| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
CHUCHA LIBRE
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| Excuse me while I lull myself to sleep by banging my head with a sledgehammer. I can’t take it anymore. We as a society have finally reached the point of ultimate mental meltdown when Bush gets up before a convention of war veterans and declares that we can’t cop out of Iraq because it would be like abandoning Vietnam all over again. Meanwhile, Bush was a Vietnam draft dodger, the same as Cheney, Giuliani, Romney and all those other pinhead patriotic freaks! Not that I have anything against the draft dodgers. They were right. Nixon and Lyndon Johnson were psychos. Johnson had to resign in disgrace when it became clear that he was off his rocker, clearing the way for Nixon, who was impeached for hitlerite, megalomaniacal, delusional behavior. Nobody in his right mind would go off to get killed or maimed, or to ingest massive quantities of carcinogens like Agent Orange on the say-so of these madmen. Only a moron would buy into their harebrained megalomanic strategies. Giuliani stayed out of the military draft by getting a student deferment so that he could study to be a hare lipped, cross dressing gumshoe attorney. Now he says we’re soft on Iraq. Cheney declared that he wasn’t inclined to be inducted into the army because he had better things to do. Now he’s the most hawkish on Iraq. Bush bought his way out of the draft by using his money and family influence to purchase a posting to the Texas Air National Guard, a summer camp for rich draft dodgers for which he didn’t even bother to show up. The reason Dan Rather got thrown off CBS News is that he chose to expose the whole sordid mess about Bush’s war record, or rather, the lack of it, instead of meekly falling into line with the rest of the establishment and letting the truth fester beneath the surface like some vile blood blister. But it doesn’t make the truth any less real. How Mr. Mission Accomplished and his nasty little gang of pricks can look themselves in the eye in light of all this blatant hypocrisy and lying is beyond the comprehension of anyone who pretends to lay claim to even the smallest island of reality. Let me put it in plain English for anyone who has gotten lost in the verbiage of this article: Bush is a Vietnam-era draft dodger who is now claiming that we should have stayed and fought in Vietnam. The only reason he is not being bombarded with a storm of rotten tomatoes is that half the country is stoned-out on Prozac and Oxycontin, and the other half has been rendered imbecilic as a result of chromosome breakage caused by industrial pollution. Then there is a third half, Republican scumbags who voted for this insane mess and would be happy to do it again because they are making money off the tax cuts, the skimming of medical spending into their pockets while vast numbers of Americans can’t afford to see a doctor and the profits from selling armaments for the Iraq war and its subsequent chaotic effect on spiking oil prices. Bush is a lunatic, a hypocrite and a liar. But for his base, as he laughingly refers to it, he is doing a fine job of bringing home the bacon. As for reality, this is what one of his own flunkies had to say about it: “We are an empire. Reality is what we say it is.” |
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