| “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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| “You’re a loser!” “Why don’t you pull yourself up by your bootstraps?” “You’re weird! You don’t smile enough. That’s why you can’t keep a job, with that face!” “You drank all the vodka yesterday. That’s why you couldn’t do the laundry.” “Why can’t you do what I tell you?” “You smoke so much, you’re going to ruin your health!” Geez, no wonder I smoke so much! Life is tough enough right now, with jobs drying up because of Bush’s brilliant economy and thousands of people being dumped onto the labor force, competing for the meager crumbs of work that are left, but I also have to deal with a hostile home environment as well. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.” My life with women resembles nothing so much as an old W.C. Fields movie, wherein he is hounded and terrorized to the brink of insanity by lunatic, loudmouth women, spoiled kids and biting dogs. I managed to avoid ratty children demanding $200 sneakers and iPhones. Happily, no woman ever considered me a decent sucker for a paternity scam, as happened numerous times to my father and uncle. I’m just too nasty. But, unfortunately, I am ensnarled by what is laughingly referred to as “the weaker sex.” My mother once advised me, “Women feel overpowered by men, so they respond with the one weapon left to them, language.” Amen to that! The only problem is that the women’s liberation movement, instead of empowering them toward equality and self- reliance, has just devolved into a kind of institutional nagging marathon. It’s just old wine in new bottles. Here’s an example: a European female blogger who is enormously popular over there has just published a book entitled “How To Live With A Twat,” the “twat” being her boyfriend, naturally. The book is so well regarded that a European bureaucrat in charge of promoting The New Europe chose to honor its launching party with her presence. Now ask yourself this question: if I published a book called “My Girlfriend is a Cunt,” do you think a member of government would come around to congratulate me, or would I be honored with chanting demonstrations and book burnings? Anyway, if she hates the guy so much, how come she compares him with that defining aspect of her own physiognomy? The actual equivalent of this is if I were to call my book “My Girlfriend is a Dick.” This misnaming of her book only serves to illuminate the central complaint of men, that women are dizzy. Who am I to argue with no less an authority than Chairman Mao, who philosophized that “women hold up half the sky”. Fine, only why can’t they hold up their half in a more stoic, silent manner so that our half can watch the game? Most men are intimidated into silence, at first because of the threat of no more sex, and then later because all the assets are in her name. Fortunately, I have had sex with my girlfriend so much over the years that it has now become meaningless and I don’t have any assets, so what have I got left to use? Let me be the spokesman for all the men who have been cowed into silence. This is not to say that I don’t support Hillary Clinton. She seems sensible enough. Angela Merkel hasn’t destroyed Germany. Yet. And Hillary’s opponents are not that manly anyway. In fact, Giuliani loves wearing dresses. The only problem is, what if Clinton turns out to be a confused mess like Israel’s only female prime minister, the beloved Golda Meir, who left that country vulnerable to an unsuspected sneak attack in 1973 that cost the lives of thousands of Israeli soldiers; or Indira Gandhi, who was finally assassinated by her own Sikh bodyguards? Or what about France’s attempt at a female prime minister, Edith Cresson, who was sacked immediately after confiding to a journalist that 25% of British males were homosexual? All people entertain these kinds of outrageous notions, but it takes a particularly female mentality to share them with a working journalist. The new French president, Sarkozy, just scored a big win over his opponent, who happened to be female. What is remarkable, however, is the total lack of interest in any prospective female leadership in Britain, a country that not too long ago suffered eight years of Margaret Thatcher’s hectoring, this in a country where the men are no slouches at tedious moralizing themselves. If you think about it, England has had exactly three queens, one of whom inflicted a monstrous sexual inhibition that still bears her name on the world; and another whose most notable achievement was to execute her own cousin and the mother to her successor. When I was totally hormone-driven I put up with a lot from women. Now, less so. I have found that the best way to drive them nuts is to tell them a joke. They mostly have no sense of humor whatever, especially about themselves. Another way to drive them bonkers is to say these four little words: “Mind your own business.” That is sure to get the fur flying. But just be careful.After hundreds and thousands of years of complaining about violence against women, they are striking back in increasingly gruesome ways: the woman who strangled her sleeping husband, who had just bought her a new house in Long Island, and then tearfully cried to the jury that he had abused her, moving that body to refuse to indict her; or the woman who beat another woman to death with a club for telling her “black women don’t have any money” (she says), and now her attorney is claiming that the cops coerced the confession out of her. Anyway, even if the victim did say that, should Condoleeza Rice have suffered a similar fate for telling the jewelry shop assistant “I have money and you don’t.” They look cute, but so do female wolverines. I believe that the way to counter the almost- complete female domination of society has to evolve into the political arena, and that’s why I am starting a movement called “SHUT THE %$#@ UP!” |
| HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME CUNT THE WAYS |
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