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Yeah, I won the Bar Luchador taco contest, so what?

When Bar Luchador announced they were givin' free tacos to the customer who cuts the best promo, Michaud hauled his keister down to Minneapolis to give 'em what for.

When Bar Luchador announced they were givin' free tacos to the customer who cuts the best promo, Michaud hauled his keister down to Minneapolis to give 'em what for. YouTube

There was no trophy. No champagne. No championship belt. I won the dang tacos, and that was the end of it.

When I got back to my split-level ranch in Waukesha, Wisconsin, my wife Janice says to me, she says, “Todd ‘Dad Bod’ Michaud, ya mean ta tell me ya drove all the way down to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, and all ya got fer it was a few measly tacos?”

Janice wasn’t there Monday night at Bar Lunchable for their third birthday party. She didn’t see the way I flapped my ‘stache ‘til the crowd was doin’ cartwheels. She didn’t see how Billy “The Deal” collapsed into a heap of Oakleys and bad hair when they announced me—Todd “Dad Bod” Michaud—as the winner of their annual promo contest and handed me that $150 grand prize.

But I’ll tell all you IPA-drinkin’ City Pages readers what I tells Janice Monday night: It. Ain’t. Enough.

$150 stinkin’ dollars to Bar Matador? That’ll buy ya a gallon of their glow-in-the-dark margaritas. Maybe it’ll get ya a T-shirt, ya know, like one of the kind you wear when ya mow the lawn. I need more. Free tacos for a year were on the line, and even though I yapped The Deal into the ground, I’m not shuttin’ down this husky chatterbox ‘til I win next year’s contest and leave Bar Lundero with a license to eat the place bare.

Some might be sayin’, they says, “Dad Bod, aren’t you just overcompensating on accounta yer downstairs alopecia?” And I says to that, “It’s a private medical issue!” My follicular disparity isn’t a joke. Ya think it’s funny that the shag rug on my top half turns inta hardwood the second ya pass my belly button? Ya think it’s funny my shoulders are hairier than that bathmat at Tom Sellick’s house but my thighs look like Purdue boneless skinless chicken breast? Ya think it’s funny that my diabetic cat Brett Favre routinely mistakes my toes fer Vienna sausages? I gotta wear socks to the vet!

Get yer laughs now, City Pages, but just wait ‘til next year. Wait until I fire up the ‘ol ‘92 Sienna and drive 10 below the speed limit all the way to Minneapolis to Barre Luchada. Nothin’—not Janice, not Billy “The Deal,” not even the dang body-shamin’ readers of this paper—is gonna stop me from walkin’ outta there with a year’s worth of Ortega to my name.

Yer darn tootin’.