I like corn chips.

I like corn chips.

I do.  I don't care what you call them.  Taco chips.  Fritos.  Tortilla chips.  Tostitos.  Pepitos.  I like them.  So much.  It has moved to embarassing levels lately.  I find myself eating at bad mexican food places just to eat taco chips.  In the past week, two (2) of my meals have consisted entirely of taco chips, not counting a third meal (3rd) where I feasted upon taco chips and dip.

This is not a complaint.  This is a confession.  I have dined in five star restaurants.  I have eaten in other countries.  I have been shown the way, the truth and the culinary light.  And yet I come back to things like taco chips by the trough.  Maybe what I need is a salt lick.

But it's not just corn chips.  When I become famous, the photos you will find of me gracing the cover of Star magazine will not be those of a man out with a woman twenty years his junior and not his wife.  Rather, the photos of me will be taken behind a taco bell at three in the morning with two thirds of a spicy chicken burrito stuffed in my skull. 

I have a crap tooth.  Others have it for sweets- I am a sucker for certain confections, but none of any rarity or quality.  How did this happen to me?  Was this a case of being denied as a child?  Somehow I doubt that.  I like to eat a lot of bread.  I like to drink whatever libation is placed before me.  I cannot discern.  I view eating not as a pleasure, but as a compulsive task.  It is my job to eliminate the food that is put in front of me.  I will pay more to get less food at the grocery store, knowing that whatever conveyence I purchase will be consumed until the cardboard shows at it's first sitting. 

I can eat pasta to a point where a sensible man would scurry off to regurgitate.  Don't even need it cooked.  Dry pasta?  No problem.  Saltines?  Perfect.  Ramen noodles?  Fine.  Hold the flavor packet.  Mustard sandwich?  Well, that depends.  It's gotta be pretty good effing mustard.  Oh well, it always is.

But above all of these venialities is the mortal and grievous sin of taco chips.  You ever try to get a sensible, individual portion of taco chips?  Nah, they'd rather sell you the family bag.  The family bag is actually capable of feeding a family of eight for three days.  Or me.  For about six innings.  And the thing is I know.  I know I'm a rube.  I know I'm a sucker.  I know that I'm just attempting to spackle the holes in my life with the salty mortar of chewed taco chips.  For whatever reason it doesn't bother me at all.
I wish I could capitalize on it.  I wish I could pitch meal ideas to fast food companies that would specially target freaks like me who need to abuse fast food.  Taco Bell has gotten near to it with their really ridiculous "Finally feel full from a value menu" campaign but I'd like to take it a bit further.

"Feels like the love of Christ meal."  It'd be like the five most expensive burgers on the menu at Hardees, two fries, two shakes, and an apple pie.  Comes with a crucifix and a copy of the serenity prayer.

"She could have loved you if she knew the real you Meal."  A 5 gallon bucket full of french fries covered in Ketchup and Apple Sauce concealed beneath a philly cheese steak served on an authentic Jewish rye.  Comes with a small, sincere teddy bear that says "I'll never leave you" when you squeeze his belly.

I mean these are just ideas.  But the possibilities for niche marketing to the morbidly obese are simply too great to ignore.  Drive thru will soon be luxury taxed like cigarettes, and boating the larger members of society will become an all too important part of the fast food land.

And I like taco chips.