ANAHEIM, CA -- The crew of Et Tu Elote gradually arrived, clocked in, and set to work on Saturday. All of them had the kind of hangover that lingers just behind your eyes and forces you to wonder if you are, in fact, living in hell and no one told you that this existence is your eternal punishment for burning down an orphanage in a past life. None of this routine was out of the ordinary for them, the only problem is that they all earned these hangovers at the same party.

	“There’s fucking nothing to talk about,” Stacy Armandi, Et Tu Elote’s resident garbage-fire-of-a-human-being server, mumbled into her Red Bull. “What’s the point of going to a party if everyone knows the story you’re about to share. I feel like I took a shit on someone’s kitchen table for no reason now. Wait, no. Wait, yeah I did do that. Probably the time I try to stretch my coke by cutting it with laxatives.”

	The lack of conversation has made this the slowest, most painful open in recent memory. The lack of eye contact between servers and the steady stream of deep grunts between kitchen workers only compound the problem.

	“I’m just praying that someone at shift change comes in and says they blacked out,” Tom Mato, obviously a line cook, said. “Cause it’s no fun telling everyone you came in a sock and then put it back on if everyone saw you do it. Hey, Josh, why did I do that? No, I remember now, nevermind. See what I mean? This is total bullshit.”
      
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