The Spicy Saga of Taco’s Cojones
There’s a scene in The Beach where a Swede is left to die alone. The Beach stars pre-dad-bod Leo DiC and some French bird, and is based on the Alex Garland novel of the same name. The Beach is set in Southeast Asia, on a secret island, where a group of fart sniffers seek to create the paradise that they expected, but failed, to find on the backpacking trail, all set to that All Saints banger.
Coming closer to youuuuu…
One of these fart sniffers is Swedish and he donates his leg to the Feed-A-Shark foundation. For reasons that maintain and preserve the group’s illusion of paradise, the Swede is unable to reach civilisation for treatment and succumbs to a massive infection. The infection drives him mad with fever, and his insane howls of pain upset the self-congratulatory circle-jerk society that the other arseholes had created, and he is moved out of sight, sound and mind. The group continue deluding each other that they’re cohabiting in some superior society and eventually Leo has to kill the poor Swedish bastard.
On a much more diminutive scale, we all surprise ourselves with the lengths we go while travelling to create our own paradises, regardless of what the collateral damage may be. Punishes are banished and discomforts are discarded; anything that threatens our tenuous hold on a hassle-free holiday is pushed to the side of the plate, where it will languish with the Brussels sprouts.
Such is the situation facing Taco, the beagle teen who lives with the Global Hobo interns at the Farm Hostel, Canggu. Oh he’s so cute! Isn’t he a little cutie wooty. Taco’s fucking adorable in his floppy eared little darling way. Taco the teen likes to play and be patted and go through your shit and escape and bite you. Taco’s cute antics have a use-by date that is determined by your patience that is determined by your time spent with Taco and influenced by your ability to empathise with animals. This week, the last week of the first Global Hobo Bali internship, Taco’s use-by date is up.
I haven’t had much to do with Taco, so yesterday when I saw him we played and wrestled and I let him bite me while the girls chastised me for revving him up. “You’ll get him all excited and we’ll have to deal with it when you go.” Apparently Taco gets a bit of pepper in him and cannot be consoled. I asked if he’d been a problem recently and was told that he has, that he steals undies and strews them across rice paddies, that he escapes and then attacks those who dare to retrieve him, and that he generally likes to bite and eat and hump things and people that don’t want to be fucked or digested.
Boys will be boys, I thought, but for poor Taco today is the day that that ceases to be the case. I was informed, somewhat gleefully, that today Taco has his testes cut off. The news mortified me and sent my own figs into a self-preserving state of tortoise-like reticence. With my own gonads making a steady retreat to somewhere near my throat I implored them to leave his balls alone. I pleaded the case that they’re who he is, but it was futile. The matriarchal mob had made up its mind. Taco’s marbles are probably now bobbing in a jar beside his bed.
The move was overwhelmingly supported by the interns, with most citing the cessation of his more irritable traits as being a more than worthy trade off for his masculinity. He’ll be more subdued and won’t steal or fight or bite or hump so much. He’ll be less boisterous, less boy-like, less curious, when he’s castrated. Stealing his gonads will modify his behaviour, forcing less testosterone into his decision making centres, effectively lobotomising him from the crotch. Taco’s crime of acting according to his instincts was inconveniencing us, and sentenced him to be changed irreversibly. The Taco that nature intended him to be was to be sent to the side of the camp to die, out of sight and mind.
I have a vested interest in the preservation of Taco’s turnips, because Taco’s turnips are my turnips. Unfortunately for Taco he’s a dog and has no say in the matter. Shhh Taco, the humans are deciding your destiny. We could have taken the time to train him, ironed out the kinks in his burgeoning personality, to accept him for who he is, or to wait for this phase to pass, we’re going to flip him over and slice off his slugs. It’s the easiest option, the most final solution.
Since I first confronted the interns about their merciless decision, and challenged some with the chance that their acting selfishly, the tune has begun to change. The taking of Taco’s Toowoombas is for his own good, they say, he’ll lead a longer and less violent life. He’ll be less prone to taking risks, more content to stay at home rather than roaming the streets to perpetuate his DNA, not to mention that his virility won’t be a contributing factor to Bali’s stray dog problem. Taco won’t be knocking up any homeless hussies, and that’s good not just for him and us, but for this island. Fixing Taco is an overwhelmingly positive thing, but the majority of the interns weren’t braying for his balls because of the good of society. They just wanted to be less inconvenienced by the poor little bastard.
The thing is, maybe the world needs Taco’s brawling and breeding, despite how annoying it may be. Castrating Taco is at the tip of a slippery slope to prescribing deviance out of our kids, internment camps for dissenters, reprogramming those who differ from us, and lobotomising unsavoury personality traits out of society. Are we heading towards a brave new world where our very manhood can be surgically removed because we acted too manly?
It’s in Taco’s best interest to take his avocados, but I feel like I need to speak out on his behalf, because I would hope that someone will do the same for me when they come for my wheels.