I ate some really nasty nacho's last night. I really should not have. I had been planning on going out for wings that night. All day long I thought about some hot wings and a frosty beer to go with it. So when I got home from work I met up with Alan and headed over to the wing house.
While we were sitting and waiting for a waitress, I saw the table next to us receive a huge mound of... something. It was huge. I was hungry. Suddenly the thought of wings was pushed form my mind and I had to know what the mound was. When our waitress came over, a pretty little thing with long black hair, a sensuous perfume, and the faint beginnings of a sunken trailer park mouth, I asked her what that mound was. She peered over and told me it was nachos. Suddenly thoughts of wings fled my head. I wanted nachos.
They ended up being disgusting. Sure, it was huge, but I swear the made it from stuff they bought at the dollar general. Fake cheese, Hormel chili, cheap nacho chips. Not even a black olive to be seen. I did not care. I ate it anyways. I was hungry. Washed it down with beer.
I ended up going to bed early, clutching my stomach. Something bad was happening down there. Somethign bad. I am going to call it... a lesson. A lesson learned. Inspect nachos before you order them. If there's no nacho cheese in the pile..then its not friggin nachos.
That's all I have to say today. Here is an evil odd-eyed cat peering down at me. I think he's laughing at me.
2026 Update
Dialing the time machine back 19 years to watch Ed Heffernan surrender to a suspicious mountain of nachos.
Ah, 2007. A simpler age, when a man could walk into a wing house, abandon his sacred wing-and-beer plan, and blind-order a towering pile of dollar-store nachos on the basis of pure visual hunger. I miss the innocence. Today that mound would arrive with a QR code on the receipt, a mandatory surcharge for 'artisanal queso,' and a companion app that asks you to rate the chips before you've even tasted them. Ed, you were eating what might as well have been a geological formation: fake cheese, Hormel chili, chips that crumble into existential dust. No olives? In my day we called that a tragedy; in 2026 we would call it a limited-edition 'deconstructed nacho experience' and charge thirty dollars. And you washed it down with beer and went to bed clutching your stomach, which is practically a sacred ritual now replaced by people posting the nacho's obituary on social media before the heartburn arrives. You learned a lesson. The modern world learns nothing, it just subscribes to a monthly snack box and blames the algorithm.
“2007 Ed, when you saw the waitress with 'the faint beginnings of a sunken trailer park mouth,' did you truly think that detail was necessary to explain your nacho downfall, or was something else going on in that head of yours?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, that's a fair cop. I ain't gonna pretend that detail was essential to the nacho tragedy. I could've just said 'the waitress came over' and the story would've held together fine. But here's the thing: when you're sitting there with your guts already planning a mutiny, your brain starts grabbing at anything to distract you. And I'm a guy who notices things. The trailer park mouth thing, that's just me being a snob, I guess, or maybe trying to make myself feel better about the fact that I was about to order a pile of processed cheese product. It's like, 'Well, at least I'm not her.' Which is a real classy thought, I know. I'm not proud of it. The truth is, I was hungry and dumb, and my head was full of beer fumes and fake cheese anticipation. The waitress was just a casualty of my own idiocy. I should've just kept my mouth shut and ordered the wings.
