I drank you on Saturday. Surely by the time my stomach and related innards rebelled against me early Tuesday morning, you were long gone.
I never asked you to stay. I only asked that you be yummy. And yummy you were.
Choco Taco, you were the brain child spawned by the wild recklessness of Tequila Gone Wild and Too Much Sun. Megan begged us to finish the Tequila. Klutch found the can of expired chocolate frosting. The fates - no, The Gods! - demanded we respond.
And respond we did. With strawberries.
Choco Taco, we drank you out on the front porch. You brought to my attention the fact that the two things I hate most about music are sex and drugs. I vowed to write you an album, Choco Taco, full of songs that never mention either one.
As we chugged your last earthly, chocolaty remains down our throats, we realized why the rest of the world hated us and would never accept us for what we truly are. The world hates us because we have the vision to dream up something like you, and the courage to drink it.
I blame you not, Choco Taco, for the two days of sweltering stomach pain which followed your beautiful realization. For that I blame the incessant barrage of Mexican food and beer which consumed my weekend.
But not you, Choco Taco. You are beautiful and elegant. Smooth and chocolately. And almost as fun on the way out as you were on the way in.
Choco Taco, I love you. And that is why the world will always hate me.
