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.

Epic Mood-Ruining Rant Part IV

Friday isn't anything special either. Friday is like a weekend placebo. People try to convince eachother that it's great, but for what? You still work on it. You still go to school. You still have to wear pants. Speaking of which, I don't care for "casual Friday" at all. It's a sham. It's a cheap facade. A plot, whose main device is to trick you into thinking you can be happy just because you get to wear a different color shirt, or jeans instead of dress pants. I think dress pants are more comfortable anyways; jeans are rough, but dress pants are like having your legs dipped into a giant vat of sleeping kittens. Breakfast is another trick. Its main purpose is to make you think there's a good reason for getting out of bed anytime before 10 AM. There isn't. Eggs aren't even that great, and toast is like some odd competition to cook bread a second time and try to get it slightly burnt, but not burnt enough that it tastes burnt. It's just like food; what's up with that?

Memories, oh, such good memories...

I love my job. Sure, it has its downsides just like any other job (like standing up, moving around for 5+ hours), but it has its upsides too. The latter outweigh the former, hands down. For starters, I get paid, which is pretty spiffy. Also, within about an hour before or after a shift I get to go in and eat all the free tasty mac-n-cheese/Bavarian cream dessert pizza I want. The little uniform I have to wear with "CiCi's" plastered across the front is a little cheesy, but I get to wear jeans, a fact which I try to rub in my brothers face as often as possible.

I'm pretty new to my job, and all the cynics say I'll get tired of it, which I might, but for now, it's great. A while back, this adorable little black girl got sooooo dang excited over cinnamon rolls that she started dancing around in a circle. She reminded me of Boo off of Monsters Inc. I turned to the assistant manager and said "wow, I've never seen kids so excited about food." He looked me dead in the eye and said "I have. Every day since I started working here." How freaking cool is that? When I applied at the it's-kind-of-like-a-miniature-Incredible-Pizza buffet I didn't think about that at all. I work where I get to see a bunch of little kids have fun. I love kids. I have three nephews and two neices. They're pretty adorable, if I do say so myself. I know more than a few people that would say theirs are more cute, but you know, whatever...

Anyways, today there was a group of about fifteen 5-7ish year old looking girls who were apparently just finishing up a season of basketball. A large African American man, loud voice, awesome laugh, stood up and starting giving out little participation trophies and thanking all the kids and their parents for a great season.

I don't know if you know this about me, but when I was little I played soccer. I mean, I loved soccer. There is nothing I'd rather do than soccer now that I'm not playing it anymore. I played for about eight years, from when I was four till I was twelve. I played a season of basketball, and one season of baseball too, but neither of them could take the place of soccer.

After every season, the coach would take us all out to the Mazzio's on 31's and Garnett, where we'd play Mortal Kombat 2 on the old Atari game box and stuff our faces with pizza. Our coach, a tall (well, to me, a little 3' kid) gruff man, who I personally believe wore a hat just so he could throw it on the ground when he got angry, would stand at the end of the three or four connected tables with a box crammed with participation trophies. As he called out each of our names, he would tell us how proud of us he was for playing so great (we were the second best team in our league for about five years) and tell one of his favorite memories of us playing. I remember his smile as he passed out the trophies to each one of us. He was angry at times, like most coaches, but he was awesome, and I have a lot of respect for him now that I look back on it.

I only remember a few of the guys I played with, but I mostly remember my friend Mati. He was this crazy Indian guy, pretty tall for his age, skinny kid, and he had the funniest run ever. He'd stick his arms all the way down at his sides with his hands pointing straight out. He looked like a freak and a pansy, but nobody made fun of him because he was still faster than everyone else on the team.

Sometimes I pass by the fields we practiced at, which were across from a football stadium, next to a baseball field, and behind a middle school. They're somewhere around the Panera on 41st.

This was probably one of the greatest times of my life, and I pray that I never ever forget it. I was just wondering if maybe you guys and gals had any super fond memories like this you felt like sharing. Comment or do whatever you do. I'd love to hear what you've got to say.

Oh, and this song is the bomb-diggity. A little depressing, but still, it's the bomb-diggity.

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.