Today is Seis de Mayo, and you know what that means: yesterday was Cinco de Mayo, the one day each year when we're all proud to be Mexican. We started off our Cinco celebraciones at that fetid hellhole in Midtown better known as Cyclone Anayas. We know that somewhere in that great Wrestlemania in the sky, Cyclone is self-applying a Superfly Splash over what has become of this once-proud establishment. Yes, their tacos are tasty and their queso quells our hunger, but an hour in their bar ranks as possibly the worst experience of our life. And we once sat next to Mindy Cohn on a 6am flight to Bakersfield. In coach.
We were hoping for Blair, but would have settled for Tootie.
Was it some sort of surprise to them that people in Houston flock to TexMex joints on Cinco de Mayo? It sure seemed that way, because they had two bartenders who were less enthusiastic about their jobs than B. Brown was about his gig as the normal in that midget p0rn. They were doin it for the money, but they were doin it too damn slow. We had to order our lukewarm Dos Equis two at a time because we knew it would be una hora before we saw the barstaff again. Even the blonde girl who believed we were struck by lightning in the sixth grade hated this joint, and she doesn't harbor another negative thought in that pretty little head.
We'd like to say we're never going back, but we know that's not true. When we do, though, we're bringing our flask.
Viva la Mexico!
1 comment:
Cyclone's in Midtown is so poorly run, and the migas there once gang violenced all over our body's innocent septic tank.
back to back salutes to Latin America, your internationally diplomatic motifs are applauded sir.
Post a Comment