The mortification of snacking while on a moderately long hold and to have the call be answered just as you have shoved half an oatmeal bar in your mouth.

[A post made by me at the RP board] A Spanish culture fest was being held today in Union Square Park, selected because it was bounded by 14th Street on the south, which had once been the location of what had been called “Little Spain” in times past. As the name implied, it had been a residential neighborhood primarily inhabited by Spanish immigrants and their descendants. Today, that population had dwindled and disperse, and the term “Little Spain” was no longer in current use, but the festival had brought it back for today, aiming to give the New York public a concentrated slice of pure Hispania. There were stalls serving Andalusian oxtail stew, Aragonese fruit candies, Basque lamb blood sausage, Catalan crema, natillas and churro and flan. And, if you were 21+, carajillo and sangria stands! There were ruffly flamenco dancers swirling in the streets. There were vendors costumed as matadors hawking their toy bulls, as the real thing could of course not be brought into Union Square. There was a somber exhibition on Spanish diplomats who had worked behind the scenes to rescue Jewish people from the Holocaust. There were prints of paintings by Picasso, Goya, Dali, De Zuburan. There were puppet shows periodically re-enacting the classics of Cervantes like La Gitanilla, Persiles, and, the favorite of children, Don Quixote. History, literature, art, cinema, sports, all of it was celebrated here if it came from Spain. But one thing from Spain that no one had invited there was...Fabian Cortez. He had come here, but not to learn. He had no interest in learning about Spanish culture, he WAS Spanish. No , he were there for the women looking to learn a thing or two about Spanish MEN. ...although some people could really use an education in general. Over at the booth concerning All Saints and All Soul’s Day, he heard some idiots asking where the sugar skulls were. And someone else at the food booths complaining about a lack of tacos. God, people were idiots. No, fear, though, he was ready to give some of them--the more comely female ones, specifically---a very personal education. For some reason though, it turned out that the women here were...resistant the idea of a private lesson. Very resistant. What the hell were they doing here if they didn’t like Spanish things?! After getting blown off multiple times----er, rejected---er, turned down---er, after being UNABLE TO LOCATE ANYONE WORTHY OF HIS PROLONGED ATTENTION, the Supreme Mutant (who had DEFINITELY not had a glass of Tepache de Piña thrown at him, the fruity smell in his hair and shirt was totally just from the wafting stalls) sullenly decided to just grab something that might hopefully vaguely resemble a taste of home and then slink back to Station M to nurse his emotional wounds. So he picked the shortest line for some hornazo---Salamanca, represent!---and stood there with the plebians unworthy of his presence...up until it was almost his turn (god, the insult that HE should have to WAIT for a TURN) and the little girl in front of him... ...asked for tacos. And that was when he started screaming.