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Food by VICE

My Doritos Locos Taco Gave Me a Boner

Months before it came inside my mouth, the flavor powder of my Doritos Locos taco lay in a 50 pound bag of chemical funk inside a Frito Lay factory in Killingly, CT.

by Joshua David Stein
Nov 5 2013, 8:10pm

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DISCLAIMER: this post is in no way sponsored by Taco Bell or Doritos and was inspired solely by the author's raging hard-on for novelty tacos.

Months before it came inside my mouth, the flavor powder of my Doritos Locos taco lay in a 50 pound bag of chemical funk inside a Frito Lay factory in Killingly, Connecticut. Through a series of chemically and mechanically complex procedures, it was pulverized, dusted onto a circle of GMO corn purée, molded, baked, and shipped to NYC. Upon arrival, it was stuffed with a wet, gushy splatter of room temperature ground beef, thirst quenching ice lettuce, freshly diced tomatoes, and fluffy sour cream, shortly before we met.

Since the release of the Fiery Doritos Locos taco, Taco Bell has sold over a billion dollars worth of these spicy gut bombs—enough to finance a little less than a week’s worth of the war in Afghanistan. Just last year, the corporation hired more than 15,000 employees to help manage the growth of this magnificent item's popularity. Upon hearing this news, a craving for the billion-dollar taco welled inside of me. And so it was that I recently found myself inside the Bell, where I opted for the Doritos Locos tacos combo meal, which includes one of each type of Dorito Locos tacos: Cool Ranch, Fiery, and Nacho Cheese. 

When the Taco Bell employee asked if I wanted to eat them “for here or to-go,” I replied that I wanted to enjoy them in the privacy of my boudoir. She looked confused, so I said, “to go. I want it to go.” I raced home to consume them. On the subway, they released an odiferous plume of seasoned beef into the air, like tacos in heat. Touched by sweet Dorito vapor, the smell swirled throughout the car, past the woman clipping her nails, beyond the group of suits pretending to be asleep. Their nostrils flared in unison. When I arrived to my apartment, I locked the door. I turned on the lights, took off my coat, and placed the crinkled bag on the dining room table. My tacos were neatly dressed up in a puritan white paper bag. 

But that paper bag was meant to be opened—ripped away like so many inhibitions scourged. Each taco was sheathed with a cardboard sleeve chastity belt labeled, “Dorito.” It was meant to protect my fingers from their flavor dust, but I wanted to be covered in their spice. I wanted the spice on my face—spice in my face. I wanted it all over my fingers, embedded inside the crevices of my fingernails so that I could both lick and whiff the scent on my fingertips long after the encounter. I would not be washing my hands anytime soon. 

I divested my tacos of their garments, letting the wrappers fall onto the plate like a ye-ye girl’s paper patterned dress at a factory party. Now naked, the taco shells revealed themselves to be three shades of orange in increasingly vibrant intensity. Cool Ranch, the natural blonde of the group, had speckles of red and green dust on the shell, like Christmas glitter leftover from a holiday rave. In the middle, my Nacho Cheese taco was Snooki orange—a fringe of lettuce fell from the open folds. But it was my untamed Fiery Loco taco, bright red—red dye #40, to be exact—who was totally gonzo, engorged, and gorgeous. I started with her.

Upon first bite, the ground beef tucked into the innermost folds had made moist my hard taco shells. Yielding slightly as I grasped the Fiery Loco taco, a droplet of unctuously re-hydrated beef juice dribbled down onto my pants, in the zone of my inner right thigh. My pulse quickened as I brought the taco to my mouth. A few strands of cheddar cheese clumped together, made wet by the squares of watery lettuce, fell from the taco’s glistening orifice onto my dining room table. 

My taste buds never felt so alive. They tingled and stood erect—a million little flavor nipples in my mouth—skyrocketing into pure ecstasy from the chemical payload. 

What was lying within this taco shell that rocked my world so hard? Was it the GMO corn, treated with lime? Was it the salt, or the citric acid, the monosodium glutamate, yellow dye number five, locust bean gum, carrageenan, disodium inosinate, whey protein, hydrolyzed corn protein, maltodextrin, or yeast extract? 

I took another bite, slightly more vegetal as still damp lettuce flooded my mouth. As my tongue drew closer and closer to its climax, the perfect 30-inch bite of the shell’s widest point, the Dorito Loco now shivered in fiery anticipation. For with each crunch, a chemical high flooded my system. With each bite of ground beef, a cow long since passed got one step closer towards rebirth, the cycle of Samsara. Or maybe it was my bowels speaking for themselves. Every strand of cheddar cheese—the pubic hair of the milk Gods—was a benediction. 

Wet paper wrappers, orange dust on my face, hands, and seemingly everything I owned. Little cared I that nothing in the Dorito Loco taco was natural. Verisimilitude is a moot point. So I turned onwards towards my Cool Ranch. I took a bite to let the taco disappear, deeper and deeper inside of me. 

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