The burrito who wanted to be a rapping chimichanga. (Whimsical Fantasy Short Story)

Bon B. Rito was a burrito. Intelligent, talented, and gifted.

His dreams did not include a cap and gown.

Earning his “crisp” is how a burrito is crowned.

He would earn his crisp like this:

“I have a dream–a goal I won’t miss. Through hard work, honesty and love, I will accomplish this: out of Cabbagetown, I will be the best rapper. Thus, I will make the Crisp List as a chimichanga most crisp.”

Side note to ensure the lore doesn’t get passed, declined, or ignored: Burritos earn their crisp when they self-actualize. A self-actualized burrito becomes a chimichanga. No shortcuts, no shenanigans, or strategic theft.

“You get what you get when you do what you do. I will never, ever do anything I regret. Even when things get hard, I will be honest, even if a slap is what I get. My art is my craft. It will serve as my memory when my flag is half-mast. There my lines will be drawn, and there they will be left. The untrue and unworthy are always left unbereft,” he stated.

In earning his crisp, Bon B would be like his heroes, The Crispees, Crispy Star (Talib Krespi and Mos Crisp), Crispin’, and “Crispkast“: the crispiest burritos to go chimichanga with their hit album “Aquemi-Crisp,” and their number one song “Da Art of Deep Frying pt. 1.”

However, there were several problems with Bon B’s self-actualization as a rapper, or so he told himself. Passing comforts to keep himself on a shelf.

“Papa was a Steak Quesadilla, and Momma was a rice, bean, steak, and cheese burrito. I’m lamer than a single soggy powderless Cheeto. Unlike my bro and sis, Angus and Quesa Rito, I have no rice. No meat. A mistake with no steak. How will I be one serious for the world to take? Who will appreciate the art I make?”

Convinced he would fall apart, he denied himself his natural talent and the beauty of his art.

“I need to earn my filling by earning some shilling. Rapping in front of crowds, marketing CDs, and performing on the internet, even if I am afraid, I should be doing what I want to be pursuing. Okay, so where can I display my heart, the source and foundation of my craft and vocal art?”

Not knowing where to start, he felt an ache in his heart.

“I am not a good combination for crisp,” Bon B stated sadly. “How will I rock any crowd when Cabbagetown has no place I can get loud? No one will ever discover me here.”

Giving it a rest, Bon B did not realize he would soon be faced with a test. God Bless.

Writing rhymes and verifying citations in the New York Times, his ears perked when the tv started to blurt:

“Pursuing a dream got you feelin’ silly? Not sure what direction in the breeze to point your willy? Not to worry! You will soon have your shot with no rush or hurry! Come and see that place where your dreams will be! Test your lyrical ability — with or without anonymity–lose to your city!” the commercial shouted and touted.

“Ok. Bout it, bout it!” Bon B shouted, excited. This was his shot. What he do next? He signed up and tried it!

Bon B. did not judge or think at the show, “Oh, here we go. More of the same. I am the illest whoever came.”

Instead, he came with no tricks, thumping, or boo-loving his own name.

Ill-gotten, ridiculous, media-controlled fame was something he didn’t want to obtain.

“Disgrace my name for what I want to claim. That’s lame.”

Then several days later, he sat at the club. Eager and ready to show the mic and the audience his love.

Soon after came a bouncer. He escorted Bon B to the words of the announcer:

“Up on the mic, the unsigned hype. Burrito going chimi, Bon B. Give him a shout! A welcome as all rappers should be!” the announcer did decree.

With a deep breath, there rapped Bon B:

Bon B crispin’ and then some mo’, I said it befo’
I won’t focus on what I lack no more
Even the chimianga girls gon’ want me on the dance floor

Even crisp my rap bars, it ain’t for show like shiny cars


I’m blessed from the dough, and known for my style

I’ll even make a taco feel crispy with a smile

You can have the crispless, I ain’t sentimental

Woman and women, no mistress

Smoke weed and freestyle, no instrumental

This is something I state with no dis-tress

My time to shout throughout the wicked streets, so crisp-ay!

When it comes to rap, I am the judge, prosecutor and the DA!

Head to the mic, where I will tear it up in three ways

Two ways, four ways, anyways, allways

The Pro, you might say

Never hear me say “no I won’t,” “no I can’t,”

‘Cause you know I’m bound to explode

Get crisp in your ear, flaky like a Pie à la Mode

Bon B is gettin’ crisp and throwed!

Tacos, empanadas, burgers, churros, and even the visiting Menudos, felt the hype.

A fry shouted and clapped, “That slapped!”

Soon after, found and crowned, he took the plunge.

Bon B Rito was immortalized like each and everyone he called a hero. Even with his fame, he treats none like zero.

A crisp chimichanga, he became. True to his name and his claim.


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