Dining in the Dakotas (Part II)

Taco Johns

Shortened breaths. Arm Tingling. Chest pains! Symptoms of a heart attack? No, I just came from Taco Johns. Like a virgin executed after a deflowering, my West-Mex hymen has been popped and my entry sealed, my mouth will no longer feast on an eight inch meat burrito, filled to the brim with foaming cheese. "Unfair," you may say, "how can you close yourself off to all that West-Mex has to offer?" "Fuck you," I reply with a bastards bravado, if Taco Johns is even 1/100th of a representation of the culinary potential that West-Mex has to offer then I will play no part in your game of chicken, staring down congestive heart failure as he rushes me with the devil riding shotgun.
There is much about Taco Johns that startled me. Be it in the overweight crowds pile driving meat encrusted cheeses into their rancid gullets, or the sheer audacity displayed by the bold concept of 6 and a pound. 6 and a pound to the blissfully uniformed consumer is the coupling of six crunchy or soft tacos, paired with deep fried potato lumps weighing in at one pound, the price for this fast and movable feast, $8.69. As a novelty item I accept its existence, if 6 and a pound was walking next to my car I wouldn't roll up the windows but I would lock my door. Yet 6 and a pound is no mere novelty concession, no, it is a highly popular food item. In my seven minutes of Taco John's hell I witnessed no less than fifteen people consuming these heart blockers. Before you get an image in your mind of an obese, white American gorging on grade D meat, STOP! All possible scenarios you have self created are true, and beyond simple truth, they are perpetual.
I opted out of a pound and 6 and went for the grilled chicken burrito. My solitary request was met with "Is that it?" uttered disheartened by Glenn my Taco John's executioner. With a half heartened grin I replied "I guess," and was pretty sure he mouthed "fag," from under his visor. When my burrito came from its cheese womb it was parceled and ready to go, Linda, the food depositor screamed "Jeremythanks," as though it were one word, and on top of being one word, coherent. Already feeling like a terrorist for not ordering more food I half heartedly bit into my sad-ritto only to be met by a money shot of something that I hoped was American cheese. Never before have I wished an unknown substance was American cheese as I did with my grilled chicken burrito. Soft giblets of chicken came out plastered to the cascading cheese(?), and I realized that "grilled" had only been attached to the burrito's name for the sake of fun.
Downing the rest of the culinary abortion I spied a poorly drawn portrait of a Native American child sleeping, or mourning corn. I instantly found some relatable material in the Taco Johns. I to was equally sad that corn had been used to make any of the products sold there. As I left the porter potty with food dispenser attachment known as Taco Johns I did everything in my power not to tear down the children's artwork of retardly colored bags of 6 and a frown. Though shall not worship false idols, though shall not worship false idols.