| rev:text
| - Round 1: we go in on a Monday night, and only have to wait for about 5 minutes for a table to be cleared for us. We each order a drink and some queso for the table, everything shows up pretty quickly, and we each order 2 tacos using the create-your-own sheets on the table. During our wait, a group of four fratty lookin' dudes at the next table shouted commentary at people outside (on the other side of the windows they must not have noticed were there) and swigged cheap happy hour beer like they'd never been allowed out without their moms before. We ignored how loud and annoying they were being (constantly screeching out catchphrases over and over, then giggling like fifth grade girls at the lunch table in the cafeteria, glancing around to see how many other diners they'd been successful at annoying). It was like being transported back to when The Mask came out and every idiot dude you knew was going around saying SMOKINNNNN over and over. Gawwwd. We were glad when our tacos came out because we intended to eat and get the eff out of there, as we hadn't expected to sit in the middle of an all-out drunk bro-down. So the tacos came, and we each took a bite.
We were not even through chewing that first bite when the guy closest to us put his feet on the bottom rungs of his bar stool, lifted himself up off the seat, then bared down and proceeded to let the loudest, longest, bubbliest fart I have ever heard in a public place rip out of his precious asshole. He was directly in my line of sight so I sat there, dumbfounded and staring, bits of taco bite in my mouth. Then this dude cups his hands and starts FANNING HIS FART IN OUR DIRECTION. Laughter, oh rampant, unbridled joy escapes the rest of The Brothers Frat and they struggle to hide smarmy smiles behind shitty $2 beers as we sit there completely agape, the taste of tacos now hideously intermingled with the rotten egg smell of this guy's guts. I can tell you now, whoever that dude is, he needs to think about changing his diet. (I would also suggest re-thinking the strategy of wearing both backwards hat AND backwards sunglasses resting on bill of backwards hat...both of these things are meant to be worn facing forward, Toddmeister, protecting the front of your head from the sun, neither are doing much for your neck, which was, oddly enough, quite red.)
We flagged down our waitress, paid our check and got the hell out of there, leaving half full drinks and entire tacos behind, as the fart smell and the laughter were not dissipating. I hate to be all "never in my life" about things, but oh my god, I've never had to smell someone's asshole in the drive through of a damn McDonald's where you'd expect lower standards, but to have some drunk idiot assault me with the noxious fumes from his rancid butthole while I drink an $8 cocktail in a restaurant where people are at least expected to excuse themselves if they need to shit their pants, it was just too much. "Hey, farts are talent" The Toddmeister said to our backs as we left, which is not even a complete sentence.
Turns out, I wasn't missing much. Round 2: Went to the other location with coworkers and tried to place my same order again. I hadn't noticed the first time around (probably because of the fart attack??) that no matter what fillings you order for your custom taco, the majority of what comes in the taco is about a half to 3/4 cup of white rice, not mentioned anywhere on the order form. White. Rice. Who puts white rice on tacos?! Poor people, that's who. It's so they can get away with putting about 2 tablespoons of whichever protein you ordered under that rice. "What a huge taco, and for only three dollars!" you say. "I am getting such a deal!" Maybe you are, if some giggling, whitebread tit isn't forcing you to smell his flatulence while you eat ball after ball of sticky Minute Rice and tortillas. Either way, I thought it was flavorless and gross, though the farting added a bonus layer to the grossness.
2 stars because the drinks were not bad, just expensive for what they were, and obviously nobody is keeping an eye on the kids during happy hour. Maybe we should just nail the door to the BOYZ ONLEEY clubhouse shut so they can choke on their own gases.
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