“If we weren’t authentic, we wouldn’t exist.”
That’s the slogan for Guzman y Gomez, a Mexican food chain run by the Australian CEO of McDonald’s, mainly staffed by Indians.
“Authentic Mexican cuisine simply doesn’t get better than this – not even in Mexico.”
It’s all starting to make sense – no wonder immigrants flee Mexico by the thousands. I’d catch the next floating door to America too if the greatest cuisine my country had to offer was worse than the vaguely-chicken-flavoured slush I paid $9.90 for. By the way, that’s twice what the average Mexican worker earns in a day. I would say “delicious irony”, but that would be ironic.
Just to paint a picture: have you ever been poisoned by your best friend in a plot to steal your wife, then woken up in a hospital with an extremely talkative South African doctor, the mere sound of his thick accent more gut wrenching than the mind-numbing emotional pain of both betrayal and heartbreak? That’s what my experience at Guzman y Gomez was like.
Luckily I chose to get a spoonful of guacamole, turning my tasteless burnt-chicken burrito into a tasteless burnt-chicken burrito with a spoonful of guacamole on it.
The guacamole tasted like baby food, but at least Guzman y Gomez stayed true to the theme and gave me a baby-food sized portion as well. The only problem was that instead of saying “choo choo choo” and putting it in my mouth, they charged me $2 for it. If that doesn’t seem ludicrous, here’s why it should:
I haven’t been this enraged since I saw Inception, which is essentially Guzman y Gomez in movie form. My biggest problem with the movie is that there is no such thing as a thriller about sleeping. It’s illogical. It’d be like if Disney made a kids movie about blowjobs. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be great, I’m just saying it’s illogical.
People went to see Inception the first time because they heard it was so confusing and philosophical. Then they kept going back to see it after it “blew their minds” because it was “so complicated.” It wasn’t complicated, it just didn’t make sense. There’s a big difference, you morons.
Besides, it wasn’t even complicated. It was just a dream about a dream inside a dream. Holy shit, three layers! In Big Momma’s House, an FBI agent has to pretend to be a fat old lady to catch a criminal, while he falls in love with the lady’s own granddaughter, who may or may not be a criminal herself.
Still, no one walked out of Big Momma’s House with a giant erection and a stunned look on their face, muttering: “Whoa, man. Three layers.” I can’t believe the shit that people lap up.
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