Lately I’ve been trying to commit Suicide by Burrito. That’s when you keep going to Chipotle for lunch despite what it does to your insides. For those of you not privileged enough to have a Chipotle near you, I will explain. Imagine Taco Bell, but good. Now imagine shitting your pants like six times the next day.
It was terrible. I was single-handedly financing Mr. Charmin’s new yacht. You see, I imagine all companies to be ran by some guy named after them, and he wears a navy blue coat with a captain’s hat, and he says “quite” a lot. His great-grandfather discovered the toilet paper plant somewhere in Guatemala, and forced local tribesmen into slavery to collect it onto cardboard rolls and send them to IGA. But they’re not fast enough, so I resort to washcloths.
Anyway. I decided to stop eating at Chipotle so much. I tried going to Qdoba once instead to fool my intestines, but they weren’t fooled. They just exploded again, but in a slightly less tasty way, and farther north.
You will probably not find much royalty at Chipotle. Unless you live in a weird area that has RC on tap. Because you never hear a Princess say “Oh heavens, I do believe I’ve shit myself!” Bring me the golden chamber pot. This one’s not going to be pleasant. Jeeves? Jeeves! I got something south of the border going south of the border! Get in here and bring your gloves and toothbrush!
And that’s why butlers always have their eyes closed in movies. The end.
Heh get it, the end.