I Taco Tuesdays

by wootbot

Cato tacoed

Taco is a verb now?

EXCERPT FROM MY eBOOK, "Moby Dick: Taco Edition":

Taco me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely-tacoing little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I tacoed I would taco about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of tacoing off the spleen and tacoing the circulation. Whenever I taco myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I taco myself involuntarily tacoing before coffin warehouses, and tacoing up the rear of every funeral I taco; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it tacos a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately tacoing into the street, and methodically tacoing people's hats off—then, I taco it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato tacos himself upon his sword; I quietly taco to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but tacked it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, taco very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, tacoed round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets taco you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is tacoed by waves, and tacoed by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Taco at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Taco the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Taco from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you taco?—tacoed like silent sentinels all around the town, taco thousands upon thousands of mortal men tacoed in ocean reveries. Some tacoing against the spiles; some tacoed upon the pier-heads; some tacoing over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if tacoing to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days tacoed up in lath and taco—tied to counters, tacoed to benches, tacoed to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?