If you’ve ever seen a television or driven down a street, it’s undeniable you’ve seen a Taco Bell Restaurant. They’re classy and sophisticated, but their broad range of simple combinations can end in disaster if you’re not careful, as I wasn’t.
The parents lament the loss of Mexi-Nuggets, but I’m too busy embracing the new twists on the old half-dozen recombinant ingredients. Mix ‘em, match ‘em, name it something sexy and pseudo Spanierdo; next thing you know you got a grilled, stuffed, double-layered mexi-yummy delight, supreme. It’s a slick business model all around.
This place is right mexi-licious what with the meats I love and the greasy tortilla entrails I likewise love, but then there’s the avoidable veggies and my most wicked affliction, cheese. I love it but it simply wrecks me from the belly-button down.
I must ask, what’s the story with the assortment of infra to red flavor packets? What are they for, these hot, mild and fire sauces? Surely they’re meant to be used. If not, why do they even exist?
I’m up for whatever so I say, “What the howdy-ho, let’s give ‘em a squirt.” Daddy-O had fire sauce to adorn about his chalupa. And, since it was in arm’s reach, I grabbed it as if to stuff it in my mouth and the parents freaked right out. They made like it was for my benefit, but despite my unlimited credit, I didn’t buy it. That was my mistake.
I stuffed the mostly spent lami-capsule of fire sauce right into my eager mouth. And there began my crisis.
Parental trouble was the very least of my concerns. Had my head been lit aflame? Had my soul been napalmed? Where on earth this heat had come from I couldn’t imagine. I assumed it was other-worldly and yet I support it even still.
What restaurant would ever thusly act to despise their patrons? I’m technically a paying customer here, yet I may not taste again until I’m fully six or seven years of age. This is tentamount to a full-frontal assault on my tippy, peripheral and aft-tonuguey buds. Why is this so?
At least for the next 20-minutes you can consider my lesson learned, both hard and well. Moral of the story is that, even if just once in a while, the parent-types really do have the best kiddo interests at heart. That, and ix-nay on the Ire-sauce-fay.