The Crown Prince of Pollo
Carlos and his family own El Pollo Corona Grill in Simi and Moorpark. That’s all I know about Carlos and his family, other than his trademark mustache and goatee. You can get a combo plate with pollo and tri-tip for about twelve bucks, your choice of corn or flour tortillas, pinto beans, salsa, and a roasted pepper. Just the right amount of food, and twelve bucks in the age of double digit inflation seems a downright bargain. I’m throwing caution to the wind, and my hard earned dollars to the Crown Prince of Pollo. I could eat this day and night. They give you a fork, no knife, and there’s probably an etiquette involved. Maybe you’re supposed to put the tri-tip into the tortilla and eat it that way. I just use my hands, because this is Ventura County, and the nearest pollo police are miles away ticketing jaywalkers. How do they get that red orange color into the pollo?
Over the border in J6 country, where there’s MAGA under the mattress, Rick is prepared for any eventuality. He’s exercising his 2A right to bear arms, but I’m worried about whether I should be alerting the red flag authorities. Rick’s creative juices dried up a couple of years ago, when the can opener of hell unleashed all the furies. Upon further inspection, the real culprit looks to be learning curve rather than Bannon under the bed. But still, even in deep blue Pollo Police county, do we truly trust our neighbor? Should we even bring them soup when they’re sick? What if a stray Russian missile knocks out the power grid on our way to soup up that miserable old John Birchy fuck?
I am of the conviction to not even think about whether or not to bring the soup, just bring the damn soup and stop thinking you deserve a medal for it. I suppose I deserve a medal for saying so, right? Grandma Nadia got it right. “Always think positive.” Be happy. At any given moment, at least half the country is miserable about what the other half’s doing. Me, I choose happiness, as long as you don't try and tell me what to do. Twelve dollar combo plates and seven dollar gas could drive a lesser man to drink. For others, it’s freedom that’s the greatest sin. But are you willing to burn baby burn down your Model 3? By all rights, I should be utterly unhappy like cousin Leo, who believes that there is nothing in the world that matters more than politics. No thank you. Pretty much everything in the world matters more than politics. Family. Friends. Pollo. And besides, I am full blown head over heels in love with the little bird of happiness, the way she sings to me through the songs I play, any damn time I want to.
There’s not a whole lot I can do to avert the Battle of Pollo Police County. I could follow Rick’s lead and start stockpiling, but that would involve firearms training and the tedium of cleaning and oiling. But the last time I checked, there were no MAGAs under the mattress, nor Bannon’s under the bed. Trump jumped the shark, and Biden can pull in a cool 90 million if Pandora’s boxes keep pouring in. Somehow, we’ll survive, in no small part due to twelve dollar pollo and the lady who brings us soup.