Tostada Time

I could really go for a tostada right now.

I’m serious dudes, I am famished right now. It’s still morning and I’m bleary eyed from my shame, but I could eat the biggest, fattest tostada you ever saw. I would eat it so fast that you would get nauseous from watching me do it.

Anybody here got a tostada?

Holy crap, look at that sweet, sloppy tostada. I bet it soaked right through that paper plate. When I get to heaven, I want to be thrown into a darkened room full of those crunchy corn sons of bitches and just go to town on them for weeks.

I bet I’d never get tired of tostadas. They have to be good tostadas though, no fancy ones with shrimp or fish on it. Just a regular American tostada piled high with beef, cheese, and glory. I like my tostadas piled higher than Abe Lincoln’s hat and fatter than Mary Lincoln’s girdle.

Looks like I’ve got tostadas on the mind pretty bad this morning. I can feel the saliva pooling in my mouth as I write about them. I just wish I was an assistant manager at a Taco Bell so I could sit in some dirty back office somewhere and eat tostadas all night. That would be my dream job. When you’re a Taco Bell assistant manager, the world is your greasy oyster.

Looks like I’m out of time. I’ve got a class to teach. I hope these kids are ready to take notes on tostadas, because that’s about to happen. If I get in trouble, the teacher’s union will accuse the administration of being racist. Problem solved!

See you in hell, all you non-tostadas!