From their perch in Sharkatraz atop the tallest apartment building in Astoria, Max Robinson and Mike Pfeiffer are The Trash Boys. In The Trashford Files, they investigate and review foods that are normally best eaten alone drunk in the dark after a breakup.
THE YEAR IS 2069. THE INTERNET CONTENT WARS HAVE LEFT AMERICA A RAVAGED, BARREN LANDSCAPE. LIFE, IF IT CAN BE CALLED THAT, IS A SMOG-FILLED NIGHTMARE. FOOD IS SCARCE IN THE AMERICA OF THE FUTURE, THOSE WHO SURVIVE MUST BE WILLING TO EAT…TRASH. MEN LIKE MAX. THE WARRIOR MAX. AND ALSO MIKE. MIKE IS THERE TOO. IN THE CLOSE OF A GYRO TRUCK, THEY LOST EVERYTHING. AND IT WAS HERE, IN THIS BLIGHTED PLACE, THAT THEY FACED THEIR FINAL TRASHFORD FILE….AND LEARNED TO LIVE AGAIN…
The Gastronomic Artifact
What are we putting in our talk holes?
Mike: Max, is that you? Was there anything left at the old 7-Eleven?
Max: *coughs up black ichor* Good news, brother. I had to fight off like a dozen GoogleGlass Mutates and almost got eaten by a Gelatinous Cube but I got them…I got the Loaded Doritos.
Mike: Ha. From a time when we still labeled what had Doritos in it, before it became easier to say what didn’t. Do they still have their original Breathing Sleeve with Needless Pull Tab?
Max: Yes. Before President Gravedigger outlawed all non-monster truck-related advertisements. Behold:
Mike: Hold it closer. Since you valiantly broke my glasses to use the lenses in a Solar Oven daddy cannot see so good. Oh wow, somebody really did knock up a triangle of corn powder with some mysterious cheese fluid.
Max: *consults scrying stone* I believe they called these “Loaded” Doritos because you would have to be in order to purchase them.
How it look?
Max: The Loaded Doritos come four to a pack and look like fried mac and cheese bites you’d get from a county fair in a Ray Bradbury The Martian Chronicles short story.
Mike: It is Highly Fucked Up that they make you take four at once. The crazy part is that this is one of the few items that looks exactly like it does in the commercials and photos, which is to say “a crusty-ass chicken skin around some molten imitation cheese.”
Max: 7-Eleven has access to the food replicator technology from Star Trek except it can only make Brundlefly-esque Dorito abominations from whatever you ask. Look for the DoritOreo and Nacho-Blasted Egg Salad Sandwich in select market locations in the fall, assuming the ape flu hasn’t finally wiped us all out.
Mike: I’m surprised that they don’t offer a Doritofying booth that will use corn starch to apply a bulletproof crust of Cool Ranch or Nacho Cheese flavor dust to any food you put in it.
Max: Dorito cultists would dip their whole heads in “to become closer to the one true god-chip.”
Mike: The Dorito cults of the wastes are full of fools dragging clubfeet coated with Smokin Chipotle Blister Tributes to their deity.
Does it satisfy?
Max: No. Nah. Nope.
Mike: I the opposite of crave this. If I’m hogging all the rations and you show this to me I’ll stop being hungry. I was instantly classically trained to associate “nacho cheese scab” with “not being interested in eating.”
Max: I have only three remaining teeth and lived off cactus water last week and even I had trouble finishing. I felt sad, empty.
Mike: They managed to make something that tastes like absolutely nothing, forcing you to consider only the unsettling texture of what you’re eating. This is a Bertolt Brecht 7/11 creation.
Max: You could really say this is our own personal….7/11.
How easy is it to put in your talk hole?
Mike: Doritos already have this built-in Sex Countermeasure where your fingers get covered in the dust after less than one bite, but the Loaded ones have the extra fun of being hot and full of goop.
Max: I’m glad they replicated the cheese dust experience of traditional Doritos for its Loaded descendant, even if it’s purely a method for injecting your body with thousands of flavor-monitoring, central nervous system-controlling nanites.
Mike: It’s mastered the hot pocket art of concealing how god damn hot it is inside, so once you puncture the room-temperature epidermito you get a palate-scarringly hot serving of, and I cannot emphasize this enough, something that Chester the Cheetah would keep a frozen jar of in case his vasectomy cannot be reversed.
Max: On the other hand, you can also pour these down your throat like a shooter thanks to the packaging design.
Would I eat this in front of a date or in a job interview?
*Both stare out into the middle distance at erupting mushroom cloud. Soon the mecha-coyotes will be on the hunt.*
GoogleTech Biomarker Blood Test for Assessing Radiation Exposure and Toxicity
Marvel Comics and Stan Lee present Mike’s Blood Is Still Bad 2099
Max: As with every day, Mike and I have tested our blood for radiation following consumption of any food or water. While the levels on the Loaded Dorito were high, they were predominantly harmless alpha waves.
Mike: And as with every day, I have had to mix my spit with red food dye for the test because when I use my actual blood the test paper shows a little thumbs-down sign to indicate that my blood is fake.
Max: This is, of course, a meaningless ritual as we have mere days before Lord Bieber’s techno-raiders make good on their promise to tie us to their Nitro-Mazdas and call us slurs as they bully us to death.
Mike: As if the apocalypse wasn’t bad enough, it was crazy embarrassing that we got kicked out of New Swag City for peeling the stickers off of our fitted baseball caps. Bieber is going to use my hairy ass cheeks as shoulderpads for his cape, man.
Is it worth feeding your self loathing to purchase?
Max: A Loaded Dorito. Were we ever so young, Mike?
Mike: The Frito-Lay company’s hubris is not our cross to bear, brother. What else did you scavenge from the burnt-out 7-Eleven?
Max: Oh. That was it. There…there was nothing else. We’ve just eaten what will likely be our last meals. Ha. Hahaha.
Mike: Great. So the last thing I put in my body before hoards of megapugs snuffle me to death after they catch the scent of my gangrenous wounds is a shitty mac n cheese bite. I give it one rat out of five rats, though ironically my malnourished body will feed at least ten rats.
Max: *wheeze* The Loaded Dorito is terrible, unnecessary and embarrassing to buy. In many ways, the perfect final Trashford File. I would like to thank our readership of internet randos and amused ex-girlfriends (and tolerant fast food counterpersons) who have made this all possible. You’re the REAL Trash Boys. Five rats out of the five hundred who will soon be feasting on our bloated, irradiated flesh.
Trashford Files banner art by Nick DiFabbio.