Why would you get truckraped™, sir? That's what you should be thinking right now. Under any other circumstance, it would be a ludicrous question. Unfortunately, it became a palpable reality for me when I went to lunch.
Several friends decided that it would be a great idea to meet up for Friday lunch. I agreed. They recommended Tex-Mex. I agreed. They recommended a place in Dallas. I fucking agreed.
Then I find out that they're meeting at a place called Carmen's. I have no fucking idea where that is, so I map it out. FIRST WARNING SIGN-- THIS PLACE IS IN SOUTH DALLAS. For those not in the know, you don't go to South Dallas unless you like vuvuzelas and rape and buying 9mm guns at convenience stores. I only like one of those three, so this was clearly going to be another poor choice.
I am a brave soul. So I caved in-- for you, my awesome readers. For you.
I should have known this would be a shit show when I put the address in my vehicle's navigation device. As soon as I hit I-30, the car immediately instructed me to TURN THE FUCK AROUND. I think it even killed the power when I was at a stoplight, auto-locked the doors, and dialed the local police. I turned it off and navigated using my cell phone. I said, "Today will not be a day of cowardice; today will be a day of bravery and vittles served with a side of life-threatening fear."
My sphincter went into autoclench™ when I arrived at Carmen's. The restaurant looked like the kind of place you'd go if you wanted to find missing guerilla combatants or score 10 kilos of coke. It's surrounded by truck stops and industrial buildings.
And then there's the parking lot.
It was filled with 18 wheeler cabs and soiled pick-up trucks. Scores of truckrapers™ were standing outside in small groups, fondling their well-groomed moustaches and eyeing the prize (me). I could smell rape in the air. I parked as close to the building as possible and ran in with my hands covering my ass.
Of course, nobody warned me about the fucking epileptic seizure I'd suffer upon entry. I walk in and see BLUEGREENYELLOWREDORANGE everywhere. It's like some asshole thought it would be funny to paint EVERYTHING A DIFFERENT FUCKING COLOR. Initially, I thought it was a relapse of the Steakhouse Shakes™, but it turned out to be an epileptic fit. I foamed at the mouth and fell on the floor.
When I came to, I saw that someone ordered me a generic combination of meat, cheese, and tortillas. As you can see, it looks OK; refried beans always look like Mexican diarrhea, so there's no getting around that. Honestly, the food was actually pretty good.
The rape scare was not. I will never go back to this place. Not even if I bring my rape whistle.
Real men aren't afraid to carry rape whistles. Good show, sir!
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