Geek Culture, Writing and Other Junk from Writer C. A. Wilke
Tacos… and My Alien Son

Tacos… and My Alien Son

I’m starting to think that my son might be adopted. 

Sure, it’s a little late to come to this conclusion since he’s an adult, but… He can’t possibly be mine. Or Evil Fire Breathing Dragon Lady’s, for that matter. He might look like us, even act like us in many ways… but there’s almost no way he can be our biological child. 

I mean… he doesn’t really care about tacos.

Yes. You read that right. My son… the boy who’s supposed to be my own flesh and blood… is not a fan of tacos. Crunchy, soft, street… None of them trigger that all-too-human response to gobble them up.

Now, there’s a slim minority of you who might be confused. Those people are the weirdos who, like him, look at a delicious, amazing, glorious taco and think… “Meh.”

I mean, I don’t get what’s not to love about a proper tortilla filled with perfectly seasoned meat, some shredded cabbage or lettuce, a little tomato, maybe some pico de gallo, maybe even a little sour cream and hot sauce… And of course cheese. Cheddar, monterey jack or cotija… it doesn’t matter, it just has to be cheese. It’s kind of like a burrito, only better because it’s a taco.

I’m an equal-opportunity tacotarian, but fish tacos are probably my fave!

I try not to be judgy—everyone has their own thing, some people don’t like ice cream either (those people are monsters, but you’re not those people, right?). Even among the taco-normative people like different things. Some like chicken, ground beef, carne asada, carnitas or fish. Some even like that vegetarian faux-meat stuff, but who am I to judge? And that’s okay, it takes all kinds to make this world go ‘round. 

So, if you’re one of those weird taco-meh people, you need to understand what’s wrong with you. And my son, by extension. See… tacos are the life-blood, the manna, the… ambrosia, if you will, that keeps our reality in balance. By consuming these heavenly, divine pockets of deliciousness, we are ensuring that the universe doesn’t collapse in on itself in a giant, fiery crunch.

And yet, somehow… He doesn’t get it. Sure, he’ll eat one if it’s necessary. But eating tacos isn’t just a pleasure, it’s a duty. It’s kind of like sex. Sex can be enjoyable, and without it our species would cease to exist. Tacos are the same way. Without the consumption of them, we would cease to exist.

Dragon Lady and I get it, we understand the importance of tacos. And with genetics, he should too, right? That’s just science. So… is he sick? Other than his lack of interest in divine foods, he doesn’t seem sick. Maybe he was switched at birth in the hospital. Or, I suppose it’s possible that he has some kind of genetic anomaly. Some… mutation that has disabled his taco-loving gene.

Oh gods. Is that it? Are we living with a mutant? Jebus, what’s next? Is he going to turn on… macaroni and cheese? 

No. It’s okay. It’ll be hard, but somehow we’ll manage. He’s… he’s my son. And I’ll love him, no matter what. Like some families with politics, we’ll just have to make sure we don’t… taco ‘bout it.



If you’re in Phoenix, The Beach House is one of my favorite taco joints. Also, it’s BYOB, so bring a six-pack of cervezas and wear your big boy/girl pants.

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