I can be silent no longer on the subject of this Pink Taco business. Phil, my secretary, has just handed in his resignation over the volume of emails we’ve gotten about it.
If you’re just joining us, “pink taco” seems to be a euphemism for “vulva.” I had never heard of it before, but the mayor of Scottsdale, who apparently looks at more porn than I do, has. She is completely offended that a restaurant of that name wants to set up shop in her town, which, as everybody knows, is an oasis of gentility and good taste the like of which Western civilization has never known.
The mayor of Scottsdale is a moron. As dysphemisms for vulva go, “pink taco” is pretty harmless. Pink is nice (unless it’s on a cancer teddy bear), and “taco” is a word with which I associate nothing but the happiest of times, so overall it beats the heck out of “gash” and “hatchet wound,” and (possibly my least favorite just because it’s so NASCAR), “cooter.”
I sense that the patriarchy-blaming public is looking for me to loose a torrent of ill-humored rhetoric over this. But I cannot. I have my priorities. I don’t care if a taco stand calls itself the Dripping Hot Meat Wallet; if the tacos are any good, I’m there.