Somehow, someone thought it was a good idea to put me in charge of 53 pre-teens for a two week, lice-filled summer camp. So I have been a tad busy. By some miracle I escaped unscathed and lice-free, but much more addicted to cigarettes.
Camp has made me realize that I need to be around people more, even if they are dwarf-shaped and completely insane (i.e. children). It is good to be out of my cave.
Camp also made me realize that I have a limit to the number of flamenquines I can consume in one lifetime, despite my uncanny ability to eat almost anything that is put in front of me. If you do not know what flamenquines are, imagine a corn-dog without the stick. I know that does not sound good, but now, imagine you are eating the corn-dog and everyone around you is trying to convince you it is some kind of fucking delicacy. Believe me, I am all for fried phallic food, that is, if I am at the Idaho State Fair talking to some dude with a mullet and missing teeth. Flamenquines are stickless, glorified corn-dogs, whose only missing element is the fair ride that allows you to vomit the thing up afterwards with ease.
Yesterday was the last day of summer camp. Once all the kiddies were with their respective parents, we headed to in-law land to pay a visit. Requests to eat out at a restaurant that was mildly non-cateto were ignored as usual. I whispered to my husband upon entering the restaurant of choice, "If they serve us one of those fucking corn-dogs I´m outta here" (empty threats, of course).
Luckily, by the time the famous flamenquines had arrived I had downed the precise number of beers which allow me to surpass the bitch threshold and no longer cared what dish I was about to eat nor which health codes had been violated in its preparation.
I ate the flamenquin.
Then I sat silent while everyone talked about how fucking great flamenquines are and how in Cordoba they are the size of a kids arm and are sometimes filled with shellfish. I closed my eyes, controlled my vomit reflex out of politeness, while really wishing for a Tilt-A-Whirl, a Yo-Yo, or a Gravitron.
Yessssssss.
-Bluestreak
P.S. I´m quitting smoking today. Fer reals.
Photos from Flickr:
On On The The Yo Yo by base10
The-Claw-III by thephotoholic
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5 comments:
"dwarf-shaped and completely insane"
yep, that's exactly how I feel about children too. :)
Glad you made it out alive!
I can so relate!! I was so excited to get a margarita on Saturday, ready to txt you and share the joy when....surprise! Iguana Ranas has a slushee machine to make frozen crap margaritas (qué???) and although they had all the necessary ingredients, tequila etc...they couldn´t make me a real margarita, joé!!! The lunch was typical Spanish mex ( plate of melted cheese basically) but at least not a flamenquin...pobrecilla! Pedis and SATC mña?? Bs.
Flamenquín..
Despite your description I'm feeling a bit peckish. Perhaps because as far as I'm concerned a corn dog is just something policeman eat in American films and TV
hi there. i found your blog randomly a few weeks ago. i've been lurking - sorry if that's creepy.
anyway, i just wanted to say that i hate flamenquines too. my hubs is from cordoba and every time we visit i somehow get stuck eating the things. ugh.
sweet spikette, I´m a huge lurker too, not creepy. will check out your blog.
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