In Which I Smell Something Fishy

Remember that post I wrote a while back about seeing a pirate at a department store? Well, I've got one better for you today. The Didactic Pirate is here to share a story about something that happened to him recently. Enjoy!

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Hi, readers. I’m The Didactic Pirate, and I’m grateful to The Badass Geek for letting me guest post this week. I know I shouldn’t feel performance anxiety on this post – after all, The Geek and I clearly have a ton of stuff in common. For example: you’ll notice that we both have blog names that start with “The.” Which clearly demonstrates that we’re each incredibly… specific. It’s an exclusive club, we dudes who are so concretely awesome we need the definite article in front of our names. We actually have secret weekly meetings with The Hulk, The Rock, and The Iron Chef. There’s coffee and bagels.

Despite such a reaffirming bond with The Geek, I was blanking last weekend on what to write about for this post. Nothing funny or even moderately interesting had been happening lately, and I started feeling stressed and worried that I was going to squander such a cool blogworthy opportunity.

And then I had a situation happen. Today.

I went to Rubio’s this afternoon to get lunch for my family. For those living in the more uncivilized states of the union, Rubio’s is a Mexican fast food place that specializes in supremely awesome fish tacos. (When I first moved to California, I thought the whole notion of fish in a taco sounded vomitrocious. Then I had one. Now I can’t move out of San Diego because I’m too afraid of ending up in a town where Rubio’s doesn’t exist.)

It’s a family restaurant, in a nice, harmless neighborhood: a Starbuck’s, a Quizno’s, and a Borders bookstore are in the same plaza. (See? Harmless. Except for the ongoing soul murder of mom-and-pop businesses at the hands of monster franchises. I mean harmless aside from that.)

So I drove down to Rubio’s, placed my order at the counter, and then stood off near the condiments to wait.

Something seemed strange. Off, just a bit. It took me a minute to figure it out, and then I put my finger on it.

The restaurant, in the middle of the afternoon, full-on reeked of pot.

You know how sometimes you get a whiff of something, and you wonder if your nose is playing tricks on you? Because the smell you’re smelling makes absolutely no sense in your context? Like smelling a cheese enchilada in the middle of church? Or smelling after-sex at Grandma’s house?

This wasn’t that. This was totally pot. I know what pot smells like. From, uh, books.

I looked around the dining area. I suddenly felt like a vice cop. There was a family eating in one corner, with two toddlers and a baby in a high chair. (A shifty looking baby…). A pair of grandparents off to one side sitting with a ten-year-old kid. (Did that Grandma have glazed eyes? Yes! Cataracts? Or Mary Jane afterglow?)

And in another corner… four teenagers.

Aha.

Well, of course! I thought. Look at those kids hunched together at their table. Look at them! Hooligans! Teenage hooligans are secretly getting stoned right here in this family-friendly restaurant! How dare they come into this family-friendly establishment in a cloud of green smoke and load up on fish tacos??? Keep your munchies in your own home, rotten teenagers!

I was about to walk over there and DEMAND to know why they thought they could bring their pot-soaked selves into my Rubio’s. (And when I say “walk over there and demand,” I mean walk RIGHT past them and give them a VERY stern look before leaving.)

Then I saw that all four of the hooligans had a book open in front of them, and were talking animatedly. Their books all looked similar.

Bibles, of course. They were eating fish tacos and talking about God.

Huh.

This is a relatively new thing for me, this narc tendency. I don’t know what my deal is. I used to be a very live-and-let-live kind of guy. But something is changing, and I’m becoming increasingly suspicious of “wrong-doing,” which means I’m actually just becoming more judgmental. Which is just another way of saying hypocritical.

I’m 40, not 90. I may need to do a little self-reflection to get over myself soon.

Still…

To the mysterious Rubio’s Pot Smoker: blaze up that doobie in your home, youngster. Or I’m coming after you.