All my life I thought the Irish were responsible for rainbows. Fantasies of red-bearded drunks dancing in shamrock fields with pots of gold had always accompanied the notorious rainbow in my childhood imagination. Then, I assumed the gays stole it. I was wrong. The Cornish own the rainbow. Let me explain:
I became stranded in the Arizona desert when my Pinto got not one, but four flat tires. (Hit a hot speed bump and the tires melted right off.) I realized that I didn't have any food or water. At that moment, I knew I'd be fighting for my life.
My heart began to race. I was on the verge of having a panic attack. I had to settle myself down. I took a few deep breaths and knew what I needed--smooth jazz. I turned the radio to 95.5 KYOT (The Valley's original smooth jazz station). I couldn't believe my ears. Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise" was blaring through my speakers. Projectile vomit shot out my mouth. Had my entire childhood been sold down the dry canal? I thought God was playing a sick trick on me. I shuffled through radio stations faster than old people shuffle board (i.e. I took my time). But, it was true. Thee "Coyote" sold out.
All hope had been lost. My spirit was shattered, and the little moisture I had left was now a soggy puddle in the passenger's seat. I was in a dire situation. In desperation, I checked between the seat cushions hoping to find some crumbs to eat but, instead, found a few petrified McDonald french fries. I looked at them and thought to myself: "I'd rather eat pigeon crap." I flicked the fries out of my Pinto. I used my finger to write a goodbye message on the dirt-crusted windshield and began my trek across the arid valley.
As far as I could see, nothing but cacti and cheap Mexican food restaurants. The little vegetation was riddled with thorns and bore no fruit. The thought of a carne asada burrito tempted me like a mirage, but I knew the explosive diarrhea I'd get would dry me out quicker than a sponge in the sun. I had to stay strong and keep going.
After four long minutes of walking, I gave up. The sun leached my energy and exhausted all remaining calories. The horizon held no signs of hope. Just signs for Filiberto's, Amado's, Los Favorito's, Armando's, Pedrito's, and Taco Bell. My pasty skin was turning pink and my balls looked like raisins, so I sat in the shade of a palo verde tree and prayed. I begged God not to let me die. I repented for my sins. I promised that if he let me live I'd never do anything bad ever again.
Then, out of the blue, I felt drops of wetness on my bald scalp. I looked up to the sky and saw that a pigeon was dropping deuces from the branch above. (I guess He wasn't too fond of me flicking french fries onto the desert ground.) God trickled the sign I was begging for right on my forehead, and now He was putting me to the test. If I wanted to be saved, I'd have to eat pigeon deux. So, I bowed my head, placed my palms together, and said grace.
There was a trembling rumble that echoed across the desert, and it wasn't the sound of me regurgitating. As I stood up from the gravel to peer into the abyss of newly formed clouds, a surge of water swept my legs out from under me. Before I knew it, I was being carried away in a flash flood.
My next memory was waking to the sound of chirping birds. I flinched and covered my face fearing that I may be lying under another pigeon-riddled palo verde. I opened my eyes and was blinded by colors. I didn't know what was going on. Vibrant reds, yellows, and blues! I had no idea where I was. I got so scared, I pooped a Skittle. Then, it hit me. You know when people say that it's impossible to reach the end of the rainbow? It's a lie. It's at the entrance of a mystical place called Cornish Pasty.
I entered the land of the Cornish and it was like no place I'd ever been. I expected leprechauns but encountered a species far more enchanting, with skins of the finest tapestries and earlobes so large and peculiar that they could double as tire swings. Apparently, I wasn't the first person to reach the End of the Rainbow, because this place was packed tighter than a carton of cigarettes. I tracked down one of these Cornish creatures and told her my story, explaining how famished I was. She was unusually polite and let me sit in her earlobe until a seat opened up at a table. I swung around the restaurant as she went from table to table, filling mugs up with magically frothy beer. Then, I whispered in her ear: "Are there pots of gold here?" A spot at a table had opened up, and she sat me down. She told me that she'd be right back.
I sketched pictures of these Cornish creatures as I waited. The troll returned and placed a dish in front of me. She gave me a wink, then walked away. I grabbed the warm pocket of food that rested on the metal dish before me, stuffed it in my mouth, and died.
It was gold, my friends. read more