Ah, Chipotle. The festive yet decidedly unethnic atmosphere of stainless steel and bubblegum salsa music… The spicy aroma of marinated steak and dark-skinned minorities… And, today, a chance encounter with my bodybuilding fuck-buddy. Arriba!

Alas, the monkey gods of Mexico's people would have none of it. As I saddled up to the counter, bending over slightly in the direction of mi novio temporario, I felt a rumbling in my tummy. Que pasa? My bowels were as seismologically active as El Chichón in 1983.

And then I remembered a racial demographic of another, paler kind… White Russians! I'd consumed at least two gallons of these bad boys in the last three days. It was then that, like a vision of Santa Maria in a freshly baked tortilla, the moral of our story appeared: Though my tolerance for vodka and Burka's coffee liqueur is admirably high, my tolerance for dairy products, I'm afraid, is dismayingly low. My pipes needed a cleaning, but not in the way my would-be cowboy would have preferred.

This is what could have happened if I stayed in Chipotle a moment longer:

Just kidding. My roommate emptied her ass on the kitchen floor and, with frenzied embarrassment, smashed a bowl into the mix. Okay, Lauren, it's soup. Sure doesn't smell like it though.