Marco Gutierrez, founder of Latinos for Trump.
Don’t disregard this wake-up call is my advice for all of you sheeple who are thinking about voting Democratic. As a Southern Californian, I already live in the Land O’Tacos. The nightmare described by Gutierrez is one we can’t awaken from here in the Golden State.
Taco trucks aren’t literally on every corner here, of course—they tend to congregate around industrial parks at lunch time and then they cozy up to craft breweries in the evening. But we have taco shops on every corner, or at least in every strip mall, and they cause no end of problems.
First off, they drive off natural American food purveyors. You’re thinking to yourself “Hey, I’d like a wad of thinly sliced beef organs with no condiments crammed into a fistful of greasy white bread,” and you head off to an Arby’s, only to find it’s been converted to a taco shop. You’re left desolate, because now you only have a variety of flavorful hot sauces to season your lunch, when you were counting on consuming some horseradish that squirted out of a tube.
Classic American diners are being pushed out of business by these burrito-rollers as we speak, making it harder for older white Americans to find the eating-out menu items they crave—baked potatoes piled high with fake bacon nuggets, canned asparagus and lemon pies the color of Bart Simpson’s face. Creamed chipped beef on toast and fish sticks are vanishing in favor of flautas and flan in the New World Food Order, and the tastes of these oldsters are just being swept aside by an avalanche of tortas and taquitos.
Often these taco shops are open 24-7, fueled by their owners’ unnatural Mexican impulse to work hard all the time. Closing time at the local pubs unleashes a horde of ravenous drunks to their drive-thru windows, in search of salsa-dripping goodies that they can vomit up at their leisure before passing out in their bathrooms. No neighborhood wants its peace disturbed by a bunch of playful alcoholics at 2 AM, yet there the taco shops are, brightly lit and painted, with signs displayed that might as well read “NOTHING SETTLES YOUR TUMMY AFTER TWELVE SHOTS OF JÄGERMEISTER LIKE A CHIMICHANGA!”
Even those who embrace the Mexican food onslaught often find themselves in bitter conflict. One of the things you’ll never hear a San Diegan say is “I don’t really have a favorite taco shop.” We all do, and woe to us attached citizens whose Significant Other craves a taco shop that their partner doesn’t really care for. Sure, the chile rellenos she loves are great there, but the carne asada is much tenderer at the place you like. If you want to save your relationship, it’s two trips through two drive-thru's, which leads to one of you getting cold food and also contributes to global warming.
So there you have it. It’s too late for us, but if you don’t want your state’s natural cuisines, whatever they be, fried possum or scrapple or pickled beets, swept away in a tsunami of guacamole, vote Trump, because Clinton will turn the whole country into a fiesta of comida Mexicana.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter Taco Hell.