Once Upon a Taco.

Once upon a time, a great man came to me in a quandary. "I hold here in my hand a taco." He said to me. "While being neither a burrito, nor a sandwich, it possesses qualities of both! How intriguing."

"Weird." I said with a chuckle.

"How dare you chuckle at this, the most serious of foods!"

"No way man, tacos are hilarious. I'd even go so far as to say that they are funny down to the very core of their being."

And on that day a great challenge was issued. If I could prove that tacos were inherently laughable, I would be crowned the better writer (and I'm totally going to make him give me like, five bucks or something.) If I failed to do so, I'm just a failure, and also as a bonus I have to give him back rubs for a year (although if he declines that offer I'm open to giving someone else back rubs for a year. I need the practice so I can go pro).

Picture related, I swear it. If you've seen this show, you know how hilarious tacos are.

Now, as my opening point, I'd like to bring to the table the fact that from the root of the word "taco," we also get the word "wadding." Yes, that does mean that all a taco is is a meat wad, often times served with lettuce, tomato, and cheese. Haha. Wad. Hahahahahahah wad! WAD! I dare you to go to the nearest Bell or Bueno (whichever you think is better, which is an argument for another time (but it's totally Bell)) and ask for a beef wad.

Secondly, there's a distinct difference between the Americanized taco we know and love today and the authentic Mexican taco, which can still be found in taco stands and other Mexican eateries. I'd say the average Taco you'd find today is about 5-6 inches in length and 4 inches tall, in a hard outer shell, with meat, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese layered on top of each other. However, in a classic, authentic taco, you're going to find something quite different. Depending on where you get it from and how much it costs, all it really is is a soft, some times fried corn tortilla with meat, onions, and lots of cilantro. It's as if someone in Mexico, circa 1930, said "you know what'd make this burrito better? Less beans and everything and so much meat that you can't close it. Yeah." That is, of course, only my speculation of how the taco started, but I think it's a good speculation. Now you can find one dollar tacos on three inch tortillas that you can barely pick up because of how much topping there is, but I'm sure you could buy a five dollar one the size of a burrito, and it'd look almost exactly like how I described it's humble beginning.

Last, but not least, I submit to you that all this time, Americans have been eating tacos incorrectly. Innumerable times I have found myself dissatisfied with my taco eating experience because the delicious meat I crave is hidden beneath a thick padding of tasteless lettuce. What if I told you that we have been duping ourselves into eating that bland filler by placing it on top of the meat we desire so greatly? It's time for a taco revolution people! A literal one, which is way easier than the other kind. All you have to do is grasp your tasty ethnic treat from the top, securing all the filling inside, and flip it upside down. Viola! You can sate your hunger for meat without having a two or three bite interlude of tomatoes and lettuce between each scrumptious mouthful of beef.

In conclusion, I submit to you that taco's are funny because they are literally a wad of food (which brings back memories of Ron from Kim Possible), they're basically a burrito that got too big for it's britches, and that they're best eaten in an unconventional manner. All you have to do is imagine yourself as Tobey McGuire in the original Spiderman movie, and imagine Kirsten Dunst as a taco. Bam, upside-down hilarity.

I Earned My Mexican Card Today

As a precursor to this story, I have to say that it's a 100% better read if you have The Spanish Flea by Herb Alpert playing somewhere in the background.

As an after-note to that precursor, it's my personal belief that your whole life will be 100% better if you have The Spanish Flea by Herb Alpert playing in the background.

It all started when a careless Hispanic man left a small glass bottle of habenero hot sauce on a table. A busser picked it up and handed it to me.

"Que quiere este? Lo encontre en le mesa."

Since I had no idea what she said, but half guessed it was something along the lines of "here, take

this sauce," I shrugged and took it to the back. My co-worker Junior, who is about 90% deaf, was

standing at the table in what I consider the "break area" (because we don't have an actual break

room). I jokingly motioned for him to drink some. He laughed and said "No, you crazy" in his

soft-spoken Spanglish dialect.

"Whatever man. I'm totally going to find a use for this though." Later that night, as I got off work, I

went back into the kitchen. "Hey Nico, I wanna make a pizza with this."

Nico, one of the main chefs, examined the bottle. "Habanero XXX Hot Sauce. You want a pizza

with this? You're gonna die."

I shrugged. "Probably, but I'm hungry, so I might as well kill two birds with one stone."

Five minutes later, an ominous red miasma permeated the whole kitchen. The pizza moaned and

growled as it lurched out of the oven. The person who cut it suffered third degree burns all the

way up their arm, as well as in their nose, mouth, and eyes. As it was being transported, it

melted right through the metal pan, and had to be brought to me in via wheel-barrow. The whole

building was evacuated for their own safety, and we had to disengage the sprinkler system for

fear of it activating.

Okay, not really, but seriously, it was hot.

I set it down on my table just as my boss, a small Mexican man named Alex, was coming over. "I

bet you're gonna cry."

"I'm not going to cry Alex."

"Good, I don't want to see you cry." He pulled out his Iphone. "But when you do, I'm gonna take

a picture."

I was laughing to hard to eat my pizza. When I finally calmed myself, I took a bite. I can still feel

the raw spot on the top of my mouth from the burn. I kept my composure. All I could say was

"wow."

"Is it hot?"

"Yeah. But it's good. You should try some."

"What's on it?

"Onion, pineapple, pepperoni."

He brought a piece up to his nose and smelled it, then looked me dead in the eye and said "smells

like... crying."

"Yes, it's made from pure extract of crying. Just try some."

"Oh, this not hot at all." He said. I winced. "Nico, come try this. Is good."

Nico came over and put a piece on a plate. "Is it hot?"

"Yeah, it's really freaking hot."

"Mm. Okay. I'll try it." He ventured into the back of the store. About thirty seconds later he

came back out, looked at me, laughed, and shook his head.

"Was it hot?"

"I only took one bite. It's too hot. I couldn't even swallow it."

Junior came out of the back with a look of horror on his face. "You want some man?" He looked at

the pizza, then at Nico breathing heavily and fanning his face with his hand, shook his head, and

briskly walked away. I ate another piece. "Hey Alex, I didn't cry. Does that mean I'm a Mexican

now?"

"Yeah, you can be Mexican now. Here your Mexican card." He pretended to hand me an

invisible card.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I earned my Mexican card. Just so you have

some point of reference, the jalapeno (approx. 5000 SHU, or Scoville Heat Units) is about 1/20th

as hot as a habenero. The habenero (in between 100,000-350,000 SHU) is approximately

1/12th the heat of the worlds hottest known pepper, called the "Trinidad Scorpion Butch T"

pepper, which clocks in at 1,463,700 SHU. This pepper is so hot that you have to wear gloves to

hold it, and if it gets anywhere near your eye it will temporarily blind you. You have to wear a

body suit or a chemical mask just to cook it.

Or for another point of reference, this pepper is hotter than most law-enforcement grade pepper

sprays, which range from 500,000 to 2,000,000 SHU. If I were to extract the pure chemical

that causes the burning sensation from a pepper, called "capsaicin," it would be 16,000,000 SHU.

Ingesting pure capsaicin would cause you to convulse for a few seconds, and then drop dead.

The Hillbilly, the Poodle, and the Prostitute

The following is a totally true story that occurred sometime in the last few weeks.

I walked briskly away from the CiCi's down Garnett toward 11th. I had just dropped off an application there. Passing by Taco Bell, I muttered to myself "ugh, I've had T-Bell too much recently. I wonder what else is down this way." I skipped Tacos Y Mariscos and found myself standing outside Bill and Ruths. I was about to enter when I noticed the trailer parked in front. For all intensive purposes, this place was called "El Taco Shack." Intrigued by the prospect of trying something new and exciting and the insanely delicious smells permeating the air surrounding El Taco Shack, I soon found myself walking towards it. There were a couple of semi-decent cars outside, and one very out of place Camry. More on that later though.

As I approached the aforementioned trailer, there was one man, tall, lanky, under bite, Einstein-like hair contained under a Steelers cap, covered in dirt, oil, and other suspicious substances from head to toe. The second he opened his mouth flap, this guy INVENTED the hick stereotype.

"Well howdy doo!" His name was Sully or something. "Sheee-it it's a nice day outside, ain't it?" I kicked some of the snow off my Converse and looked at him skeptically. "You e'er eaten 'er before?"

"No sir, this is my first." Those were all the words I managed to get off before, God as my witness, his clone walked up. Tall, skinny man wearing a blue jumper with the name "Greg" on the tag (which ashamedly, I admit, my name is very much so a hick name). He was covered in oil stains. He was obviously a mechanic.

"Waaeeel fukin' 'el, what're you doin' out here!?" Greg shouted to Sully or whoever.

"Wael damn Greg, I'm out here every Sunday!" By this point I was standing as far away from them as possible. I made my order and stepped back towards the Camry. And if it wasn't hard enough trying to understand what the poor little Hispanic boy was saying up at the ordering window over his thick accent and the two hillbillies, he had braces on, which sounded as if he'd got them within the last two days. Every word was a spit-fest, filled with way to many S's and T's. Two fluffy (see Gabriel Iglesias) Mexican men came up and watched their incredibly entertaining conversation and muttering Mexican things with their Mexican grins and quirky Mexican glances.

"Ey! You e'er tried this here beef tongue? It tastes just like roast beef. I always get it on their tortas (pronounced tor-tass). That kiddo over there," he said pointing at me, "got the quesadilla (pronounced queso-dill-ar) with the carnes asada (car-neis ass-a-da). I've had that'un before, and it's DAY-UM good!"

The little Mexican boy, or little tortilla boy, placed Sully or whatever's order up at the ordering window. He walked with a limp to pick it up, shouting back to his friend Greg "Welp, looks like it's my time to skeedaddle! Catcha later holmes!" which I guess was his attempt to be hip. It wasn't, but it sure was risible. He passed uncomfortably close to me, and I could smell with I believe was whisky on him, which only further perpetuates the claim that this man was in fact, from the back-woods, possibly making his own whisky.

I was thinking to myself "surely this couldn't get any better" when suddenly, he burst my bluegrass playing (nothing wrong with that, I love bluegrass), whisky making hillbilly bubble when he opened the door to the luxurious silver Camry. But he wasn't done yet. The second the door opened, a huge white poodle tried to make an escape for it. "Get back in thur!" he said shoving and kicking it back through the door. I backed up some, which revealed what I can only assume was a lady of promiscuous profession. A street walker, if you will. His call girl put her arms around the chest of the poodle and dragged it back into the car. When she leaned over to do this, her scanty clothes revealed a good portion of her... bosom... and I'm pretty sure her pink mini-skirt and go-go boots were made out of plastic.

I really don't want to know what was going to happen between those three later. All I can say is my prayers go up for that poodle and his rectum to this day. And that was the best quesadilla I've ever had. I hope my future returns to El Taco Shack are just as eventful.