Ain’t no cherries in August

One of the chapters in my memoir “Born Mean” is going to be a confession that I have actually indulged in Taco Bell. Not in five years, but still. I do understand its allure, although even I had second thoughts early one day in an airport when I saw how the refried beans were made (open bag of dirt-brown dust, add water, apply heat). But the news about its revamped breakfast offerings was even scarier than that sight: Jimmy Dean sausage and Cinnabon? Hope they’re offering a free syringe with every order.  What was even more appalling is how the press release was retyped — it actually included the word “mouth-watering” and described the chain as “the beloved franchise.” This would be, some of us remember, the one where rats ran rampant in Greenwich Village for all the world to see. Maybe the wrong tool was canned at the home of the Human Scratch N Match.