Tacoman’s giving me major stink-eye right now. I don’t even know why. So what if I’ve brought my desktop computer to his shitty little taco stand for late-night power hour? People bring their cell phones everywhere. Phones are types of computers. My PC is a type of computer. Why is one frowned upon while the other is universally accepted? I use my PC for all the same things you might use your phone for: games, Internet, YouTube, porn, chat. In fact, the only thing my computer can’t do is make phone calls. But who in this day and age uses their phone to make phone calls? Point is, computers and phones are alike in every way except form factor. Shape. Size. Looks. Am I therefore to be ostracized simply because my form factor doesn’t meet the self-appointed requirements of a shallow, conformist society favoring small and sexy over big and functional? I think not! Besides, I don’t even own a cell phone. Theo may have defeated my grams once upon a time, but even in her present state as a cardboard cutout suspended in living death, her stranglehold on the Womack household’s financials is relentless. She thinks cell phones are excessive, and therefore unnecessary. Gramps? He’s an ill-timed fart away from senility, and is of absolutely no help in the Let’s Modernize the Womacks department. So, I carry a PC instead of a smartphone. Haven’t you ever brought your PC to a taco stand out in the middle of the Bumblefuch Desert? Haven’t you ever wanted to?
“I used to feel a sense of security when it came to social media, Tacoman,” I say, ignoring the aforementioned stink-eye and working my way through a gigantic nacho platter with my left hand while leveling up my Hella War barbarian character (Myron Deathkill, esquire) with my right. “With SuperMegaNet, I knew I’d never be more than a click away from my friends. I’d never be alone or snackless. But things have changed. The world’s changed. It’s become darker, grittier, like a Hollywood remake. All of us—you, me, the next asshole—are characters trying to grapple with the loss of our ignorance, our innocence.” I scarf a particularly cheesy nacho sector and wait for spiritual confirmation.
Behind the counter, Tacoman, his usual hairy, thickly-mustached self (the Fundoshi Mandate is a San Angelico-only kind of thing), scratches his back with a greasy spatula and points off to the side, where he’s got a laptop set up. Facing the laptop’s webcam is a giant handwritten sign reading:
The Taqueria of Lost Souls,
where gringos go to die—
SuperMegaNet users welcome!
“You like new sign, mi gordito?” Tacoman asks.
So much for spiritual confirmation.