Unleash the turgid ballard!

As I sit here consuming a veritable monstrosity of a burrito from Chipotle, most likely forged from the orgasm mines of Hephaestus himself, so large that God takes a breather in between bites, I am stricken by memories of douchebaggery concerning this type of cuisine, what could be called an amalgamation of Mexican and American fare. I've remembered when I sat there, devouring this edible jewel from heaven and having a cockhead walk up to me and say "Oh man, that's a Chipotle burrito, isn't it? Man, that ain't authentic Mexican!"

And suddenly the food I've been vigorously masticating ends up splattered all over the guy's face.

Does it really matter if something is "authentic" or not? Is it that big a deal that the Mexican food you're eating has to come from the sweat-lined palms of an immigrant who can barely say "Hello?" Does that somehow make it better? If I went down to Tijuana someday (don't know why I would, to be honest. If I wanted to get stabbed, I could just run down to Oakland and spew racist propoganda) and saw people making burritos, substituting their very excrement for the deliciously tangy Barbacoa from Chipotle, I'd take the "false" burrito every goddamn day of the week. That's certainly "authentic," but when I'm not about to consume feces in a soft, tortilla shell.

This pretentious cockery annoys me; pretension irks me in general. I shouldn't be talking, though, I suppose. I am guilty of using ten-dollar words when a five-dollar word suffices, but I rationalize it as being funny, as opposed to people telling you the food you're eating or the clothes you're wearing are inferior in some abstract regard.

Last couple of blog entries have been rather angry and depressed, huh? I should probably do something about that.

PS. The chances of me being upbeat in a blog are slim to none. You have a better chance of ejaculating Rockstar when you climax.