Before I go too deep into it, know that some of the descriptions are actually a little funny. For instance, Taco Bell acknowledges that it's weird that you could buy just a cup of seasoned rice from them if you want in the title of the page in question, which reads "Wait, You Just Want Rice?" This is followed by the subtitle "Are you sure?" Then, after they try talking the reader out of buying their products, the paragraph ends with "just know that literally NOBODY gets just rice from Taco Bell." That's the kind of self-aware pandering we irreverent millennials want out of our corporate brands. If their Breakfast Quesadilla description was just a step-by-step lesson on how to dab, I wouldn't be surprised.
From there, the descriptions can be filed into a few subgroups, which range from attempts at irony that miss the mark to ramblings that feel like someone hacked the website and filled it with nonsense that corporate hasn't noticed yet. Like Taco Bell itself, most of it is terrible and I love it all.
A recurring theme is Taco Bell ironically-but-not-ironically praising themselves for being awesome. They use all the jokey product descriptions to disguise how they truly see themselves, like in this snippet on the Cheesy Gordita Crunch:
Not often does a food innovation come along that completely transforms the way we eat, yet the Cheesy Gordita Crunch has become a lasting staple of our personality as Taco Bell. It's a privilege to witness a culinary phenomenon of this magnitude during our tiny slice of life on this earth.
I can see Taco Bell executives repeating that mantra word for word in the mirror at least ten times a day. Rather than use phrases like "mouthwatering perfection" the way McDonald's did for the Big Mac, Taco Bell describes the Chalupa Supreme as "a Dante-esque culinary anomaly." I don't know why a restaurant would describe one of its own dishes as an abnormal taco from Hell, but it does set up a standard to describe the five layer beefy bean burrito as "a Chaucer-esque journey into glorious irrelevancy" and the cinnamon twists as "like Sophocles, but super delicious, bro."
The write-up for the Crunchwrap Supreme (which is kind of like a taco Frisbee. Really. Just throw one) paints it as a legendary musical artist that golfs on its own island and receives honorary doctorates while regular Crunchwraps "end their culinary careers booking shows at regional casinos to help pay rent." Ignoring that it's really weird to see a restaurant diss its own food, all that separates the lowly and pathetic Crunchwrap from the enviable Crunchwrap Supreme is sour cream and a vague layer of tomatoes. But apparently that's enough to develop its own caste system. The writers of these descriptions were so high off of their Crunchwrap musical artist metaphor that they felt they had to carry this sense of superiority to its logical conclusion: shading Drake in the description of a soft taco:
It's so soft, it exclusively listens to Toronto hip-hop.
Attributing distinctly human qualities to food is another popular running theme throughout the descriptions, from the Dressed Egg Taco resembling "you in your current state of being bundled up in a sleeping bag" to the Fiesta Taco Salad, described as a party at "lettuce's house" and the shredded cheddar cheese is the guy no one invited -- which implies that Taco Bell thinks they shouldn't have put cheese on the thing they're going to serve you, but oh well! Shredded Cheddar Cheese is here, and its boombox is filled with nothing but Limp Bizkit.