Taco Tony Tuesday

Every Tuesday night at our house, the lights dim, tacos hit the table, and the YouTube feed glows like the Mothership calling us home. Welcome to our holy day of worship: Taco Tony Tuesday.

Here’s the deal—Kill Tony technically drops on Monday nights. But listen… I’m not twenty anymore. If I stay up past midnight, I wake up looking like a raccoon who lost custody of its kids. So we made a tradition: Tuesdays, tacos, Tony.

Sometimes it’s crunchy shells, sometimes it’s nachos, sometimes it’s just tortilla chips dipped in regret. The point is—we sit together, laugh until our guts hurt, and roast each other harder than the comedians on stage. Our sense of humor is the spine of our relationship. If we’re not laughing, are we even breathing?

On New Year’s Eve, while everyone else is popping champagne in itchy dresses, we’re popping gummies, stacking snacks, and streaming the live show. Midnight strikes and we’re not kissing under fireworks—we’re doubled over, choking on queso and bad jokes, bringing in the year how we always do: together, laughing.

And yeah, sometimes people clutch their pearls.

“Why don’t you have a lot of friends?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of just hanging out with your husband?”

Listen, Karen. I married my literal best friend. My favorite person. The one who makes the world less stupid and way more fun. I don’t crave a dozen brunch buddies when I’ve got him. Our love bubble isn’t small—it’s deluxe, insulated, and BYO tacos.

So when Tuesday rolls around, it isn’t just tacos. It’s tradition. It’s laughter. It’s us. And when the Kill Tony band fires up and some poor soul eats it on stage, we’re right there—two idiots on the couch, laughing like hyenas, turning our little living room into the Mothership.