Surely it's clear by now that shame is a running theme in this blog. Well, shame and frank admission that I'm a deeply flawed, neurotic person with abominable habits of every kind. I like to think that distracted driving isn't among these habits. Certainly I don't text and drive. And belting out "All About That Bass" as it blasts from the radio is not distracting, so much as it is validating to what I'm about to describe.
When I identified my main food groups in an earlier post, I inadvertently omitted chicken tacos from the Lemon Creek Breeze-In. I'll often drive 15 minutes out of my way to get an order of these incredibly greasy, obscenely delicious indy fast-food tacos and then devour them on the 15 minute drive back. I have a special technique for balancing the box on my lap while I inhale a taco with my right hand and steer with my left. The whole time, little bits of chicken, cheese, scallions, and spicy, greasy sauce are dropping everywhere (see prior post titled: My Car is a Shit Hole). When I get where I'm going, I do a quick sweep of the car and my jeans and eat any taco-related shrapnel that hasn't drawn dust or hair. As for the rest of the meal's detritus, I sort of pretend I didn't see it and/or make a half-hearted attempt to address it with a crumpled up napkin.
This is what I call a classy lunch, and I have it at least once a week. I've photo-shopped the below picture to make it appear that there are only two tacos per order when there are actually three; but I'm not sure hiding the third taco honors the message of "All About That Bass." I consider the line in that song about "bringing booty back" a subliminal directive from Meghan Trainor to shove that third taco in my face as quickly as possible before booty goes out of style again.