Chimichanga Airplane

I’m in my chimichanga, flying to the Conga. It’s an airplane packed with red beans and rice and other whole grains. Like a vast, winged anaconda stuffed with garbanza, whose feathery scales are painted with pepper paste.

My chimichanga airplane is made from pitch black cheese that is spicy like grease-hay. The stewardess is drinking a Michelob and wearing a large hat that says “Wisconsin.” This craft runs on straight tequila; that’s its fuel. We’re up here flying around, looking for skeets to hunt. My own physical appearance resembles the love child of He-Man and Sasquatch. Whenever I play baseball with the future folk, I’m the only one who knows how to get a “grand slam” even when the bases are empty. Saddle up the Taco Horse, I’m dating a trashy new supermodel in my Chimichanga Cadillac, which has an extended cheese lounge for equestrians. If you wanna fly in the sky, we can fill up my Burrito Plane, whose harlots distribute Frito-Lays during liftoff.