The other day I felt like I needed to add some inches to my waistline and went to Taco Bell: the place where white people go to feel ethnic. I’ve been a believer in the Bell ever since I was 7; but for the first time I noticed little inadequacies and contradictions that they had been hiding under their crispy taco shell.

First was the 7 Layer Burrito, a classic contributor to my first heart attack. When I ordered it, I went through the layer inventory in my head: beans, guacamole, sour cream, etc, and I thought to myself “Does the actual tortilla count as a layer?” After debating with various people, mostly my wife, my feelings about tortilla are indifferent. First, if the tortilla is counted as a layer, thats a pitiful excuse for a layer. A tortilla is a paper thin container where its only job is to secure the other, better layers from getting all over your shirt. When I order the 7 Layer Burrito, I’m their for quantity. My suggestion is to add an extra layer of something worth eating, my vote is queso, as an apology for the tortilla. Second, if its not counted as a layer, then Taco Bell is lying and the Taco Bell Chihuahua should be rolling in is shoebox of a grave. (Too soon?) The 7 Layer Burrito would then be the 8 Layer Burrito and for everyone who is watching their weight aren’t accounting for the calories of the tortilla, they could be going over their calories for that day, therein Taco Bell is enabling their weight gain even more. However, if you are watching your figure, why are you eating at Taco Bell. Total hypocritical chaos I tell you.

The second issue I have with Taco Bell is the Volcano Nachos. I ordered them not only to feel the glorious cheesey burn, but also to inherit Clint Eastwood’s voice while I’m eating them. I took a bite into the first chip and I realized I was hitting .500 on expectation: cheesey goodness, same annoying voice. All I gained from that was a burning tongue. I would have complained about why I didn’t sound like Dirty Harry but my mouth was numb and they would have thought I just suffered a stroke.

Third, this Taco Bell didn’t have sporks anymore. That was the real reason I went there! The spork is every fat kids dream: a spoon that you could grab things with. It’s the best hybrid anything. The idea that I could kabob something and scoop it at the same gets my jollies going. Without the trident action of the spork you just have awkwardness. You then are just scooping up food as if the remains of your Double Decker was cereal and then you just look like fat kid.

Finally, I got a couple of salsa packets and one of them said “Will You Marry Me?” Okay, obviously my smart readers would not think to use that packet to propose to someone; but you know there was some pseudo love struck idiot has used it to propose to his out-of-his-league girlfriend. The sad part is is that he honestly thought that this was the funniest, most original proposal ever. I could imagine this guy getting on one knee to his girlfriend and she is laughing, not realizing that he is actually serious, this then snowballs in to eventual sadness for both of them. Imagine at their wedding shower, with scores of her friends wanting to hear the story and then she has to watch their faces go from confusion to disgust. “Oh, so he proposed at a Taco Bell… was your first date there… oh… yikes.” Worst of all, how is he going to explain this knee jerk reaction to her Dad who probably hates him already because he is that much of a dolt that he is taking his precious daughter to fast food restaurants. I’m sure the Dad would ask him begrudgingly “What gave you this idea that you have the right marry my daughter?” and then the guy will undoubtedly reply “a salsa packet told me to.”