| “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 |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer was able to obtain a copy of the script. SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? |
| THEY GOT GAMES! |
| 200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget! MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember! Moe starts chasing Curley around, firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets. CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop! Scene fades as the theme music plays. THE END |
| “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 |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| FLYING RATS |
| 200motels NEW YORK WILDLIFE |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Political Correctness has a new class of victims to protect – pigeons! Urban Wildlife Coalition founder Johana Clearfield wrote a letter to City Council speaker Christine Quinn, castigating her for referring to the little darlings as “flying rats.” Hey, pigeons got feelings too. But like every other New Yorker, they don’t mind dishing it out. They don’t mind defecating all over the place, including on your head. They don’t mind infesting people’s balconies and driving them to drink. They don’t mind flying or creeping into food processing areas and contaminating victuals. That’s what they are, rats. They spread filth and disease, the same as rats. New York pigeons are worse than rats because, unlike rats, they’re not intimidated by people. They’ ll fly right into your head. They’ll fly into airplane engines and cause planes to crash. If you leave your window open, they’ll fly right into your house looking for food. Pigeons are nauseating, filthy, disgusting creatures that eat garbage and contaminate the environment.I have a lot of pigeon experience. When I was a manager at P&K Bagels (“A Puke In Every Bite”) one of my jobs was to keep freakin’ pigeons from flying in through the loading dock and shitting all over the bagels in the packing area, I kid you not. On the ground I had to worry about the rats and roaches, and in the air I had to worry about the flies and the pigeons. Nothing could deter the pigeons. They are really smart when it comes to food, and a bakery, with all its grains and seeds, is a pigeon’s target of preference. The little buggers used to roost on trucks in the street and wait for something to happen. In the process of unloading pallets of baking materials from delivery trucks, the forklift drivers would inevitably cause a bag to rip, spilling sesame or poppy seeds all over the street, which the pigeons would zoom in on. The morning was the best time for the pigeons because that was when the garbage trucks came to pick up tons of the unbelievably rancid bakery waste that is necessarily a by- product of the industrial baking process. Hundreds of garbage bags of corn meal, vegetable oil mixed with filthy bagel fragments that had fallen through the conveyor, huge fermented clumps of rotten dough oozing grease, flour swept up from the floor, petrified pieces of bread dislodged from in between the moving parts of the machinery, crates of product that had been soaked by leaking pipes in the walk-in freezer and then left to re-freeze all over again, the whole mess dislodged at great effort with axes and crowbars and torn out of the caked ice by use of a mechanically powered jack, the whole stinking mess being loaded into two yard dumpsters and picked up at dawn in a not-too-delicate process that left the street in front of the factory with a gooey film of filth looking like a huge diseased carcass that the vultures had abandoned to the smaller scavengers. The pigeons, just waking up, would dig into this mess with the gusto of a Hollywood cocktail party, and this was the scene that confronted me as I arrived to begin my day. I would organize a clean-up crew and have the place in order in an hour’s time, before the city inspectors came around.The pigeons, meanwhile, would retreat to the tops of parked trucks to await another target of opportunity. This wasn’t a flock of birds, it was a gang. If the loading dock was left unattended, a line of them would stealthily creep in. When they were approached, they would casually stroll back out and go back to the truck to bide their time. This cat-and-mouse went on incessantly, eternally. As long as the bakery was there, the pigeons would be there. One time I bought an ultrasonic device on the Internet for $500 that was guaranteed to drive the pigeons nuts. After I had built a little shelf for it and installed it at the front of the loading dock, I walked away. When I returned later, the thing was humming away – with a pigeon sitting atop it! Nothing stops these birds, not machines, not inflatable owls or scarecrows. The only thing that works is to pay a Mexican to chase them with a broom all day long, like vegetable stores pay guys to watch the fruit displayed outside. The most horrible thing is to see somebody actually feeding the little buggers. Crowds of them eating and defecating and feathers flying all over the place, and some retard giving them food.Yuck!A monetary fine is too good for these weirdos. They ought to be made to live in a cage with the vermin, but that would be cruel and unusual punishment, because these birds spread encephalitis. Feeding them birth control sounds like a good solution. Anyway a lot of those birds are perverts. One time I was watching a pigeon on top of another pigeon, doing the nasty thing. After they finished, to my absolute astonishment, the pigeon that had been on the bottom jumped on the one that had been on top and started doing it to him! A third pigeon, who had been watching the scene along with me, became offended and walked over and broke the whole thing up. |
