WARNING: The following may not be suitable for children, adults with a history of heart or liver problems, women who are nursing, pregnant or may become pregnant.
Of the events which took place I have no desire to speak, but I must relay to you a horror out of time and space that man was never meant to know. Beware, the eldritch taint of this nightmare once learned cannot ever be unlearned, and your soul may be torn asunder in the process. Beware… take care… BEWARE!
There are those who say that things and places have souls, and there are those who say they have not. I dare not say, but I will tell you of the Restaurant.
My memory of the event is broken, but the night was a stygian and plutonian miasma, rent wide only by the wan light of the gibbous cacodaemoniacal moon. I wandered the twisted streets of the mouldering necropolis, the gelatinous and noisome rain filling me with ennui. In grave gastronomical distress I was in search of a restaurant dealing in Nachos, when out of the gloaming appeared a pulchritudinous vision of the south of the boarder delights. I cast aside the filth and ichor of the streets and pushed the dusty cyclopean doors wide, assaulted by vaporous bean effluence as I strode inside the corn chip sepulchre.
The interior if the Nahuatl mausoleum was an arabesque of primitive stucco and Aztec deities, the foul antediluvian pantheon stretching forward across the immemorial aeons to propitiate the prosaic customers. The obdurate host gibbered about seating and placed me at a table, casting me upon a half caste squamous and batrachian waitress.
The brute ululated and gruffly placed a menu in my hand before shambling off to parts unknown. I opened the tome and perused its manifold offerings before being struck with a biliferous urge and fleeing in terror. There were a thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. It was the pit – the maelstrom – the ultimate abomination, because at this Mexican restaurant they did not sell any Nachos!
Has such a thing beyond the understanding of man as this ever happened to you or a loved one? Simply engage in an Adamsian bout of paniclessness and follow the simple rules below.
(1) There exists a series of tubes known as The Internet. This Internet, or simply The Net, can usually provide a website for the restaurant, which in turn will usually provide a menu so you can double check for Nachos before your visit. However, this will not work so easily for spontaneous night time wanderings in the noisome rain.
(2) There is a wide variety of Mexican food, and most of it, while not Nachos, is pretty tasty. Just because you’re eating something that’s not our favorite chip delight doesn’t mean your cheating. Nachos aren’t jealous; in fact it might turn them on.
(3) If you absolutely need to get your Nacho fix, place an order for hard shelled tacos. When they arrive at the table take them and smash them all over your plate, turning the shells into chip shards. The resulting mess will be like Nachos dirty twin, and there’s nothing they won’t do.
(4) It is possible that if you ask nicely they might be able to make you some. They most likely have all the individual ingredients, and if you come across as particularly attractive to your wait staff maybe they can do you a favor.
(5) Lastly you have your most extreme option. You just sat down at the table and examined the menu and probably you haven’t ordered anything. If that’s the case, what’s stopping you from leaving? Absolutely nothing. Unless you’ve ordered drinks or are trying to woo a sexual partner, hit the bricks, and tell them it’s because of their lack of Nachos. That will show them.
The most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to believe in a nacholess Mexican restaurant. We live on a placid island of food ignorance in the midst of black seas of gastronomic infinity, and it not meant that we should voyage far. The restaurant sciences, each straining in its own direction have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of nacholess knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age of never going out to eat again. Let us pray that this does not happen.