Reviews of New Food: Taco Bell’s Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets

Forgive me, Padre, for I have binged. Kissed brimstone. Huffed hellfire. Made a $5.99 deal with El Diablo for a five-pack of chicken nuggets. In the back booth of a Taco Bell Cantina, I plop down my tray like I’m late to the Last Supper. Spread before me: an unholy communion. Nuggets instead of wafers. A chalice of consecrated Baja Blast. Illuminated above me: not stained glass, but a neon-purple sign promoting a timeless fast-food parable. LIVE MÁS. I cross myself in the sign of Our Father, dab at a spill that looks like my mother, then take the plunge—flipping open a box of Taco Bell’s new Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets. Like the scooped litter of an infernal feline, pulverized tortilla chips cling to dust-coated clumps of chicken. Seasoning slides around the bottom of the box like loose sand. The smell is sharp and stinging—dehydrated hot sauce tickling my hallowed nose hairs. Popping that first Diablo Dusted morsel into my mouth, I experience a revelation worthy of Revelations. A pure, sinful delight. The equivalent of crushing up a bag of Cheetos, mixing in a few ghost peppers, then drenching your tongue in dry rub. As Christ said when he descended into hell: “Holy fuck, that’s hot.” I fan my mouth, realizing I started with too big a bite (one bite). But wicked temptation drives me to tear into another nugget. My sinuses tingle with illicit satisfaction. Tears blur my vision. My tongue wriggles—flailing, under fire, but already craving more. Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are tender, spicy, and juicy, like a Zumba instructor. Slightly rubbery, like an amateur gimp at Folsom. Premium all white meat lambasted under a heat lamp, like a regional sales manager in a tanning bed. For a menu item concocted in hell’s kitchen—chicken nuggets crop dusted by Satan himself—they’re surprisingly scrumptious. Like any vice worth the price, Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are dangerously addictive. Despite my inflamed senses—mouth burning, nose dripping, scabbed throat screaming in protest—I can’t help but take another bite. Between sips of Baja Blast, scripture written on sauce packets compels me to LIVE MÁS, EAT MÁS, and MAKE MÁS MISTAKES. I am a masochistic sinner, craving delicious damnation. Desperate for punishment. Praying for Satan to spit in my mouth. Steam whistling out of my ears, I wonder if the devil’s lettuce would make these Diablo Nuggets even more delectable. Chewing fumes, I trespass against McDonald’s, ranking Taco Bell’s diabolical poultry above McNuggets. But the heat! Good Lord, the heat. By the end of the pack, the Baja Blast is ineffective. Milk is off the table. Water would only make it worse—unless it’s been blessed by a priest. Like the nuggets, my tongue is blanketed in Diablo Dust. Oh, how it burns. Like gargling vinegar, every micro-abrasion in my mouth lights up. Incendiary, as one by one, my taste buds are plunged into magma. My final refuge—my only option—is to peel the lid off the limited-edition Diablo Ranch dip and pray to the Almighty for forgiveness. But God is either deaf or spiteful, or he thinks he’s so funny. Because the Diablo Ranch is a homestead of pain. Far from tempering the inferno, the peppered sauce is like squirting gasoline on a grease fire. Dust and dip, flint and tinder, feed each other until my mouth stops chewing and starts playing hot potato—flipping the half-eaten nugget from tongue to teeth to cheek. Sniffling, tears streaming down my face, baptized in flame and babbling in tongues like a Pentecostal faith healer, I crawl back to the counter, unrepentant. “Hi, could I get another order of Diablo Nuggets? Yes, with the ranch.” “That’ll be $5.99.” “Amen.”