The Margarita Machine

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Lola Tucker's divorced female friend doesn't have time to shave her arms since she got ahold of the Buffett margarita machine.

Last night, as a gift to myself, I trekked across town to the home of a friend who just finalized her divorce. She lives in a bachelorette rental paradise where she doesn’t have to deal with anyone else’s laundry, mess, hairs in the bathroom sink or unflushed toilets. Best of all, on the counter of her perfectly decorated kitchen bar area is — drumroll, please — a JIMMY BUFFETT MARGARITA MACHINE.

I found myself coveting it, longing for it. It was huge, nearly large enough to drown every ounce of stress that is currently plaguing my life. It shaved the ice instead of crushing it, and it even had a cool compartment that drained off any water that had melted from the ice, so it wouldn’t water down your drinks.

What an engineering marvel. I mean it. If any nominating member of the Nobel Prize committee is reading this, forget about that scientist who figured out how to self-replicate life with synthetic DNA, and give some props to the inventor of the Buffett margarita machine instead.

I can’t afford one of these beauties at the moment, but in times of extreme stress that can only be quenched with a gallon of freshly blended lime margarita, I’m hoping this fortunate divorcee will rent it to me for a minimum of 72 hours.

Hers was a gift from her boss. Her thoughtful, wonderful boss. I’d have sex with my boss for a gift like that. And after downing a giant glass pitcher of Buffett machine product, I’d have sex with him several more times for no reason at all.

I closed my eyes for just a moment and envisioned it in my kitchen. (The margarita maker, not the boss sex.) Certainly, it would need its own place of honor. I wonder if I could talk my husband into putting an addition on the house for proper display. I’m thinking a sunroom just off the kitchen with a full Jimmy Buffett theme. We already have a parrot, and we already have cheeseburgers. Now we just need that machine and a paradise to put them in.

My husband understands me. He knows how dedicated I am to possessions I covet. I’m the woman who buys a pair of shoes she can’t live without then plans an entire wardrobe around said shoes so I never have to remove them from my feet.

And who knows? I might be able to turn a profit from the Buffett margarita machine. Sell the world’s most tasty margaritas from a stand at the end of my driveway. If my friend brought over her machine, we could offer two flavors. The IRS wouldn’t have to know. Jimmy Buffett and his lawyers wouldn’t have to know. The liquor licensing people wouldn’t have to know. MADD wouldn’t have to know. We would be doing this just for the stress-relieving good of the people of Manassas, Va.

So please, if you a free moment in your day, say a little prayer for me. If you have trouble coming up with the words, use these: “Dear God, please shine favor on Lola Tucker and allow her to attain margarita nirvana in the not-too-distant future. And talk some sense into that Nobel Prize nominating committee. Amen.”

One Comment to “The Margarita Machine”

  1. Awesome article!! Love your writing!!!

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