There is nothing like coming home drunk, stuffing your face with black tacos, and guzzling white wine. "Ebony, and ivory..."
I fantasize about winning the lottery. I want to win the lottery, and then disappear. I don’t want to disappear entirely, though. I just don’t want to have to worry about social, economic, or political issues unless I’m bored. Especially economic. Debt, taxes, mortgage, they suck and they haunt me all my waking hours. I wish I could pay them in farts. Because I have a lot of gas. I don’t mind paying for any of those things—there’s no principles preventing it—the problem is I don’t have anything to pay them with, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find the means to get that stuff. The means. That’s why I wish money was like farts. “How much do you need? Well here you go! PFFFT! Have a nice day—wait, what? Oh really, that’s not enough? Well sure, here’s some more: PFFFFFFFFFT! And buy your kid something nice: PFFFFFFT!” If I won the lottery, that’s how I’d be with money. Just farting it away.
A little white wine, a black taco, some Chinese hot sauce, some of Beckett's Glucosamine Chondroitin pills—at the time it didn't seem weird at all. Yum.
Tania and Sharan going down on a couple of black tacos… oh yeah…
I’ve taken this lottery fantasy far enough to actually invest in lottery tickets. Yes, I admit I am foolish enough to believe, on occasion, that I might win the lottery. And on those occasions I am simply in another world, a world where I am worth hundreds of millions of dollars, if not billions. “We’ll replace the carpet in the living room first,” I’ll think as I’m handing the gas station lady my Mega Millions numbers. “I should probably look into, like, a dark wood flooring maybe. That might look cool? Actually we could do the whole house like that… yeah that would look nice.” It’s around that point that I realize that not only will I be able to outfit our entire home with dark wood flooring, but I can then cover the new floors with a layer of gasoline and light the whole fucking house on fire. “You won the lottery, Dave,” Tania says to me in my fantasy lottery dreamland, “we don’t need to live in a little shithole in Glendale anymore.” Oh yeah.
Oops! Looks like a black taco squirted some of its jack sauce all over Sharan's hands!
I shouldn’t be driving when I’m “on the lottery,” incidentally. I might as well be drunk. “No officer, I haven’t been drinking. But I did just play the lottery.” I really enjoy my visits to fantasy lottery dreamland. You should see our FLD house. Imagine if Hearst Castle were made out of chocolate and it had helicopter blades so it could fly…
As Sharan goes to wash all the jack sauce off her face, Tania goes down on another black taco! She's practically having a black taco gang bang!
As I said, I won’t completely disappear because food is an area that will require me to keep one foot in the real world. Maybe I’ll try my hand at some farming and raising crops and livestock and whatnot, but in kind of a George Bush/Martha Stewart way. “You know, I have my own bee hives,” I heard Martha say recently to a guest who was showing her how to use bees wax for something or another. “I could use my own bees wax for this couldn’t I?” If I won the lottery, I’m sure I would also have my own bee hives, but unlike Martha I wouldn’t pretend that I’m the one out there physically harvesting the honey and the wax. That would be a job for the little man that I specifically hired to tend to the bees: the beekeeper. He has the beehives. I just pay him to harvest their fruits. “Bring me some bees wax, please,” I will say to him when I want some. (I wanted to write, “NOW!” but I think I’d be a gentle multi-billionaire and treat the help like family. Unless of course there’s some program (scam) in which I can pay someone else to be polite to offset all my rude behavior?) I would try not to delude myself into believing that I had anything to do with harvesting the honey, or smoking the artisanal bacon from our farm’s exotic pigs, or that I collected the eggs from our chicken coop, or grew the marijuana in our giant nursery, etc.. Or maybe I will? Because it seems like that’s what rich people do? They’re delusional. I’m sure there will be a lot to learn, and unlearn, after I win the lottery.
A sub category of the food area that I would be addressing almost immediately with my windfall of cash would be that of “late night, drunk people food” (LNDPF). While it’s not that big of an issue these days because we can’t afford to find ourselves out in public, drunk, in the wee hours of the morning spending copious amounts of money on greasy food, it will surely be an issue after we win the lottery. Because, for one, I imagine the first month or so will be spent stumbling around a variety of international metropolises in a drunken stupor. And I’m not going to know where to get a good taco. Even if I did, I’m not going to want to wait in line with all the other stupid drunk people. I may be drunk and stupid, but people who own their own beehives don’t wait in taco lines. So I would hire a bunch of late night, drunk people food cooks to make me my late night, drunk people food. I’d have a stable of chefs specializing in a variety of LNDPF. I’d have a Philly cheese steak dude, for instance. The steak, the buns, the griddle the steak is cooked on, everything would be flown in directly from Philly—oh wait a minute, I could just fly to Philly, huh? Oh yeah, I guess I could do this Elvis style, huh? Yeah, I guess after I win the lottery, I’ll buy a jet. And whenever I want a Philly cheese steak, or a slice of New York pizza, or Mexico City taco, I’ll just say, “Fire up the jet!” VROOOM! And then we’ll fly to Portugal to wash it all down with a nice bottle of Port. Yeah, I’ll get a jet. I don’t want those fuckers hanging around my property—my manor—all day long when they’re not making cheese steaks, or whatever they were hired to make for me.
I buried my face in some black taco that night, too, although you wouldn't know it because whoever was manning the camera was DRUNK!
I’ve been thinking of this because the last time we were out late and needed some LNDPF the only thing we could find were these dumb ass, black tacos from Taco Bell. BLEH! While LNDPF doesn’t necessarily have to be “good,” that doesn’t mean it should be bad. Or sound like the title of a dirty porn magazine. I really need to win the lottery so I don't have to bury my face in a black taco ever again.
[Epilogue: After I wrote the above post, I decided to see if there was indeed a magazine called Black Taco Magazine. There is not. And since Black Taco Magazine doesn’t seem to exist, now or ever, I took it upon myself to mock up some BTM cover ideas. It seemed like an idea worth exploring. It would be a niche market, but I think there’s an audience out there for a magazine dedicated to, you know, black tacos. Unfortunately, the covers I mocked up are so completely horrible that I won’t even allow myself to post them here. They are in really, really, REALLY bad taste. They shock even me. And now I’m ashamed of myself. And so I’ve abandoned the idea of launching a magazine dedicated to black tacos. For the time being, BTM will remain a part of my imagination… just like winning the lottery.]