Baxter You Know I Dont Speak Spanish

Okay, let's be real for a second.
I love tacos. I enjoy a good margarita. But, Baxter, you know I don't speak Spanish!
The Universal Language of Confusion
Don't get me wrong. Spanish is a beautiful language. I admire people who are fluent.
But me? I struggle to order coffee correctly in English. Throwing "una leche, por favor" into the mix is a recipe for disaster.
I end up with a lukewarm glass of milk, every. single. time.
Lost in Translation (Literally)
I've tried learning. Trust me. Duolingo birds haunt my dreams.
I reached level five in "Travel Phrases" once. Proudest moment of my life. I could ask where the bathroom was, but not understand the directions back.
Then the algorithm decided I needed to learn about abstract art. That's when I tapped out. Baxter, you KNOW this will not help me order churros!
My attempts at speaking Spanish often result in a garbled mess of "si," "no," and frantic pointing.
It’s basically charades with a sprinkle of linguistic embarrassment. I might as well start flapping my arms and clucking like a chicken.
Ordering Food: A Comedy of Errors
Eating out at authentic restaurants can be an adventure.
The menus are works of art, filled with delicious-sounding things I can't pronounce. Or understand. I just choose a random item on the menu. Close my eyes. And hope for the best.
Sometimes I get something amazing. Other times, I get a plate of… something. Mysterious. Spicy. Probably involves intestines.
The "Spanglish" Survival Kit
I've developed a system, though. My own personalized version of "Spanglish."
"Two tacos... uh... with... the meat... brown! Sí!" It's not pretty, but it usually works.
I supplement my limited vocabulary with enthusiastic gestures. A lot of smiling. And a generous application of "gracias."
But deep down, Baxter, you know. I am secretly envious of those who can confidently navigate a Spanish menu.
The Polite Pretender
When someone starts speaking to me in rapid-fire Spanish, I usually just nod politely.
I maintain eye contact. I offer an occasional "sí, sí." Hoping I'm agreeing with something reasonable. Like the weather. Or the price of avocados.
My strategy is to pretend I understand until they stop talking. Then I unleash my arsenal of vague responses.
"¡Qué bueno!" That's my go-to. It can mean anything. It's the Swiss Army knife of polite incomprehension.
The Unpopular Opinion
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm linguistically challenged. Maybe I’m lazy. Probably all three.
But sometimes, Baxter, I just wish everyone spoke English. Just for a little while.
Especially when I'm trying to figure out what "mole" actually *is* before I accidentally order it again.
I'll keep trying. I promise. But until then, I'll stick to pointing at pictures and hoping for the best. And relying on your translations, Baxter.

















