Some authors have become fabulously wealthy off their work. Much to my chagrin, I have not. But rather than keep chipping away at this humor thing until it pans out, I’ve decided to make my fortune off a single work: a supermarket-shelf romance. As brick-and-mortar book stores die in America, supermarkets are still going strong, meaning my book will reach the maximum audience possible. So, without further ado, I present a portion of my monetary chef d’oeuvre, Taboo: A Taco Bell Love Story.
Chapter 8: Passion Hot as Fire Sauce™
The pallid glow of fluorescent lighting glinted off her auburn hair, greasy and lifeless like an unopened case of burrito lettuce. I stared deep into her eyes as I bit into a Chalupa Supreme®, and a moist wad of sour cream dripped clumsily down my chin. Suave and smooth, I wiped it on the sleeve of my hoodie. She signaled her affirmation with a girlish grin.
Slowly, I began to put my mouth around the object of my affection; the Fiery Doritos® Locos Taco Supreme was everything I’d hoped it would be. Pausing momentarily, I wondered which was more delightfully curvaceous – her body or this taco shell? Both made me salivate excessively. Just as I consumed that mystery meat abomination, my lust consumed me. I wanted to unleash my love for her like guacamole from a caulking gun.
The oily tension at our table for two began to overcome us both. Her hands twitched either out of nervousness or a small saturated-fat overdose seizure. My toes curled inside my Crocs, digging deep like the roots of our affection. The raw ache of anticipation welled inside us both. The temperature of the evening climbed from Mild® to Hot® to Fire®, crescendoing momentously in Limited Edition Fire Roasted®.
Our hands clicked together magnetically, and our heads aligned themselves on that cosmic auto-pilot that only soulmates share. Pausing just inches apart, she looked piningly at my buttery lips and whispered, “I must be a Cantina Steak Burrito® by Lorena Garcia, because I was made just for you.” We held the same tantalizing position as I replied, “You make my heart melt like Cheesy Fiesta Potatoes®.”
Suddenly, our lips locked together, cradling a Shredded Chicken Smothered Burrito® in between our mouths. As we lost ourselves in each other, we were blanketed by a layer of rice and pinto beans. Eventually, we tumbled off our chairs and onto the floor, wallowing in the food detritus like a pair of amorous hogs. We paused for breath, and she flirtatiously fed me a handful of the fallen legumes. From behind the counter an employee, jealous of our connection, yelled, “Ya’ll belong in an institution! Yo, this is wrong, man.”
If it was wrong, I don’t want to be right.
The Lighter Side of the Moon 
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