The savages are out-breeding the sane, the civil. The base, berserk animal within us all, gnashing its ugly teeth, devouring our entrails, gnawing its way to the surface. We are stabbing each other over botched taco orders, y’all. Cutting the flesh, driving a serrated stake through the heart of conventional discourse.
Gabriel Villalba, a 28-year-old Southern Californian Del Taco employee, stabbed a late night drive-thru customer in the abdomen after the customer complained about his order. Now that’s motherfucking customer service! ”Crinkle-cut fries? You gettin’ nachos, bitch!” STAB STAB STAB.
Pandora’s Box is now menstruating onto the tattered fabric of our social order. Time was, if we wanted a quick food fix, a cheap, convenient injection of empty calories, a heart attack one dollar meal at a time, we could have it, blade-free. Glorified monkeys waited to press illustrated buttons corresponding to our trans-fat-tastic selections. Henry Ford’s culinary descendant, an assembly line of immigrants manning fryers and mangy, flaccid lettuce stations, robotic in their movements, their lives reduced to hyper-specialized, mindlessly repetitive tasks. Spread the re-fried beans on the tortilla. Pass it to Cristobal, on your left. Spread. Pass. Spread. Pass. Diligent pawns playing out their futile, thankless destinies, shepherding our nation full-throttle into its epoch of epidemic obesity.
This once was a sacred ritual. Hungry, but don’t care what you clog your arteries with? Lazy? Hopelessly alone? Don’t know how to cook? Cheap? Stoned? Destitute? Fast food was the whore that kissed us on the mouth. Perfumed with grease and coursing with diseased blood, she still felt like home. Her interior uniform, cozy. Her options familiar, yet peppered with seasonal spice. The periodic promise of anal. The McRib. The Monopoly game. Doritos Locos tacos and bacon sundaes. Intoxicating are the winds of false change, a sudden gust to spur our sails, just as the calm waters of our vacuous, humdrum routines, our tepid traps, leave us feeling rudderless, stilted. Then just as quickly the calendar flips over, the Shamrock Shakes evaporate, retreating like the tides.
It was a brutally efficient system. Our very own Hunger Games, its collateral drawbacks predominately affecting our most indigent, living their 59 cent taco realities. And our hopeless children, our past-present-and-future poor. Our Future Fatties, who might as well be divided into districts, a society that can not possibly support their inevitable diabetic existence forcing them to kill each other for the common good. Let them set their dresses on fire and bang each other to attract sponsorship from fucking Whole Foods. Their souls ravaged by tribute killing, blood on their tiny hands, but square, balanced meals in their aching bellies.
Fast food, our gastronomic masturbation. Immediate, yet hopelessly void of vital vitamin enrichment. Often depressing, but still bringing us to our addictive endgame, a brain-dulling release.
I had Del Taco the night I finally lost my virginity, my latent advancement to marginal manhood punctuated by fire sauce and Grade D meat. Nom nom nom. And now, thanks to Gabriel Villalba’s game-changing rampage, when I think of Del Taco-related penetration, I shall only see a blade jutting out from the fat gut of a petulant customer, blood pouring out over his shoddy sedan’s upholstery, his cries for help drowned out by “Welcome to Del Taco, may I take your order?” over the intercom behind him. The hymen of my lost innocence, forever severed, the romantic ideals it represented irrevocably split, drifting toward opposite poles. Despair, to the north. To the south, a burning desire to thrust myself into the volcanic nexus of this savage uprising. A bloodthirsty, undulating urge, bubbling up from my stinking, frothy bowels, to bathe in 59 cent taco meat and witness the groveling, gruesome death of humanity.