Brunch has become a weekend ritual for many people. I’ve seen it. Women wearing nice dresses. Men wearing trendy tight fitting shirts. Both wearing their wayfarer glasses as they drink mimosas on the patio of an up and coming restaurant. These people are cowards.
Brunch is the height of hedonistic gluttony. It’s in the name. Do you want breakfast or lunch? I want both. Give me the best of all things. Brunch is eating your cake and having it too.
The righteous will ask, “Why not have a standard breakfast for breakfast, and then tacos for lunch?” I do not have the answer to this reasonable frequently-asked question. I can only postulate that these miscreants hate decision making. They fear choice. They fear missing out on what they could have had.
The breakfast taco is the chief indulgence of this insanity. It is neither taco nor breakfast. It is a Frankensteinian monster wrapped in a flour tortilla. Eggs, salsa, bacon, and potatoes wrapped in a flour tortilla coffin. Delicious ingredients when separate. But combined form an overpowering mixture guaranteed to drip salsa in your lap. Ruined white pants are the price you pay for your sins.
The standard American breakfast is perfect: two eggs, hash browns, bacon, and a side of toast. This tradition tested meal has proteins, fats, carbohydrates. Through generations of American breakfast trial and error, we have arrived at the perfect breakfast. These brunch eating hipster charlatans have thrown that tribal knowledge to the wayside. They spit in the face of every American who sacrificed their breakfast in the name of freedom.
However, breakfast tacos are but a venial sin. It distracts from brunch’s mortal sin. Brunch is just an excuse to drink booze in the morning. Brunch is disguised debauchery at dawn. Bloody Mary Bars! Bottomless Mimosas! The Peach Bellini! Are all lipstick on a boozed-up pig.
Their shrunken Old Navy shirts attempt to conceal their beer bellies. Brunch-goers are there for one reason and that is to drink. They hide their love of alcohol under the pageantry of brunch. And they are cowards for it.
Brunch is to alcohol as what plastic surgery is to a lover. Insulting. Booze deserves better. At your highest highs and at your lowest lows, booze has always been there for you. Yet brunch goers are ashamed of booze. Well, I’m ashamed of you.
Drink your 40 of Olde English proudly in the morning. Trust me, it’s proud of you.
