Dear Taco Bell,
Jesus Fucking Christ, how great are you? I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that maybe you might be bigger than Jesus and the Beatles combined. You know what; I’m going to go there. You ARE bigger than Jesus and the Beatles, but only because three of those five people are dead. You are mysterious and cheap, just like me, except I don’t smell like delicious week-old nacho cheese. I think that you may be my best friend. Remember that time that I ate 6 Taco Supremes, a Bean and Cheese Burrito and a Nachos Bell Grande? That was nice. It’s times like those that I’m glad I was born with taste buds and an iron colon. You know how I know it’s true love? You give everyone else I know explosive, anal-wrenching diarrhea if they even smell a Gordita, and yet I could eat pound after pound of delicious Taco Bell-brand Mexi-Meat and not so much as gas up. When I grow up, I want to move to your birthplace, Mexico. I want to eat tacos and burritos all day and listen to Selena and Jennifer Lopez and Ricky Martin till I pass out into a guacamole and Mountain Dew-induced coma. Mexicans must be the happiest people in the World. Taco Bell, let me ask you this: I know this guy named Antonio Garcia. If I were to marry him, would I get Taco Bell benefits? Such as an employee discount, use of the handicap washroom, or a Taco Bell Platinum Rewards Card. Taco Bell, you are my life, my love, my everything. My dream wedding involves Taco Bell and a heart-shaped Jacuzzi. I understand if you are unable to install a Jacuzzi in the staff break room.
I love you.
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