Tag Archives: Google

Upon further review: Instant Replay = Game Over, World Series Over, Over-easy egg tops re-reviewed green chile fettuccine carbonara alfredo. Over.

3 Nov

What do movie sequels have in common with instant replays? 
The odds against me adding ‘really awesome TV watcher’ to my LinkedIn skill set seem greater than or equal to Hollywood sequels from the previous century dictating the outcome of the 2015 World Series: Cubs Win!?!?
  

The Game Changer Variable

BTTF2 scripted prior to the implementation of MLB’s NFL envy Instant Replay Review rule, or if not football then horse racing’s photo finish – yet another gambling-related boner; yer up DraftKings – on behalf of MLB’s Puritan brain trust.

  


Upon further review: Game Over

 All MLB outcomes – or in the parlance of my fellow Chicagoans: ‘BELCH’ – no longer rest in the hands, arms, legs, eyes, jockstraps, superstitions and mouths turgid with seeds, bubble gum and/or smokeless tobacco blessed by the baseball gods: Nada, Nope, Nein, Nyet. 

Like its head-traumatized Uncle Rico: The NFL – and OTB parlors all across this proud nation- all MLB games now are ultimately decided by one assumes a Vatican of white men with the finest tuned TV watching skills in the universe. Never again shall a call at the plate be made based on sight & sound, guts & nose, skill & experience (unless elaborated upon in LinkedIn profile as ‘really awesome at watching TV’) and so apocryphal anecdotes such as the one to follow will be rendered as meaningless as home run records set while under the influence of steroids or even the Cubs 2015 campaign: 

‘Babe Ruth once took a called strike from Walter Johnson reputedly traveling with such speed that the Babe didn’t even see the ball pass the plate. No sooner did said ball smack into the leather of the catcher’s mitt and the ump yell ‘yer out’ did the Babe beam back at the man in blue asking, ‘Cmon ump. Did you even see that pitch?’ ‘Well, no,’ replied the ump. Ruth: ‘Me neither. But it sounded outside.’ 

So maybe it wasn’t babe Ruth and maybe it was Yogi Berra (RIP) and maybe the pitcher was Nolan Ryan (rookie season). And maybe blue made the right call. Or maybe it never even happened. Without instant replay, the truth shall neither be known or overturned.

Auden can’t love wingtips …so suggests my Google drive spell check because technology is never quite right, just more right than you or me will be ever again…and now that the robots of perception have taken over MLB, instant replay is the most right ever and bigger than all of us (the World Series included; the proof is a recent decision to delay the 2015 Fall Classic to review whether or not to continue with game one or two without instant replay by reviewing the delay of the game’s instant replay; apparently a pair of Harry Carey specs and empty 40 of Falstaff where discovers next to the chewed through broadcast truck cables) 

And now that I’ve ejaculated my truck over the instant replay rule delaying the play of a game – and this blog – MLB fixated on in order to ramp itself up to PS2 speed allow me to produce for you a conciliatory instant replay of my own device, an olive branch of you will or if you prefer, a casserole, only because you can’t eat a slow motion instant replay I remade the dish from my last post and rephotographed it and upon further review the sweet smokey flava came from bacon shoplifted from the butcher by my 16 month old felon of a son. (Both my son’s identity and that of the butcher will remain anonymous in order to protect me from CPS and the security camera monitor’s career prospects should he or she care to apply for upcoming openings with MLB, as instant replay booths eventually become as ubiquitous as really awesome TV watchers.)

  
Instant Replay: Green Chile Alfredo Linguine Carbonara con bacon

   
    
 

Bigger than Jesus the Beatles, and yoga pants: Esteban Trabajars

15 Sep

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At the current rate of Final Cut Pro post-production, by Christmas 2020, the globe shall be subjected to more Steve Jobs cinematic biopics than those of Jesus Christ, The Beatles and Luke Skywalker en todo. This epidemic outbreak of epic celluloid certainly gives this one pause to ponder some deeply mundane ponderables: Is the iPhone our Gutenberg Bible (with upgrades)? Did Steve Jobs die for our Sims?*

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(*You read that right, a cringe-worthy blasphemous pun. So crucify me whydontcha?)

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Does SJ’s getting all messiahy with it not at least begin to explain the daily commute tableau wherein within a stuffed El train all but the homeless – me too – gaze into luminous Apple gadgets with a reverence traditionally reserved for sacred texts, Kim Jong and yoga pants?

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What but an unshakable iFaith sways we users into believing we the meek shall one day inherit an upgrade to auto-spell recognizing Spanglish as both a word and a dialect, accurate weather apps, and the voice of Siri shall be replaced by that of Demi Moore’s tadpole?
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What Would that these miraculous iPhones might trans-substantiate binary data into iGrub to feed the masses.
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Entrada Yo (and/or the Wu)

Communion Green Chile Green Alfredo Linguine Con Pork Chop Chop Chop Chop Ain’t Nuthin to You-Know-What With

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Ingredients con instructions:
1. Roasted NM Green Cream Sauce
Heat up and constantly stir 2 tbsp o butter and flour until brown

Separately warm 2 cups of whole milk

Remove roux from heat, slowly stir in milk by the ladle.

Stir in:
An onion – diced and sautéed
A bulb of oven roasted garlic – smushed
Quart bag of chopped, seeded and skinned rotated NM green chile
A fistful of fresh cilantro – chopped
Mexican oregano to taste
Salt and pepper to taste

Slowly simmer until all ingredients smell like one. Cool. Blend into purée. Return to pot. Stir in 2/3rds of queso.

2. Half-box of fettuccini – al dente
(Google it)

3. A seasoned to ur liking grilled pork chop or two –  chopped

Butter a casserole dish. Mix ingredients but for 1/3 cheese, then glop into casserole dish. Top with 1/3 cheese. At 350 bake covered for 30 minutes or until burbling and smelling as one. Slide under broiler till cheese browns.

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(aqui con huevo)

Mas sagradoso than Esteban Trabajars…

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Mas sabrosa than pantaloons Del yoga…

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El escarbajo optional.

The Effervescent Influence of Bob’s Burgers, Frozen Burritios y yo.

24 Jun

 

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The esposa y yo spend far too mucho tiempo @ Bob’s Burgers. Because of my latent tendency to distrust anything popular (breathing, eating and breeding practice notwithstanding as well as the use of the word ‘notwithstanding’ and Shakespeare and sure, why not, music, diapers, 501s, reading, erotica, writing and lists and run-on sentences; the parenthetical) BB only recently topped our que. Lucky us, cartoons being cartoons, nothing on the show will age but the cultural references. The Happy Everlasting Animated Video Eternal of Netflix.

Netflix labels Bob’s as ‘cult TV’ which I take to suggest that what it lacks in mass appeal it makes up in mass suicides. I open ahora on Bob’s por que our bingeing is due in no small part thanks to Bob’s charms, hearty hars, parent/child empathy, and for me at least story-lines ripped from my memoirs (teenage son of a local lunch counter proprietor decades before “local” took to meaning “bourgeious”). Por ejemplo: Bob fires his kids from the restaurant who then become (spoiler alert) drug mules. That was me, not once but 7 times: fired by mi madre. (Yo Snowden, I leave the drug running rumors for you to hack out.)

Bob’s art most profoundly imitated mi vida largo in ‘Bad Tina.’ About a third into this fine episode, the neighborhood kid your parents warned you about, Tammy Larsen, shows her truant colors inspiring mi esposa to look over at me and pregunta:

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“Did you have any friends like that growing up? [pause for ill-fitting recollection] I did.”

[Lock-down pause]

“I was that friend growing up.”

“Oh my…I mean, of course.”

“The ring leader, the “bad influence”, everyone said “oh, he’s just trying to get attention” but really what was going on was I was trying to free my peers from the blood-sucking talons of authority, claws sharpened on the rotting corpse of regimented public education, remember how my very first day of kindergarten I talked all the kids at the bus stop to walk back to my house with me because “Who needs school when you have toys?” and then again in junior high because “Who needs school when you have MTV?” and again in high school because “Who needs school when you have Starship Fantasy ?” and when my oppressive authority figure of a mother fired me from the restaurant for the third or maybe it was the fourth time I talked my little sister into getting fired along with me because “Who needs to a job  when you’ve got roller skates?”

“I get it. I get it. You know you can’t ever tell our boys about any of this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[authoritative pause of the Roku]

“I swear on my mother’s cremains. I can even get them out of the closet it you like.”

[Satisfactory unpause of Roku]

Because “Who needs to tell anyone anything when you’ve got the Internet?”

“What was that?”

“I love Bob’s…and you.”

Okay, so I made up most of that last conversation from about “of course” on. A slight digression/diatribe may have followed mi esposa’s “Oh my” moment, with me prattling on about my being born with a rebel corazon kicking at my ribcage (Read: angsty adolescent internal hormonal drone warfare) and even setting up a table at my high school organization assembly for an “Anarchists Club” which of course rejected all applications but even before I could finish that spiel mi esposa’d fallen fast asleep not out of boredom – I quite often remind myself – but because unlike the animated universe of Bob’s burgers, raising even two boys, there’s rarely enough time or sleep to go around. And because we don’t run a family restaurant, preparing food for ourselves has become less of a chore or work and more like a special occasion, even when the definition of “cooking” gets broadened to mean unwrapping some frozen thing for the nuker.

For new families and/or because “Who needs a food blog recipe when you have frozen burritos?” let these IMOs be my bad influence on your poor eating habits.

 

PJ’s Organic Traditional Chicken

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Not sure which traditions the organic chicken followed prior to its beheading and karmic destiny to bring a smile to this burros tortilla and – in addition to a light tongue blistering – this consumer’s face. Savory C +

 

Amy’s Burrito Cheddar

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The only bomb of the bunch los ninos have a taste for (along with Cedaphil, sidewalk chalk and library books). Underdeveloped palates not the best judges. A strong stand-by: B

47th Street Pizza Lemonito Burrito

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Organic, Kosher, hormone free, no trans fat, lemon(?)really anything but what I expect in a frozen burrito and the best explanation as to why it tastes like lentil soup. Though the toro-beating tortilla made it worth the purchase. Like they say around my alma mater ASU: ‘D’s get degrees’: C-/D+

 

Good Food Made Simple  – Uncured Canadian Bacon

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There’s no accounting for good tasering and no cure for this sad, soggy, snapless schlub. F

 

Good Food Made Simple – Turkey Sausage

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Frozen burrito trope: the healthier the ingredients the nastier the texture and flavor:F

 

Good Food Made Simple – Southwestern Veggie

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Rhymes with wedgie: F

The Anasazi Burrito

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You know how they named all those Korean SUVs Santa Fe and Tucson when they have about as much to do with Down Yonder as a frozen burrito would the Anasazi? Except of course for the Adobe notes (as in mud not software) slightly better than hospital food: D

 

The evol line

No evol lost on this flight o deliciously packaged bass-ackward sottirrub.

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Shredded Beef: C

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Uncured Bacon (American): C

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Chicken Rice & Beans: C

And let’s not be afraid to call a wrap a wrap instead of racially stereotyping this ‘lean and fit’ (WTF?)  burrito because it’s spicy. This phony’s about a Mexican as Donald Trump:

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Egg White & Spinach: D

 

If you are still with me you may be wondering (like me): How can such healthy burros be a bad influence? All but Amy’s are so thoroughly unappetizing one scalding bite and you’ll be gunning it to the Late Night Taco Bell drive-thru soon as the kids are asleep even if you don’t have a babysitter or a car, not without first pausing Bob’s Burgers and finishing your beer, of course.

Unless you’re blessed enough to get your grubby manos on one of these (I luckily got the last one and have not seen them since. Manna from El Dio indeed):

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A+fckin A+mazing

Get Rico Quick Con El As Nasty As It Wants To Be Salsa Picante (Hunter var.) recipe

25 Feb

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Lovely, iddint it…and yet here we estamos otra tiempo on the Internet making crap up the Internet that will turn miraculously turn into the indisputable truth upon the clicking of ‘post’. As we know, computers don’t lie. Don’t believe me? Google it. Google computers lie too. Computers lie. Mira what I’m getting at. aqui. Powerful stuff this computing omnipotence equalamemte our impotence before them.

A couple postings back rocked this power to its logical ecclesiastical extreme, pronouncing, not unlike a computer God, how the Internet is heaven-sent eternal life in byte-sized chunks, what with these spiels surviving me and living forever. (You’re welcome Facebook for taking my annunciation doctrine and running with it.)

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 And thank you too fifty shades of grey lady Ms. NY Times for running a Sunday edition, week last times two, casting online commenters, twitters and all other opinionated occupants of the unauthorized (read corporate) Internets into a kind of op-ed hell. At last count, 4-5 pieces in three separate sections addressed these demonic behaviors; condemning every last practitioner of the dark art of opining, stirring loyal readers greying anxiety embers, yet again.

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What torture both social psych PhDs and J-school reporters reported to both dish out and endure upon this global electro-info communication sphere – which they neglects to remind us is free to not use, and as of this writing not one single person has died due to lackof use then again I bet it you Google this you’d get any answer you wanted – but because we pay for it I suppose we are supposed to suppose this entitles One Nation Under Google all them protections guaranteed by the Constitution and/or Bill of Rights.

Mi dos pesos: seeking virtual S&M? Why not go see, listen to or read 50SofG?

CONCLUSION:
Mira: Am I the only one who smells a warning label coming on?

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IMO: Yo tengo as much truck con warning labels as 2-Live Crew.

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So let’s make congress to make better use of our tax dollars so the men and women of The Hill can get on to the real biz of PAC bargains by jump-starting self-censorship and designing our own warning labels, especially if like it do for 2-Live Crew = guaranteed gold.

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 And here’s mi warning label that’s gonna spin some mi peligroso bloggin’ salsa into gold:

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And here’s the recipe for that there salsa free for you to exploit so long as you print out and slap on the above warning label…for the children…

How “As Nasty As It Wants To Be Salsa Picante: Hunter Var.” Gets Made (and you get rico)

(Same as Kojak only fruitier and brighter; just like Hunter)

The Batch Size

2 cup = avg med hot sauce bottle

The Contents

The dry/smoked whole chile peppers: 

1 – Ancho

2 – Pasilla Negro

3 – Guajillo

3 – Pulla

3 – Japones

4 – Arbol

1 clove of minced/smushed garlic

tsp vinegar

pinch of Mexican oregano

2 cups water

salt to taste

The Directions

  1. Seed and stem peppers (I did this under running cold water. sorta works)
  2. Skillet roast at medio heat 5 minutes or so
  3. Transfer bowl, cover with hot water. Cover bowl
  4. Soak peppers for an episode of Hunter

So consider yourself as warned as London on side 1 of ITANOMTHUB y brew up a batch of ANAIWTBSPHv, douse something liberally with it

 Retromatic (12)

…crack open a cerveza, drop the needle on your nastiest vinyl, throw the munch, slurp, repeat.

Avarice, Lent & Microwaving Burritos

2 May

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Even though I am not a Catholic, I soooo wanted to give up Googling for Lent. The thought – remember those? – being I might reconnect with my brain via a neuron and/or God by way of prayer. “Figure stuff out” like they used to in the old days. Put one’s faith in a higher power (though we kind of do when prostrate before Father Google) or if that fails at the very least a real live human being. Seek fantasy baseball guidance from a Mayan shaman. Talk to a barista about the foam futures. Haggle with a librarian over overdue fines. Ask a gas station attendant for directions to Wrigley Field. Get a tip on a racehorse from the shoeshine man. Man, am I starting to sound like an old fart or what? (Google: “Old fart”, yep, that’s yo.)

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So novel a Lenten undertaking lasted a whole three hours. I blame the devil: my iPhone. Look no further than this dastardly device Father.

(And then forgive me, gracias).

Steve Jobs confounded invention neglected to remind me to grab my nightly burrito before bicycling workward on Ash Wednesday. (yeah, I know this was like three months ago but I get a lot lost online with my fantasy baseball waiver wire wanderings. I still eat pretty much the same stuff daily which is the point entire). And since Madison Avenue regularly adds a tentacle here a forked tongue there to the ever-colonizing tattoo of Taco Bell cravings (viva almuerzo!) en ye olde frontal temporal lobe, come break time, I rocketed West to inhale a trio of Taco Supremes (hard shell/ground beef/yum) and nick a few dozen hot sauces for future reference.

The only Loop TB serves only lunch. Or at least that’s what Google once told me. Google must have. Must have been why I forgot. Google never forgets. I do. I think. I think I forget. I forget therefore I am not Google. I think it Must have been why I ended up rattling the 10’ foot high steel gate separating me from a Run To The Border instead chowing down on PepsiCo Mexi-versimilitude….

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We interrupt this blog to post a conversation overheard on the Red Line Elevated Train yesterday around suppertime, a testament of sorts to the power of the T-Bell:

Kid 1: Isn’t Wrigleyvile at Addison?

Kid 2: Yeah, you ever been there?

(NOTE: At the corner of Addison and Clark, larger than the Saturn, rises from the concrete one Wrigley Field, international temple to recreational day drinking and oh yes, home to those loveable losers The Chicago Cubs.)

Kid 1: Is there a Taco Bell there?

Kid 2: Yep.

Kid 1: Yeah, I walked to that Taco Bell once.

Kid 2: Cool.

Back to our regularly scheduled blather:

Though I do recall this episode now without the aid Google. I think. But is this my memory or is it Google’s? Won’t Google please pay David Byrne to re-record Once In A Lifetime with accompanying video and replace the lyric “My Google, what have I done?” Because even though eerily silent – not unlike A God – the sound I always imagined Google makes while Googling is something akin Eno’s digital burbling chimes that open one of a few tracks God most certainly had a hand in recording:

Blog to Blogger: “Where exactly the fck are you going with this?”

Taco Bell fue cerrado. Mi Corazon fue triste. My break lasts only an hour. The walk from my Mies Van Der Rohe work container to some other smug Modern architect’s steel and glass terrarium that is the Thompson Center takes eats up a quarter of that time: 15 minutes, if my math is correct.

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In a bit of a state, all Burt Lancastery at the end of The Swimmer – though dry & clothed – I tried God real quick, as in, “God expletive, where the expletive is an open Taco Bell?” When he/she didn’t answer I turned to the devil (iPhone Google app cuz  Siri has been about as helpful to me as an STD) and paid dearly for my transgression (even though I’m not a Catholic).

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No matter how many times ways or means I turn, rotate, wrap, and yes, even gently Kobe beef massage a nuked burrito (any variation: frozen or fridged)/machine, Mexican or homemade), upon inhalation, I somehow always manage to melt off several layers of inner-mouth flesh, blister tongue and gums and yet eventually bite into a gag-reflex flexing 60-30 degree Fahrenheit kernel of blech.

With the nearest Taco Bell being in Wrigleyville (about a 30 minute bike each way), time running out I settled for a quick fix at the 7-11.

7-11s in the Loop, and possibly Chicagoland, to deter either theft or microwaveable crystal meth cook ups, keep their microwaves behind the counter. Patron palates are victims of the culinary skills of 7-11 employees. True to stereotypes and The Simpsons, these Loop convenience stores are manned by men from India and/or Pakistan. (I suppose you could throw Trinidad into the mix too.) The point being, expectations for something piping hot and delicious cooked by such capable hands (Indian food (naan not fry bread) nips at the heels of Mexican food on the race to my mouth for eating bliss) were running high when said Michigan Avenue 7-11 Counter Man (his nametag hung blank) dispatched my dinner. Heck, MA7-11CM was forward thinking enough to bag said gut bomb, noting how obsessively I took to checking the time, before handing it over.

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Cut to: Divine Intervention: Here the Gods make me pay for poking fun at Lent, cursing them for closing Taco Bell, thinking for a second they are above Googling, my cultural insensitively, and being a smart ass at meal time when I should be grateful simply to have something to eat not dropped from plane, a pachyderm’s anus, and/or made of millet and/or dirt.

We covered the Donner party (as in chili con cousins not celebration con Kool and The Gang) here once already.

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As unappetizing a subject as they are for a faux-food blog I need to rear their ugly heads up again because the first bite of my quite room temperature dinner, both in tortilla texture and filling flavor suggested nothing less than forearm. I spit the limb chunk onto the sidewalk and with even less time to complete dinner returned to MA7-11CM requesting he throw the limb back in the nuker for another 2 minutes. MA7-11CM  happily agreed, not catching the arm joke – or maybe he did and took offense. (Take note germo-phobes: dbl nuking; though something tells me nuclear rays sanitize thoroughly evertying.)

 

Round-Two
Round two/bite two*

Score:

Gods: 2

Nedduh: 0

(*Like being French Kissed by Gene Simmons)

Lesson learned: don’t mess with the Gods, MA7-11CM, rock stars on fire, and never trust a microwave. So until Google innovates a way to cook using gamma rays beaming out of Google Glasses I am going native. From this day forward I will re-heat burros over open flames, er, on our Weber. (During regularly scheduled work hours will prove trickier.  Just have to burn that bridge when I get to it.)

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Parties interested in the open flame/conventional oven technique should know, time permitting, this may be the most thorough and by far sabrosa way to heat up burros. Es muy facil: Set grill to medium or oven to 350, wrap burro in aluminum foil and cook for about 10 minutes. Toaster ovens rock the re-heated burro tambien.

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Here’s a Chi-Mexi-Ski burro (refrieds, raw onions, pre-shredded cheddar, grilled kielbasa, fresh NM green) fresh off the grill:

unnamedHere’s a tasty polka to go with it: