| “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
| 200motels POLITICS |
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| Tragedy |
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Hi folks, this is FORMER Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez for The Baseball Channel. Y'know, a lot of fans ask me, "A-ROD, after a hard night of chasing blondes in the strip clubs, how do you find the energy to hit so many home runs and RBI's?" Well, the answer is: I don't. This isn't my real body at all. It's an inflatable Spiderman suit. My real body looks like Pee-Wee Herman. The real secret of my slugging success is in this little beauty - The A-ROD Miracle Bat! That's right, folks, The A-ROD Miracle Bat eliminates the need for messy steroid injections and uncomfortable grand jury interrogations. All you need are three easy credit card payments of $49.95 and home run batting records are yours for the breaking. The startling new technology in composite materials has permitted our technicians to produce a bat composed entirely of compressed coconut shell fragments from Dominican palm trees specially selected from the beach of Punta Cana. The bats are then lovingly polished by our beautiful team of bikini-clad bat polishers using chicken fat consecrated by a certified Santeria witch doctor. The result is a light, durable hitting machine of unparalleled hardness. Here, I'll just try it out on Derek Jeter's head. "Oww, that hurts!" See what I mean, folks? In addition, if you turn the bat up towards the sky and look through the small end it doubles as a telescope, so that after you knock the ball into outer space you can track it as it revolves in orbit around the earth. Oops, it looks like one of my shots knocked some insulation off the Space Shuttle. Sorry about that! And it's convenient. As you can see here it fits into small spaces like George Steinbrenner's butt. So don't delay. Get out your credit card and call today. To the first hundred callers we will include absolutely free of charge a digital recording of Joda Chamberlain and the Cleveland Indians Choir singing their heartfelt rendition of the old romantic classic "Flies Gets In Your Eyes". der used to wipe the bar reeked of the bile so that he might more efficiently distribute the olfactory misery to every corner of the stinking saloon. For the management of this barnyard to so militantly enforce the inviolability of their reeking toilets is in itself an eloquent testament to the witless prurience of turn of the century New York. Thus has it ever been. In her lawsuit the offended party alleges that the bouncer came in and ejected her from the ladies toilet even though she offered to show him her drivers license affirming her to be a member of the female sex. He wasn’t in the mood to peruse no stinking drivers license. The way he figured, if it looks like a dick and quacks like a dick it’s a dick. End of story. It’s an understandable misunderstanding. From her TV appearance and her picture in The Post, the plaintiff in this suit looks not only like a man, but like OJ, minus the glove. The management, if one might be permitted to so describe this gang of witless thugs, offered to sit down with the complainant in order to palliate her outraged sensibilities if she would waive monetary damages, but who is kidding whom? Like everything else in New York, this case is ALL ABOUT money. After seeing the $11 million in damages awarded to the Knicks marketing director for “sexual harassment,” the Female OJ of the Caliente Cab Café figures that she’s in line for a harassment suit of her own. With regard to the Knicks, that lady was perfectly content to live in an Animal House environment, with stinking jock straps flying through the air and interns happy to give up some leg if it would lead to a paying job, until she realized that she was the next useless appendage to be excised from the enterprise. It was only at that point that her Victorian sensibilities emerged to the fore. This Knicks lawsuit italicized every monstrous tendency extant in the New York business environment: employees behaving worse than a pack of savage hyenas on the African veldt; the boss, who is, naturally, the owner’s son (so much for the Praise of Nepotism!), presiding over the whole mess like a coarse, illiterate blackguard Pirate of the Caribbean; a clutch of lazy, grasping attorneys billing $600/hr. who never even wasted the energy to coach the witnesses not to say “Bitch” and “Ho” on the courthouse steps even as the trial was in session. In my mind (or what’s left of it) there is a direct correlation between the paralysis in the Knicks front office, the sloth of their attorneys and the Yanks poor pitching performance in the playoffs. It all comes down to the same thing – an inability to function. People are rooted to their chairs. The decision makers are taking a pass on anything even vaguely resembling work. A team of vigorous attorneys that would have taken the trouble to control the case would have shown up the plaintiff for what she was, a grasping desperate hypocrite. But she was helped by a group of men who are incapable of functioning as a team, on or off the court. She has been followed down the primrose path to State Supreme Court in quick succession by a gang of female Madison Square Garden security guards who, emboldened by the Garden’s stunning display of dysfunction, hope to shake a few bucks off for themselves. Meanwhile, across town at Bloomberg Media, more females, emboldened to the point of voracity, like female wolverines who have caught the scent of a wounded moose, have pressed a suit against the mayor’s eponymous company with the knowledge that as close as he is to announcing his candidacy for president, the last thing he is going to wish for is some loudmouth (is there any other kind) females on the courthouse steps tearfully accusing him of being a prick and persecutor of women. Oh, why did I have to be born a white male and miss out on all this loot?!! I have already been cleaned out by women and now I am practically reduced to playing the harmonica in the subway while these dolls are being chauffeured around town in limousines. I don’t even have the money for a sex change! I only have one hope left: put on a dress and go hang around the men’s room at the Caliente Cab Café.Maybe the imbecilic bouncer will mistake me for a woman and throw me out, then I’ll have a lawsuit too! In the meantime, all these idiot lawsuits are giving impetus to the Republicans’ drive for “tort reform,” which essentially boils down to old ladies not being able to sue the bus company after they get run over. Even as we speak, the US Supreme Court is entertaining an appeal by the Bush administration to exempt stockbrokers from being sued for selling worthless Enron shares to hapless suckers. It’s the little idiot nuisance suits that get all the headlines, but the big money is rarely as interesting. Finally, the last five minutes we strengthened our abdominals with crunches, leglifts and isometric tortures called “bridges.”It was exhilarating to do the workout, and the feeling of accomplishment and pride at satisfactorily completing a punishing session like that is why so many people are devoted to athletic achievement.It’s not just the rush of endorphins, but the heightened sense of self- esteem and the flattering attention that is showered on people who are fit and attractive that make sports such a desirable pursuit in life. So I was living my life and working out as though I still had a job and a career, which I didn’t.What I was doing was hanging on to a sense of normality in a world that didn’t exist anymore.I was denying a presentiment of doom and foreboding.Eventually my money would run out, I would be evicted from my apartment, all my possessions would be lost and I would be left homeless. It wouldn’t be the first time that New Yorkers have gone from champagne flights on Air France to a cot in the armory.Only most of those people deserved it.They had engaged in shady financial affairs, or had lived way, way beyond their means.Me, I had always given the employer value for his money and lived rather modestly. But the fates have never seen fit to soften the blows in my life.I learned long ago to take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’, as the saying goes. My relationship with Stephen extended to the locker room, where I was able to gauge the full value of his physical development.The naked body tells no lies.Stephen was an aerobic creature, not very much muscle.At 5’10’’ he weighed in at around 150 lbs.Not that he was skin and bones, but he had no overt muscular development to speak of.He was all gristle and boxing technique.I said, “You look great but you’re too skinny.” He answered, “I don’t want to fight in a heavier weight class.” Probably the biggest punishment I was absorbing around this time was the woman I was seeing.I’ll call her Majda for the purposes of this story.She was a Trojan horse of a woman – once you admitted her inside the gates of your heart she proceeded to open up with a Pandora’s Box of destruction and decimate everything from the interior. Her big bugaboo was the War On Drugs, which she had bought wholesale right from Republican speechwriters.This she wielded like a Polak laborer swings a sledgehammer.She was capable of destroying dates, dinner parties, even whole vacations that I had lovingly financed, with the intent of doing what the law had failed to do – punish me for my immoral behavior.In this she was aided by her family, who felt uncomfortable around me and were happy to see me brought low.They were from Yonkers, but Majda’s sister had acquired a cabin an Amagansett, and they now considered themselves to be eastenders.As if that weren’t enough, the whole family was enrolled en masse in Alcoholics Anonymous.They were militant teetotalers.Naturally, I didn’t let that stand in the way of me having a good time and swilling down booze in front of them.The end result was them all moving into the next room to curse me out, and Majda returing to give me a play-by-play description of what they were saying about me.My attitude was, Go back where you came from!Back to the Baltic states and fantasies of blonde, blue- eyed Aryans and wistful fantasies of Hitler’s Stuka dive bombers blowing the shit out of Jewish refugees.But don’t try that shit around here, chum! Now, at the time I was smoking a lot of reefer and I didn’t care who knew it.Of course, I had had little or no experience to what is laughably referred to as the middle class, so I had no concept as to the remarkable earthquake of scandal I was creating in their minds.All my life bourgeois conformity was to me a stunted, brain- dead punching bag for ridicule and derision.Majda brought home to me the punishing aspects of middle class triumphalism like a fat lady in a W. C. Fields comedy movie.“It’s the drugs that make you behave like that.”“Nobody can stand you because you’re on drugs.”“Why don’t you get off the drugs and join the human race?” Her objection to “the drugs” was not what I was doing to myself.I was functioning fine.Her objection was to the corrosive effect I was having on society at large and on her family and friends in particular by not making myself accessible enough to assuage their insecurities and discomfort at being around me, although I must allow as how even in total sobriety I wasn’t the kind of person that they would ever feel comfortable around in even the most optimum circumstances. The fact is that I was a bad fit around these Calvinist twits.North Americans in general have not been brought up in a cultural environment which has prepared them for somebody like me, and the feeling of discomfort and revulsion I generate are hardening and thickening even further, as they seek normality against all odds in a world which must be ever more spinning out of control in their minds.Fuck ‘em, that’s their problem. Another explanation is that in the interim period between the Cold War and the War on Terror, the traditional American longing for an enemy upon which to project their own internal unhappiness and dissatisfaction, like Hasidic Jews mangling a chicken, curled back on itself like an ingrown toenail as the regional yahoos declared war on potheads.It is a happy occurrence that these reactionary and xenophobic tendencies are currently focused on the Mexicans rather than toward some imaginary domestic enemies. Look, I don’t want to get into a heavy moralizing rap with the reader about the glories of smoking reefer, but what are diabetics, who can’t drink alcohol because of the sugar content, supposed to do on Saturday night when everybody else is having a blast, blow their brains out?Smoking pot gives them a chance to live a little too. And while we’re on the subject, I’m for legalizing prostitution too, for the benefit of men who can’t get a woman in the sexual marketplace.Why should they have to jerk off and get complexes about being lonely when other guys are swatting girls off.I’ve had enough of society being run for the benefit of fucking moralists, who can’t come to grips with their complexes and are determined to drag the rest of the world down with them.Do me a favor, you pricks, go kill yourselves and free up the earth’s resources for somebody who still feels he has something to live for. Anyway, I had had quite enough of Majda’s convoluted psychology and I found myself free on Labor Day to do whatever I pleased.I had been spending every minute of the summer with her at the beach, and I longed to feel stifling hot pavement beneath my feet and the smell of fresh garbage in my nostrils, so I hotfooted it over to Brooklyn for the Caribbean Day Festival. I took the number 4 train from the Upper East Side to Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, and in a matter of minutes was in a whole other world, like stepping through a portal in Stargate on the Sci-Fi Channel.Eastern Parkway is the nasty slum dweller’s answer to the Champs-Elysees.It is a six-lane boulevard bordered with trees and a separate access road on both sides.It is even anchored at one end by a triumphal arch at Grand Army Plaza, and a museum, The Brooklyn Museum of Art, at the entrance to Prospect Park.Further up the line from the museum, however, it takes on the aspect of the majestic avenues that were designed for Chicago’s West Side and have since declined into blight. This area, Crown Heights is a tectonic juncture where ethnicities collide, as the Hasidic Jews have moved in to displace parts of the huge black and latino communities that had previously laid claim to the place.But in the summer of 1997 relations between these conflicting groups were rubbed raw.The gaping wounds of the race riots of 1990 were still fresh and tender, and New Yorkers were suffering through a fresh racial scarring resulting from the assault on a black Haitian in a Brooklyn police precinct station by white cops, who had dragged him into a toilet stall and jammed a toilet plunger handle up his rectum. The city’s mayor at the time was Rudolph Giuliani, not notable for any kind of racial conciliation.Giuliani was playing the game of racial divisiveness that he had learned from his hero, Richard Nixon, who had devised the strategy of ramming it up the ass of black people in general in order to appeal to suburban white voters. As a result, when I emerged from the Crown Heights subway station, I was the only white person in sight except for the massive police detachment that had been deployed to maintain order at the parade.When the white cops caught sight of me in the midst of all the black people, they stared at me like I must have been out of my mind. It was still mid-morning, early in the day, and the parade had not yet gotten started.Vendors had set up stalls in the access roads on either side of the boulevard and were starting to do a brisk business selling West Indian culinary delicacies and souvenir trinkets.I stood around, waiting for things to start happening.It never bothered me to be the only white person for miles in either direction.I was hard-core.All the years of boxing and martial arts, and all the years of functioning in a very tough manufacturing environment around latin workers, had grown a pretty hard shell on me, you better believe it! All of a sudden, in the middle of the still-empty boulevard, appeared a phalanx of BEARDED JEWS?I couldn’t believe my eyes! And in the middle of these guys marched Giuliani at quick-step. This Giuliani’s way of making an appearance at the West Indian Parade, hustling double-time down the avenue surrounded by Lubivitcher Jews before the parade had started.This Giuliani was one snaky motherfucker, let me tell you! At length, Giuliani long departed, the parade got under way.It was a bit of Mardi Gras and a bit of Carnaval, gaily costumed marching societies dressed up in elaborate costumes of glitter and feathers, naked girls and muscular men in gold lamé wifebeater shirts wielding tridents.Flags of all the nations of the black diaspora and flatbed trucks outfitted like huge rolling boomboxes blaring out |
| THE A-ROD MIRACLE BAT |
| 200motels SPORTS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
specially selected from the beach of Punta Cana. The bats are then lovingly polished by our beautiful team of bikini-clad bat polishers using chicken fat consecrated by a certified Santeria witch doctor. The result is a light, durable hitting machine of unparalleled hardness. Here, I'll just try it out on Derek Jeter's head. "Oww, that hurts!" See what I mean, folks? In addition, if you turn the bat up towards the sky and look through the small end it doubles as a telescope, so that after you knock the ball into outer space you can track it as it revolves in orbit around the earth. Oops, it looks like one of my shots knocked some insulation off the Space Shuttle. Sorry about that! And it's convenient. As you can see here it fits into small spaces like George Steinbrenner's butt. So don't delay. Get out your credit card and call today. To the first hundred callers we will include absolutely free of charge a digital recording of Joda Chamberlain and the Cleveland Indians Choir singing their heartfelt rendition of the old romantic classic "Flies Gets In Your Eyes". |
