GuacaMOLE at Taco Bell: an episode of gross indecency

Dear Cruel World,

It came without warning. Please, let me set the scene:

 So I was sitting in Taco Bell on 14th St., minding my own beeswax in the form of a positively scrumptious burrito (Dame Samantha, I know what thou art wondering and I’ll have you know that we may ignore the volcanic bowel consequences for the moment, as they did not strike until halfway up third avenue at which point I had to simultaneously pucker my ass cheeks and sprint like mad back to Gram Green, where I mounted that innocent porcelain bowel like it were Seabiscuit and unleashed Satan’s burning fury). But at the moment of consumption I was suddenly struck with a far, far fowler demon.

 A squat Indian woman entered our scene and perhaps it was the fresh scent of curry or the purple and turquoise muumuu wrapped haphazardly around her thick neck that drew my gaze away from my Mexican treat. As I watched her bumble in through the doors, I saw it: halfway between her lip and starboard nostril, garnished lightly with some dark peach fuzz, there sat…a mole. THE HORROR! I will try to carry on but I am shocked and appalled. Let me preface: this was not just any mole, mind you, oh no. Let’s be honest, it’s no secret that I’ve seen my fair share of moles of varying thickness, density, color and bodily location. One may venture to say I’m a mole expert. I might as well have a PhD in mole studies. Heck, I even boast a few myself, although it’d be positively outrageous for me to reveal where…However, no mole I’ve ever seen and most likely ever will see in my life could compare to this monster. I honestly think I could have curled up for an afternoon siesta on its fat, spongy surface. It was like a third eye and I swear I saw it blink as she waddled past. This could have just been an optical illusion caused by the long, sinewy hair that treaded like the whisker of a catfish off of it. I think I swiveled around in my seat 180 degrees in order to watch it walk past me, my eyes fixated on what has to be the world record holder for biggest mole. I had to suppress the devilish urge to jump up and poke it, right dead in its epicenter, just jam my index finger into it so that perhaps it might explode. What’s more, after I had gone back to my burrito (in which the nacho cheese had congealed significantly during the mole intrusion), and prepared my exit from this classy restaurant, I noticed that sitting at the table next to me was none other than the mole and its Indian host! I shrieked a little at the sight of it so close to me, the whisker floating around in proximity to my quivering lips. I whipped my satchel onto my shoulder and b-lined it out of there, nearly slipping on the freshly mopped floor. When I reached the safety of the sidewalk outside, I took a few deep breaths and turned, slowly, for one final look at the specimen. I cringed as I watched the Indian woman munching into a Crunch Wrap Supreme, the mole all the while bouncing and bobbling like a bulbous black buoy on a great brown sea.

 I must now go and cleanse myself. The mole…that billboard of gross indecency…was just too much for this tired soul.


Fondling yours,

 Jah mez


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