’t quite expect a crazy experience when I took a picture inside Chipotle.
Nothing happened when I took an exterior shot above, which is the Rancho Cucamonga location in all of its sunny glory.
The secret spy shot that Chipotle wants everyone to see
The reasons I eat Chipotle are on the menu board (shown to the right). They choose quality food suppliers, which is better for my health. I’ll support any restaurant that does this because I prefer that my antibiotics come from an I.V., not a cow or pig.
Now when I took this shot of the menu board, you would have thought I was spy. A woman who worked there, a manager, perhaps, came unglued. She started speaking Spanish in a very angry tone to her co-workers. I speak some Spanish, but irritated Spanish kills my comprehension.
Arms waving, she looked and pointed at me, and I kept hearing “menu board.” Meanwhile, I’m standing in the burrito assembly line, thinking at what point is this going to get out of control and they’re going to ask for my camera? She kept heating up, though the other employees acted very calm about me taking a picture of information one can find on Chipotle.com.
I don’t think Chipotle wants to keep their selection of quality food a secret. I’ve seen youtube videos of their stores. What’s the big deal?
Godzilla would eat the entire truck
I paid, grabbed my plastic utensils and left.
I get outside and who do I see following me? You guessed it. I thought about taking a picture of her, but I’m sure that would have put her over the edge. As I can’t run with CF lungs, surely she would have killed me in the parking lot.
And, if not for the fact I’m full of antibiotics, she would have served me in the next day’s chicken burrito bowls.
So, Nanos, this post is for you. I’m glad I lived to eat my pork burrito bowl.
Three cheers for Chipotle. BTW, I don’t recommend taking pictures at this location. You’ve been warned.
I'm never going back again. Creative Commons, Ulybug
It’s Saturday night. I’m having a shit time at the Hard Rock in Vegas, and down over 200K. The dealer’s treating himself to 21’s like Ginger’s been treating herself to hotel shampoos, soaps and robes – one for me, none for you, Fox.
Dealer Jack from Montana is beating the crap out of me with every faceless card in the shoe, 3’s, 6’s 2’s. I’m thinking, you better, you better not bet, Fox.
I sign for 100K in chips. I’m feeling angry. Ginger’s counting cards in her crazy nurse way, whispering 100ml, 5cc, 50mg. WTF? How does she do it? I don’t know.
Dealer man thinks she’s nuts, not the PhD she really is. But her method works. She’s up 70 or 80K, which only makes it worse that my lucky lady is showing me up. I know she’s smarter than I am, but don’t Einstein me in public, Kid. The real me is sensitive.
It’s another tricky day all the way around – my fox ego pounded and dying on the floor. I’ve had enough.
Who's next for a beating?
But guess who sits down at my high-roller’s table? Baba O’Riley himself, the thunder-god of Rock n Roll, Roger Daltrey. My pal CG would have jumped him right there cause she hearts aging rockers; and Unknown would have wet his pants like the yellow lab pup he is.
So, Roger D sits down in the last position with Ginger sandwiched between us. The dealer flips me two 8’s, Ginger a Blackjack, and Roger a 16. Dealer Jack shows a 5.
Roger’s making all cute and cuddly and using his rock-star lucky charms with nurse Ginger, who is jumping up and down yelling “code blue to you, sucka” at the dealer thanks to her big win. Woo F’ing who, I’m thinking. I’m playing cards here, not the dating game.
I slide another 50K forward with my paw, all cool and fox-like. No words needed. Happy Jack knows I’m splitting 8’s. The two 10’s he drops turn my 8’s to 18’s. It’s about F’ing time. Let him chat it up with Gin if he’s turning coal to platinum.
I look at his 16 and pray to Athena that he makes the right move and stays at 16. But wrong, I am.
I don’t know how they play blackjack in the UK, but the way we friggin’ play it here is the US of A is when you’re last position, and dealer Jack is showing a 5 to your 16, you plant your ass on your rock-star hands.
But no, that’s not what Sir Who does. He scratches his finger on the table and calls for another card.
I can’t get the words “Fuck no” out fast enough. Dealer Jack tosses him a queen of spades, clubbing my beating heart, and turning his 16 to 26. He busts, then laughs about it cause he owns mansions made of gold.
I can see for miles what’s coming next. Dealer Jack flips his hold card and shows 15. The 10 that Tommy Boy just asked for, that cost him 100K of his walking-around money, was supposed to go to the dealer to bust him. He took the dealer’s 10, damn it.
Tommy himself
Now Jack from Montana looks at me, the corners of his mouth raise like an alley cat’s, all wicked-like. Even he is clairvoyant enough to see my bad luck coming. He’s chuckling inside, knowing what Princess Pinball Wizard just did.
But I’m too late. Here comes the trick of the light, as the four of diamonds falls flat, giving the dealer a 19, beating my two 50K 18’s. I’m crushed by the man who sang Sister Disco.
That’s about when I hear Who Boy start singing “mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night” to Ginger.
One of the remaining Who geezers is singing the creepiest of songs to Gin thinking it’s the magic bus to her heart. He slides his room key across the felt all-stealth and old-guy creepy like.
I only know what happened next because the police were playing the tape when they paw-printed me. Laughed their asses off, they did.
In the video, I jump on the table and go mobile. I nail Roger right in the nose. After that, there’s five minutes of me hanging on to his face as he tries to shake me off. Tables, cocktails, everything goes over. He’s screaming just like he does in concert. Then he grabs my tail and uses his microphone twirling skills to whip me across the casino. I land against a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, where security takes me down.
I have blue eyes that are sad. Where's my billion dollars in royalties?
Ginger has seen this show before. I yell out that she led him on and there goes my bail money. She says she won’t get fooled again and runs out.
In court, he judge says, “Who’s next?” and looks like he’s ready to give me life. I want to give him the slip, Kid. I can’t explain my actions, but I can tell him what Sir Behind Blue Eyes did. And after hearing the story, the judge dismisses all charges. He agrees that’s it’s illegal to hit a 16 when the dealer is showing a 5. It’s a crime, he says, and lets me go.
I’m free.
That’s my side of the story. Ginger won’t return my calls. Unknown sits in a hotel room somewhere. I look in the mirror tonight and wonder, Who are you, Fox? Who are you?
The Unknown Cystic 