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| - OK. Do not judge me. Do not send me scornful, hurtful messages. And do not preach to me the hazards, both socially and physically, of eating at buffets. Because, frankly, I've done that to myself already. Eating at Mexican buffets was part of the bf's growing up days in San Antonio. One day he asked me to go, and since he's irresistible to me, I said yes. Upon entering Pancho's, I realized it was like a Mexican Chuck E Cheese. More kids than you'd find at Mia Farrow's house. Running in between and around my legs. Screaming, laughing, crying. Totally out of control. And this is all while we're standing in line. Suddenly I find my throat to be dry, irritated and burning. Why is there a white haze wafting from the hallway? Oh. Some darling little child had activated the FIRE EXTINGUISHER! Yea. And mommy was too busy ordering her Dos XX to notice. You'd think this would have sent us running. But we persevered. I thought I'd be safe and get a taco, enchilada with beans and rice. All were simply horrific. Malo. Horrible. No bueno. The more I recall this day, the more I feel a need for a buffet support group of some kind. Hello, my name is Thomas. I ate at Pancho's. HELLO THOMAS! Good bye Panchos.
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