My brief stint working at Taco Crime (about a week ago)

I've mentioned my love for tacos many a time on this here blog. Take that metaphorically or literally...hell, I just take it. Anyway, I was visiting a friend of mine a couple of cities away from mine and was checking out the progress of the "Banana Wagon" (1972 Chevy Suburban)--the truck he bought off my brother. Well, he has that thing slammed into the weeds on bags and 22's, now featuring NOS!!! There will be small block Chevy shrapnel to go around this Summer for sure. We got hungry after all our wrenching and headed off for tacos.

Taco "Crime" is next to an auto parts store where we were heading, so we lowered our standards and went there. At least it wasn't Taco "Hell" low. First thing I see when I get out of the car is a big freakin' muskrat about the size of a beaver (insert Paris Hilton joke here). It gave me that "wha the fuh you looggin' at?" look and then came at me--encouraging, very encouraging. After stomping my foot a few times, the rodent got the message and ran off into the river. I thought that was going to be the thing that would be the highlight of my day. I was wrong.

So, here I am ordering my damn heart attack wrapped in tortilla form. The dude who takes my order walks out of the store and drives away. I don't think I pissed him off. Did you piss him off? Anyway, suffice to say, the rest of the crew looked a bit semi-gloss in the brain department. I could tell my food wasn't going to get made.

After about ten minutes of waiting for a freakin' soft taco and Mexi-fries, I shouted back to their grill area to make my g-damn food. I think the dude that bailed was their manager. I know what goes into the soft taco because I eat the damn thing often. I literally had to tell them what to do: put fries down and what the orders were from waiting people. I have worked those jobs in the past, so I know what kinds of things needed to be done. It would have been pretty fun/hilarious if I were not hungry and not doing it gratis. The best part is coming.

I get my food, wrapped, but no tray or to go sack. I explained to them that I wanted it to go and the girl just sat there looking at me. I said again, "You know, in a sack?" Get this, she goes all the way back to the stock room and gets a sack for me and just lays it on the counter. I bagged my own groceries, er, food. There wasn't a Mexican to be found. I would have at least had some kind of signs of life, if there were. Communication isn't always the best with illegals, but at least they work hard and try for the most part. Tweaked out teens need to be sent to some kind of meth-kid ranch to roam around freely and without pissing me off.

I should have just drove around until I found a taco cart or roach coach.