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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 116

By: Rich Cromwell
10 min read

You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth. About tortillas.

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Rich Cromwell
@rcromwell4
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You may think you know how tortillas are made, but you’d be wrong. Well, you’d be mostly wrong. When the sun is out, the factories hum along as most factories do, using machinery and electricity. After dark, when the third shift comes on, the factory shifts to more authentic means of production. Sort of.

The third shift is the special shift, the one that actual gets out stones and water and lard and the other things that goes into making tortillas by hand. This is why you should always, if you have the means, buy tortillas produced during the night hours. If you don’t know how to figure out which batches were produced during the night shift, that’s classified info. Perhaps a delegate from the Illuminati will be in touch to welcome you into the club. Otherwise, may luck be on your side.

No one really knows how this arrangement came to be, they just know that it started when an enterprising vampire known only as Amiga approached a factory owner with a proposition. Living eternally offers many options for personal enrichment, but one still has to work for it and vampires aren’t afraid of a hard day’s, or night’s, work. Unlike the opulence portrayed by Hollywood, real vampires know they have to put their noses, or teeth, to the grindstone. Inherited wealth is just as much a problem for them as it is for humans. There’s always that one generation that doesn’t appreciate what they’ve been bequeathed and squanders the family fortune on lofty schemes involving destroying the sun.

Amiga, not predisposed toward such lofty schemes, saw an opportunity and took it. Who better to create delicious authentic tortillas in the dark of night, with superhuman strength and speed‒and without the temptation to eat the product‒than a team of vampires? Thus, a partnership was born.

No one knows if Amiga still roams the earth, though her legacy lives on. And while her contributions to the culinary world remain mostly unknown, she remains an icon, one whose myriad strengths and skills can be listed in a bulleted list peppered with buzzwords and jargon. She is the mother of artisanal cooking, and of wraps, though that’s a story for another day.


Though she didn’t partake of her creation, she did deploy it in other ways.


You wouldn’t think this pitch would work, but it was extremely effective when it came to creating demand.


Not all her strategies worked. You have to be willing to try new things, though.


Strategies like this, for example.


Only if you’re a mortal. Otherwise, it’s a potential goldmine.


Of course, taking over a factory isn’t usually instantaneous and the transition could produce some difficult circumstances. In such situations, hope for clouds.


In less hostile interactions, this strategy also works.


As does this one.


If things escalate, this one does, too.


Which isn’t to say that Amiga was singularly focused. She was a font of creativity, and sometimes lesser ideas arising from a stubborn belief in phrenology.


Not that the early adopters minded, especially given their sleep schedules.


Potlucks and battles over Bananarama weren’t the only struggles for the vampires when working alongside normies. There was also the aroma, and not of warm tortillas.


On the other hand, there are always coworkers who crave adventure, even if they’re a little grand in their expectations.


Some, though, had the right idea.


Be wary of anyone who stops talking ever, for any reason. Trust me on this.


When starting a vampire-driven tortilla empire, be prepared for some casualties. Literally.


Fortunately, you can easily refute such claims if you’re prepared.


Especially if you’re skilled at the art of the surprise.


If someone responds like this, she’s ready for her Illuminati welcome package, assuming she can make tortillas. This isn’t a game, at least mostly it’s not.


A modicum of doubt is acceptable.


Look, that was an unfortunate occurrence. There’s a reason factories have those “X Days Since the Last Accident” signs.


Move the quotation marks so they’re only around “life” and your future will be bright. Not technically, because no sun, but literally metaphorically bright.


I know we discussed blowing up the sun, but this is a bit far, okay?


This, on the other hand, is a solid team building activity.


I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, robbing a bank is the best team builder, though. Maybe it can put a cap on staring into the abyss.


If the staring contest involves ruminants, eject. They are the greatest of all time for a reason.


Okay, first, you’re supposed to stare, not yell, but solid effort at thinking outside the paradigm, shifting some boxes, etc.


However, this works.


Amiga didn’t have to worry about social media. Her descendants do. Fortunately, Pinterest is there to help.


When building your empire, don’t be afraid of unorthodox voices. That was one of Amiga’s many keys to business.


Strengths, weaknesses, tomato, tomahto.


Just remember, conventional thinking isn’t your friend. Don’t be afraid to be rad.


For when a door closes, it will probably open again. If not, there’s a button or something.


Regardless, enjoy the ride.


And if all else fails, there’s always musical theater, which may or may not be where Amiga finished her career, even if Doritos aren’t really fried tortillas.


Or maybe that is how Doritos originated. We can never really know, for while the tortilla empire remains‒make sure to check your mail for the possible Illuminati welcome package‒the rumors are that Amiga went off in search of new adventures and not just whimsical productions about redemption and robots. Not all who wander are lost or whatever.

What we can be sure of is that blowing up the tortilla industry and returning it to its ancestral roots isn’t the final frontier, especially while explosives continue to exist, though that’s also a story for another day. Stay combustible, my friends, even if it means eating a few extra tasty wraps. Just remember to also maintain plausible deniability.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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