When you’re busy cramming soft, melted cheddar cheese and beautifully bean-bedazzled chili into soft, warm tortillas all day long, most people are more concerned with shoving your tangible products into that big gaping hole in their heads than listening to your intellect.
Well, now the rubber glove is on the other hand. While my previous attempts at shouting my libido through the drive-thru microphone and spelling out my manifestos in cinnamon twists were thwarted by management, now the true genius has been granted his forum.
So all, please gather round and trade in your hairnets for your thinking caps.
Today’s issue: foreign affairs.
We need to pull all troops out of Iraq immediately. Swiftly and promptly, thank you. Chop chop. While we’re at it, why don’t we just pull out my teeth. Please.
I have these teeth. I keep them really clean and floss regularly. But I’m sick of it. I’d rather have them made into a necklace or anklet of sorts.
You know, pull them out with an old set of Allen wrenches, string and duct tape them together around your ankle, and you’ve got one hell of an anklet.
The anklet will come in handy when you’re walking around the town slugging a gigantic bag of Diet Coke cans over your shoulder in a clear garbage bag.
More foreign affairs you beg? All right, second issue: the Asian economic crisis. Obviously, there has been a crisis. Ever since we put the Fiesta Gardenia on the menu, all the Chinese restaurants have been scrapping for change between the cushions of their couch.

F##@% this foreign affairs bulls##!t. It’s time to get down to some eatin’. Sharpen those chompers and wash those paws of yers, ’cause we are in for one hell of a feast.
I got the recipe from this guy I know named Brad. Brad is pretty cool. Brad works at the box office of this one little auditorium in Iowa and wears really ugly sweaters.
Sometimes his sweaters are blue and gray and sometimes they are orange and green, but whatever the case they are pretty damn ugly.
Well, we were traveling through Iowa for some reason, checking out their foreign policy or what-have-you, and I met Brad and we started talking. I think his last name was Hoff. Yeah, that sounds right, Brad Hoff. Anyhoo, he starts telling me about these tacos that he makes and I’m all, “Let’s gets to eatin’.”
So Brad takes me to his house, where I met his younger brother Bort, and Brad and Bort start making these tacos.
I’ll tell you what, those were some f’n sweet tacos. Start with some kick-butt ground beef, and brown the s##!t. Then add this fiesta taco mix and then you shred the cheese and then cut up some lettuce, tomatoes and onions, if you can handle ’em. Personally, they leave me a little gassy, so I stay away from ’em.
Well, enjoy the shit and don’t spill it on your freekin’ pants.