EXPLODING BURRITOS :: Simply Jimmy D :: Breakin' News or Breakin' Balls: It's all the same to me!

jimmyd _writes "I'm not sure what the odds are of having a burrito explode in your hand, but I'm guessing you have a better chance of getting hit by lightning. It either qualifies as a phenomenon or an anomaly, I'm really not sure. But one thing I can assure you of, it's a frightening and horrifying experience.

Last night, after putting in a grueling day at Smash Pictures--doing my part to keep the world's smut supply flowing--I headed home. I hadn't eaten all day and decided to stop by a local 'comida rapido' stand (that's 'fast food' in Mexican if you don't savvy that lingo). I decided to get myself a bean-and-cheese burrito. A bit later, my burrito in hand, I resumed my journey home.

Within minutes, I was at a safe and legal cruising speed on the freeway in very light traffic. I partially unwrapped the burrito. With my eyes dutifully and safely on the road ahead, I took a bite. That's when it happened: The burrito seemed to explode in my hand! Frijoles every-fucking-where! The exploding burrito took me completely by surprise. There are many things in life that one might expect to happen, but an exploding burrito is certainly not one of them.

Trying my best to keep my now slimy, bean-mucked hands on the wheel, a couple of tons of Chevy Suburban--with me inside of it--careened across three lanes of the 405 freeway. Fortunately, I was able to wrestle the truck back into control.

The burrito was history. All I held in my hand were the scarred remnants of a flour tortilla, some of the paper wrapping, and gobs of refried beans and cheese. I soon arrived home and took a look at myself in the mirror. The burrito damage was extensive! I looked like I had been shooting an anal scene with a girl who suddenly had an acute case of Hershey Squirts with me--the cameraman--unable to get out of the line of fire. My roommate stared at me, his eyes wide, staring at the brown stuff all over my shirt, my Smash Pictures reversible, all-weather, vest, and my cargo-pants-style shorts. I relayed to him what had happened, but I'm not sure he completely bought my story.

This morning, as I prepared for yet another journey to the West San Fernando Valley, I opened my trusty Suburban's driver-side door and surveyed the damage. The exploding burrito's blast radius was impressive. Refried beans hung from the steering wheel, dried and caked, like so many stalactites hanging from the roof of a cave. Beans and cheese and scraps of tortilla reached as far as the back seat, the passenger seat, and onto the dashboard and front windshield. A lump of battle-hardened cheese clung stubbornly to the rear-view mirror. The inside of the truck stunk of beans and cheese and salsa. I thought about calling in a toxic waste disposal crew.

Personally, I believe there's something to learn from nearly everything that befalls one in life. But in this case, I'm at a loss to find an explanation, to find meaning, to find some helpful grain of truth that would help make me a better man. I do know one thing: It will be a very long time before I hold another bean-and-cheese burrito in my hand.

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