Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • My favorite American burrito place is Chipotle. Can’t explain it in mere words, but it has something to do with their magical Guacamole and Pico-de-gallo. Choirs sing when I go to that joint. Not too long ago I was at a local Chipotle on a beautiful day. I am sitting outside and snarfing taco's down while digesting my favorite book. I rarely have time to read a book, so the simple fact that there is the trifecta of happiness; sunshine, a book, and a taco - the awesome threesome - all together in one spot is nothing short of perfection.

    Being the food addicted goofball that I am, I am clearly not paying attention as I gobble tacos faster than an Olympic sprint runner. Somehow at the height of my pig-face-in-trough experience I inhale a jalapeno pepper down the wrong pipe. I cough gently. Cough. Cough.

    Within seconds I realize that coughing gently is a no go and it’s become a definite air gasping and a possible full-on heimlich maneuver situation: Eminent death is approaching. During this very public scene I am forced to hack up a half-chewed taco mess that remarkably resembles one of my old cat's hairballs. Every single customer has turned and is staring at me. They do not offer to help, mind you, they just want to see me die.

    My eyes are watering furiously and I notice a rather uppity and snobbish woman with a very expensive purse draped on her arm giving me the evil eye. Apparently my near death experience interrupted her deeply intellectual conversation about nail polish.

    High praise goes to the Chipotle staff – who came over and asked if I was alright. Also, thanks go to the young man sitting at the table across from the ordeal who helped rescue me from the death taco (I've titled him "Sir Lancelot, Rescuer of Fair Writers"). I did not get his name and can only hope he reads of his heroic effort online. With a suave and kind disregard to his own clothing and health, he whisked away the offending hairball and patted me gently on the back to make sure I was okay. He carefully examined my person to make sure I had no remaining bits of hairball dangling off a sleeve as well. Okay, he might have been looking down my top and grappling me, but I prefer to believe he was checking for potential hairball remains.

    Either way, death by taco is not a goal of mine and I came as close as scaring-the-living-daylights-outta-me can come. I am sure that more human beings should be kind to others like Sir Lancelot was kind to me.

    Think about it - improving your world by being good to one another and rescuing fair writers with kindness is the perfect place to start building good community. To the peeps that take the time to help your neighbors and be kind to them -- I salute you! ::lifting taco::
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.