| “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 |
| FOOTLOOSE! |
| 200motels DIVERSITY |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| The trend toward the installation of foot washing stations in public toilets for members of the Mohammedan faith to ritually cleanse their feet before praying toward Mecca five times a day is much to be praised. I tried to use one once, but unfortunately I was loaded and I forgot to remove my tan Beatle boots from Payless Shoes. As it happened, the boots were Made In China and they turned out to be made of pressed cardboard instead of leather, with the result that they disintegrated. For Muslims to wash their feet five times per day is a salutary habit, which I applaud, but the effort would be more profitably spent washing their hands, particularly for the halal food vendors who line the Avenue of the Americas by the Hilton Hotel on West 53rd Street. These guys do a brisk business, but there are no public toilets in the neighborhood, so it is anybody’s guess what hygienic procedures they have in place for being there all day and all night, y’know what I mean? Frankly, you don’t hear them screaming about washing their hands, only their feet! Anyway, I belong to the Church of Latter Day Schmucks, otherwise known as the Morons. My religion requires me to wash my butt five times per day in order to pray with my backside raised in the direction of Crawford, Texas, which is the ancestral home of our spiritual leader, George W. Bush. But as yet there are no butt-washing facilities in Manhattan. How do I ever expect to pass through the portals of heaven with an unclean butt? If I were to get run over by a garbage truck with my butt in a state of insalubrity, no Moron minister would administer the last rites of the church to me, putting my eternal butt at risk of spending eternity in a state of funky purgatory. This business of feet and garbage trucks is more than idle conjecture. New York Times editor Jill Abramson got her foot broken when a garbage truck ran over it while she was standing off the curb waiting for the light to change. One of the instantly forgettable revolving door holders of the title “National Treasure” that The Times likes to bestow on its mediocre, middlebrow journalistic hacks, Abramson was recently quoted in Page Six of The Post screaming at the top of her lungs to a playwright at a dinner party that “We [The Times] are the arbiters of good taste in New York.” One ventures to bet tht this Hebrew “arbiter of good taste” wishes in retrospect that she would have been washing her feet with Fatima bin Laden and the rest of the harem at the Islamic Cultural Center rather than standing in a gutter yakking it up on her cell phone when Tony Mozzarella roared past in his garbage truck and flattened her little tootsie like a discarded Budweiser can on West 43rd Street. What about washing the pussy? Sometimes in the summer you get on the subway and the whole car reeks like a pot of boiled shrimp. If Mayor Bloomberg really cares about updating the infrastructure like he says, then he should consider installing bidets on subway platforms for the girls to spritz their bushes before getting on the train. That way I could get home without my business suit reeking like a fish inspector at the Fulton Fish Market. I agree with ritual cleansing, but life in New York is a little different than tiptoeing barefoot through a field of Moroccan camel dung, where foot washing makes imminent sense. We need to update some of these ancient customs to conform with contemporary New York reality. |
