| “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 |
| Yeah, Brooklyn After Dark! It ain’t no Disneyland. When the sun goes down the eagle flies and all bets are off. On our way to Coney Island Beach my girlfriend, Magpie, and I stopped off at one of the conveniently located liquor stores on Brighton Beach Avenue for a pint of Cossack Vodka. It being the height of summer, we determined that a moonlight swim was in order before the Natalie Cole concert just across the street from the boardwalk, in Asher Levy Park. The beach was animated at dusk with beautiful Russian girls in expensive bikinis, their less beautiful parents showing unsightly bulges in no less expensive bathing suits, bodybuilders with shoulder-length bleached-blonde hair, plus assorted psychos and freaks who looked as though they were on a day pass from Bellevue. The sun shone brightly as it descended in a scarlet ball of fire to the west, resembling the opening credits for a Charles Bronson cowboy movie. A sprightly breeze animated choppy waves as Magpie and I frolicked in the surf. Big waves crashed into the shore, and Magpie and I bounced around happily like little waterlogged tennis balls, diving into the surf, doing the breast stroke, the back stroke, floating on our backs. I had brought along a mask and snorkel, and that was fun for a while, but I could barely see beyond my arms in the brown, murky mulch, a far cry from the crystal waters of the Caribbean, to be sure! Coney Island Beach/Brighton Beach may not be Cheeseburger in Paradise, but you won’t hear any complaints from the immigrants who migrated there from the former Soviet Union. For somebody who traces his origins back to Kazakhstan or some little shit industrial city situated in the Ural Mountains, Brooklyn is paradise. The beaches may not be as pristine as those that line Israel’s seafront, but the money is American, and there’s no way you can beat that. The lifeguards had ended their shift at 6:00, and the beach patrols in little green dune buggies blew little party horns and tried half- heartedly to coax swimmers out of the water. This the city is obliged to do to protect itself from giant lawsuits in case a swimmer drowns. Naturally the swimmers ignore the warnings, but that is not the point. The point is, if somebody drowns, city lawyers can claim, “We took every reasonable measure to warn him.” Magpie and I left the beach as night fell, just in time for the Natalie Cole concert. You could see and hear perfectly from the boardwalk, which is much more agreeable than sitting in folding chairs across the street at the band shell. Natalie Cole was in excellent voice, and she sang a variety of genres from Nat King Cole material to disco to blues and rock. We found ourselves next to a lively group of black people who called themselves “The Jazz Family.” With their beach chairs, their voluminous picnic food, their dancing feet and their enthusiasm for soul music, The Jazz Family were the stars of the boardwalk. The first pint of vodka having long previously bit the dust at the beach, I ran over to Brighton Beach Avenue for another pint of rotgut, which we cut with pomegranate juice. Magpie lost her mind and I had to lead her back onto the darkened beach so that she could take a leak. Magpie can’t hold her liquor, particularly when she’s happy. She has almost gotten us arrested any number of times for trying to sweet talk police officers who don’t have any sense of humor. Also, she loses control of her motor functions and I have to lead her around like the guy in the Times Square subway station with the dancing dummy that he ties to his legs. The only difference is, Magpie ain’t no lightweight. At 5’9”, she’s larger than most men. She’s strong as an ox. She can bring home fantastic loads of groceries and, one time, when we got snowed in at JFK Airport, instead of quietly acquiescing and sleeping in the airport waiting area, she marched across a field of waist-deep snow in her Miami shoes lugging two huge suitcases to catch a bus that would take us to the subway so that we could sleep in our own beds in the city. Magpie is the kind of girl every peasant farmer dreams of marrying. She’s intelligent, she keeps an immaculate home like a European. And, she’s so strong you can hook her up to a plow and she’ll furrow 40 acres. But when she gets loaded she’s all dead weight, and I was already carrying a big backpack filled with our beach supplies. The full moon in the eastern sky shined portentously red, while to the west the lights of Coney Island beckoned like a Greek fable. Out to sea the huge cruise liners leaving New York Harbor glistened like miraculous jewels of the universe like the Fellini movie “Amarcord” where the simple people go out to sea in boats to be dazzled and amazed by the ocean liner, but what we have in modern New York is so much grander, more like science fiction. After Magpie finished her feminine business on the beach, we went back to the boardwalk to see the remainder of the Natalie Cole show. In the summer the people of Brighton Beach are the luckiest in the world, and I’m a die-hard Manhattanite who’s testifying to that. Even late into the night the boardwalk is hopping. Kids playing ball in the sand under the protective glare of streetlights, overfed Russian couples having their promenade, rollerbladers holding hands, wild kids on bicycles with boom boxes attached. One joker even had a tiny television attached between his handlebars, I kid you not! On the avenue cops’ sirens blared an incessant howl, reminding you that you might be at the beach, but you were still in Brooklyn. Groups of motorcyclists roared by, rich Harleys dressed up with fantastic light shows like Christmas trees, super jazzed-up “Too Fast Too Furious” Japanese Ninja bikes painted iridescent green and orange, the female passengers holding on for dear life in the back, their butts stuck up in the air like a fertility ceremony. The show finally ended and The Jazz Family turned on their own boom box, alternating John Coltrane saxophone pieces with Sam and Dave soul music. I went over to speak to them. The men shook my hand and presented me to their charming women. Eugene from Far Rockaway told me, “New York is brutal, man, but we shall persevere.” |
| BROOKLYN AFTER DARK |
| 200motels NEW YORK AREA |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
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