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Chipotle: Home of the juicy Lucy

Then there was "Lucy is a pig, she slept with my husband too. They need better customer service that doesn't involve my bed. The guac sucks too!!"

Lucy is a scandal, but that's a forkin' crime.
 
Dammit, I thought Chipotle was finally producing something edible.
The chicken al pastor they've come out with slaps. I've learned the secret to Chipotle is to get a bowl, as the burrito fillings never get above lukewarm.
 
When my wife and I were engaged and I was much less balding and much more obsessive about my figure, an especially bold high-school aged sandwich artist clearly was trying to flirt with me right in front of her, asking me about my alma mater's sweatshirt I was wearing and if I "had played football or wrestled or something, because you look like an athlete," under the guise that she was college searching.

Awkward as that made it, I pointedly mentioned my fiancee in the conversation to this young lady who clearly either had bad taste in men or a secret death wish at the hands of a fuming attorney.

As I remember it, as we walked out my wife muttered a joke that, if it had been delivered to the young lady's face, would've been a lifetime achievement. Instead it came out as we walked away.

"He's not even a six-inch, sweetie."

I'm now getting fat, balding and am about to lose a gallbladder. But even at my best I was kept in line.
 

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