Taco Child

I was born 100% enchilada. My physical build resembled a chimpanzee, and I loved to swim. Then I met my death; now I’m back for revenge with a trailer-load of tortillas because I’m Taco Child.

I have a hard shell, and my hot sauce is rated “funky mild.” My fans call me Meat Monkey, and I’m partially soy. Right now I’m watching my favorite movie, Breakdancing Bicyclists, while snacking on formaldehyde. Tell your mother that Taco Boy is back, and that his shell is cracked and his beans are black. I’m the new kid on the block. Catch me gargling nacho wash and using Beer of Ambrosia to season my guacamole shoes. I only drink the agave plant. Now I’m sporting my burrito cape while explaining to some bystanders that Choco Taco was a Good Humor ice cream treat consisting of a disk of waffle cone material folded to resemble the first scene of my biopic, in which a young version of my alter ego skips down to the beach for a swim, but then suddenly all the other beachgoers devour his ingredients and use his shell as a raft.