Life as a tastebud

Hi.
My name is Saul.
I’m a taste bud and my story is a sad one.

I don’t know how old I am or how I came to be, I only know my lot in life is to sit around waiting for my host, some dick named Diego, to stuff weird tasting shit into his mouth and sample it for him.
It’s awful.
Mainly because our asshole host likes to try new foods—as if we, (all five-thousand of us) are lab rats waiting beck and call for him to conduct his Dr. Frankenstein-like foodie experiments upon.

Anyway, here’s the drill.
He stuffs something rude into mouth expecting us to taste it, give a full report to brain, then sit idly by waiting for mouth to receive its orders.
The results?
It goes one of two ways.
Mouth either spits it out or swallows it.
At first blush, life as a taste bud may not sound like such a bad gig, especially when sweet tooth is on duty. However, if your host is Diego, well, you’re pretty much fucked because sweet tooth has been overridden by brain after their reading something called The South Beach Diet. Fuckers. Why couldn’t they read Fifty Shades of Gray like the rest of the world?

Normally, and under most circumstances, things wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just behave like other humans, simply taking a small taste and reacting like most people after sampling something incredibly spicy—jumping out of their chair screaming…

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT IS THAT HOT, GET ME SOME ICE WATER—STAT!!!!”

But he doesn’t.
No, instead, this asshole likes to show off and in the process, punish us, right along with mouth and anus. And for what?
So he can prove how macho he is?
As I said, the guy’s a major dick.

Well, fuck him.
I’ve got a news flash.
If he keeps up the kind of shit he did yesterday, taking us to Las Cazuelas Mexican Food and repeatedly burning us with their hell-like hot sauce, willfully disregarding our warnings to brain to spit the shit out post-haste or else stomach and anus will be some hurting fucking units tomorrow, he’s in for a big surprise.

The next time he smokes some of that bad-ass chronic when his wife’s out of town, gets a severe case of munchies, and relies on me and my buds to inform brain how some of the stuff he’s eating has been sitting in the fridge for weeks and is now rancid, well, maybe we’ll just conveniently ‘forget’ to notify brain of our findings.

We’ll give him, right along with stomach, anus, brain, and gag reflex something to think about the next time he even thinks about taking us to Las Cazuelas.

Think you’re the macho shit Diego?
We’ve got news for you dickhead.
Just you wait.

Note: Their food is magnificent. Especially the machaca. But as a taste bud, I can’t recommend the hot sauce. I haven’t spoken to anus yet this morning, but I did chat with stomach, who’s been trying to get a hold of anus all morning.
I’m fairly certain when anus does gets word what’s headed his way, he won’t be recommending Las Cazuelas to anyone either.