by Nicole Crews
Me (to the barista): Is it wrong that I just went to the wine store and now I’m getting coffee before a detox wrap?
Barista: Please tell me you blazed right before this, too.
Me: Hey, I wonder if you can smoke while getting a detox wrap.
Barista: They should open a Vape Spa.
Me: They probably have those in Colorado already. I’ll bet you can get a Rocky Mountain High Colonic.
Barista (snorting): Dude, this one is on the house.
The B Word
The Super Bowl, Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day are upon us and now that most of those pesky New Year’s resolutions have fallen by the waistline it’s time strap on the February food bag. If you’ve been January Jones’n for something finger-licking good, it’s time to get knuckle deep in Denver dip, claw into some Emmanuel Sanders fried chicken and brandish some Marshall-Mellows over the fire.
Come Sunday we’ll be barbecuing bronco and making an Osweiler omelet out of Denver with a side of Peyton Mancakes. DeMarcus be Ware.
But enough about football. Let’s talk about Cam Newton’s ass. Talk about putting the pant in Panthers. I don’t care if he’s strapped in jeans that look like a bad ’80s gay man’s shirt exploded all over him. That boy is fo-ine.
Me: Cam is so cute.
Bartender: My roommate calls him Baby Orca because of the way he smiles.
Me: Great. Now I’m going to hear killer whale sounds every time I look at him.
Bartender: That’s better than the damn Nationwide jingle and Peyton Manning.
Me: True. That commercial is annoying. Though did you see that Bojangles is sending a truck of iced tea cross country. No wonder people think we all eat dirt and marry our cousins.
Bartender: Speaking of, what are you doing for Valentine’s Day?
Me: Leaving the country.
The F Word
It’s true. While the rest of you poor sod-eaters are beaming in Super Bowl victory or, God forbid (you know God’s a Panthers’ fan because he painted the sky Carolina blue) wallowing in defeat, I’ll be snorkeling my face in a margarita south of the border. Fat Tuesday to y’all, it’ll be Martes Gordo for me in Mexico. I’ll be getting my Brazilian wet while you get your gumbo on. I’ll be hollering, “Olé!” while you eat your etouffee. Les bon temp rouler!
Me: You skipped Mardi Gras.
Bartender: No I didn’t. I think I’m just blocking it out. Worst amateur night ever after New Year’s and St. Paddy’s Day.
Me: You forgot Cinco de Mayo.
Bartender: Look at you, speaking Spanish.
Me: Sadly, I have a degree in Spanish and now about all I speak is restaurant. I should have ordered the bilingual.
The V Word
And by the time the second Sunday lovefest comes around and you’re scrambling in the snow to get to a dinner reservation, trifling with truffles and wrapping yourselves in red ribbons, I’ll be kicking it poolside and the most romantic thing about it will be the name of the place itself — Playa del Carmen.
Chicken wings, king cakes and chocolate are not on the menu.
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