On Friday night, I got out of work early when the pangs of hunger began assaulting my midsection. I pondered to myself who could be open at midnight when I spied the golden rims of Taco Bell in the distance. I pulled into the drive through trying to decide what I wanted to eat before I got to the menu. I really suddenly wanted to try the doritos loco taco but was worried.
what if the bag of failure they call an employee made it incorrectly? I would forever think negatively of such a creation. So I thought logically about it. He couldn’t possibly fuck up 6 of them. So I looked into the mesh face of the drive through reciever.
“Welcome to Taco Bell may I take your order?”
“Yes I would like a 12 taco variety pack”
“OH! 12 tacos! Do you have a party tonight?”
I die a little inside.
“Nope. Cry for help.”
I arrived home. The hunters moon gave my cardboard suitcase of tacos an evil sheen.
As I was driving I realized how difficult it was to eat a taco and drive at the same time. They were clearly not meant for this. Everytime I would grasp one in my hand and try to bite into it all the insides would just rush out like a bunch of Croatian refugees.
Not to mention that the seasoning they use for them, while delicious sticks to your fingers worse than cheetos.
So I get into my apartment, set my case of tacos on my bed and just stare at it a moment. Like a pirate, observing their ill-gotten gains. My cat sitting on its haunches just judging me. I call her fat, partly out of frustration, parly out of transference and projection of my own negative self-thoughts and bite into one.
Immediately I am taken away to a land of pleasure mixed with pain. Pleasure at the familiar scents, tastes of the taco. Pain at the fact that it tastes like wet cardboard.
I think logically. Perhaps this is the one that that shouldabeen abortion screwed up! Perhaps the others are amazing and taste like rainbows and unicorns! Or whatever faux mexican food that is made well tastes like.
I bite into a cool ranch taco (this is the variety they spoke of). It tastes like suicide.
Suicide and poverty.
I can imagine children huddled around gas lit stoves in the backwoods of Kentucky. Fingers numb from working to press potatoes and corn into moonshine stills all the day, shivering from the cold and the only thing they have to keep the starvation at bay is the wet paper offal they have left over from the days work to sate them. They sprinkle some ranch dressing on it to make it go down easier.
Thats what I think of when I bite into the Cool Ranch Dorito Taco.
Next thing I know, I’m shoveling them down my throat. My brain, terrified at what I’m doing, is sending pain signals streaming down my nervous system. Nothing stops me, I’m like Rocky. If Rocky didn’t practice healthy eating habits. My brain is sending signals to new types of pain I’ve never experienced before in hopes I’ll stop.
“Fuck it…uh…eaten by shark, send that!”
Its to no avail.
I finish the last taco.
Now all that is left of my dignity and self esteem is a foot ball sized wad of Taco Bell food packing paper inside of a cardboard carrying case. Empty packets of hot sauce surround it. Like Mary Magdalene at the death of Christ, the only witnesses to this massacre were me, my cat and those packets that could still be considered salvageable.
I thought about how I felt about this food. Was it good? Meh, it was OK.
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