Meat Hose

My son and his pals are not  —  brace yourselves  —  gourmands, though it’s not as if they turn down dinner at The Palm.

And yet as content to head out of an evening on his black, silver, and red Aprilla, pick up dinner at Chipotle, Ledo’s, even, on occasion, at a Wendy’s window, he has, as of this night

DRAWN THE LINE at Taco Bell.

 

Why? I ask. Imagine, then, my concern, when he says, simply,

Dad, in that stern, flat tone of Youth’s hard-won wisdom: Do. Not. Pursue. This.

WHY?

Ok. We’re in drive-thru, Brian says to the guy, Four Tacos, please.

And?  And my brave son’s face clouds then swiftly turns sour. 

Brian asks for four tacos, the guy shakes his head:

 

                          “Sorry, man. Meat hose clogged.”

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