I am the modern Prometheus. No wait, the modern Frankenstein. To specify, I’m referring to the mad scientist doctor guy, not the green guy with bolts in his neck. I have created life itself! The perfect fusion of animal, vegetable, and mineral. A beast born of culinary and evolutionary achievement. Born from my mind and love for the Taco Bell Cheesy Gordita Crunch™. It’s an unforeseen creature on this earth except for probably being in the background of Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs 2 (you know the one that has all the food animals).
BEHOLD. MY SON. Geroggery. Yes. His name is Geroggery. I was going to say Geoff, spelled the weird way, and Greggory spelled the way I think makes sense. Why have one ‘g’ when you can have two? I wasn’t going to be weird and appropriative and give him some sort of culturally Hispanic name. And don’t be like “I’d name the tacocat Tacocat,” that’s fucking dumb and stupid. You’re the type of person who doesn’t even know the dance moves in the whip and nae nae song that aren’t the whip and nae nae. At any rate, I birthed him with science and my motherly hips. Don’t think about it too hard. ?/?-?-?\
Just look at him! His crispy tortilla ears, his flat impossible face. His body is beige and orange powdered cheese dust, speckled with those little specks that are in tortilla chips that we never question because it’s corn or something (right? Those little specks are corn or something, I’m sure of it because otherwise, I would like to know what those specks are). He is the perfect surface for pico de gallo or guacamole. Within his little head lies a perfect bed of cold shredded lettuce that is so moist and cool against my fingers. A soft pillow of sour cream sits atop the ground beef. Is it ground beef? I mean it would be weird if he was made of another animal product. But the ground beef lump is for sure his exposed brain matter. If you can’t see me now, I’m shrugging with indifference. We’ve never seen an exposed brain before and there has to be a reason no one has tried it. It must work too well.
Geroggery is a white-people-taco because I was told in the Google image search what a taco looks like and I was like “yep that definitely has more structural integrity than an authentic taco.” I love really good tacos, but like the criteria of what makes a good taco and what makes a good tacocat could not be more different. Hard-shelled tacos are open-faced taquitos or even like a bent tostada and I can get down with that because it is CRONCHY. I love le cronch. If he was a really good street taco Geroggery would be floppy and his deliciously seasoned brain matter and internal organs would flop onto the ground and soak through his masa-based epidermis. BA-DOY. Get it through your skull.
I look at Geroggery with so much love and hunger. His little tomato chunks, the shredded cheese, the black olives (black olives are good af on tacos don’t judge me I’m Italian and biased). His body is kind of like a normal cat sort of vibe but if you touch him it’s apparent he’s a tacocat. Did you know that tacocat is tacocat spelled backwards? The more you know. Lolz. He’s such a cutie wootie little cat, mrawhw! /?_ ? _?\???~
Oh…OH.
I behold in horror as a hairline fracture crosses Geroggery’s visage. He begins to shatter apart. His adorable mewling begins to mutate into a sound. A gurgling beyond death. The type of drowning in one’s enchilada sauce sound only found in combination taqueria-hospitals. In the sun the sour cream and salsa drip off of Geroggery.
“Mmrraww?” Geroggery pitifully meows. My son. My one and only son. The liquid seeps through him. His delicate limbs crack with a horrific and delicious cronch. I fall to my knees. I try to gently caress him, his soft little threads of shredded cheese kiss my face. His little whiskers brush against my cheek. Tears form in my eyes. “I can’t lose you like this,” I whisper to him. The tighter I grip him, the more he fractures. Salsa and mashed avocado streak down my lab coat. Chunks of pickled jalapeño and ground beef smatter to the ground.
My gift to the world. My Geroggery. My tacocat. My hubris has cost me everything. But at least I can avoid the drive-thru line at the Taco Bell if I eat his entrails.
Your editor who is currently eating Tacocat nachos,
Connor
Connor Stanford is a senior theatre studies major who is already working on burritodog. You can reach Connor at [email protected].