The powers that be have decided, it seems, that it is finally time for the great country of Mexico to join the United States in the 21st century by allowing Mexicans to have their first Taco Bell franchise.

As a Mexican, I really do not know why it has taken so long for my country to be granted the gift of tacos. Perhaps we haven’t cooperated fully with the U.S. War on Terror. Perhaps our foreign debt to the United States has surpassed Washington’s patience. Perhaps the Taco Bell CEO was angry because his daughter appeared on Girls Gone Wild: Kancun Khaos.

There are a million reasons the United States should be mad at Mexico, not the least of which is the continued success of one Carlos Mencia, long known as the guy who gives Carloses everywhere a bad name. In our defense, he’s not Mexican. Carlos ain’t even his name. It’s Ned. He’s kind of half Mexican, so I guess we have some responsibility.

It appears, however, that our punishment has run its course. Our long, national nightmare is finally over. Thanks to the magnanimous directors of the storied restaurant, Mexico can finally receive the joy of tacos.

A Taco Bell opened in Monterrey this year, and it is still eagerly awaiting its first satisfied customer. Plans already abound to open dozens of other franchises across the Mexican territory, and it is only that awful monster we call Restraint that stays the hand of the butchers, the masons and neon-sign makers.

Whatever the case may be, the Taco revolution is in full swing. And it is about time.

I always regarded Kentucky with envy. It got Kentucky Fried Chicken years ago, no questions asked. Pizza Hut is so powerful in Italy it has achieved a status akin to the mafia and the brown shirts. McDonald’s has its farm, where it occasionally welcomes, with great pomp and circumstance, the Last Burger King of Scotland.

Now Mexico can finally join this great company of irony, and for that we should be forever grateful. All we need is for Popeye’s to incorporate spinach into their menu and we’ll be set.

I couldn’t be happier for my countrymen to experience the joys of the Crunchwrap Supreme, the ecstasy of the Fiesta Taco Salad and the orgasmic pleasure of the Meximelt. One day soon we might even get a better version of KFC’s Famous Bowl, which I admit sounds like a game that should be played in late December between the University of Philadelphia Cheesesteaks and the aforementioned University of Kentucky Fried Chickens. But it actually represents heaven, if heaven were a mishmash of stuff swimming in other stuff held together in a bowl made of some sort of crunchy stuff.

Because I’ve been here in the United States for five years I’ve had the Taco Bell Experience. I grew up in Mexico. I’ve eaten 10 cent tortas at sketchy roadside stands in the middle of nowhere. I’ve had rattlesnake-infused, undistilled tequila. I’ve drunk the water.

Yet it wasn’t until I came to America and participated in the Taco Bell Experience that I felt it. A soft rumble brewed in my stomach, as if all the tectonic plates of the world chose this moment to crash against each other at the same time. Meat sweats copious enough to drown a small child broke on my forehead and the bridge of my nose, bathing me in their munificent sheen. Then came the long days and nights reading and re-reading the same GQ and Rolling Stone, pausing every once in a while to figure out exactly how the hell I was going to get more paper. And that feeling at the end of being absolutely cleaned out, spent, purged — well nothing beats that. I’m excited for my people to experience it. They’ll never know what hit them.

For years, we Mexicans have labored under the strain of a life without tacos, waiting for that great Bell to ring. When we allow that Bell to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, Americans and Mexicans, immigrants and illegals, the employed and the otherwise engaged, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old American spiritual: It’s Taco Time! It’s Taco Time! Thank God Almighty, it’s Taco Time!

Carlos Maycotte, a first-year student in the School of Law, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].