| “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
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| The debate over Global Warming heated up over a confidential report that warns of an impending disaster caused by flatulence being released from the butts of fat people in Brooklyn. “This crisis could raise the earth’s temperature by as much as 50 degrees,” asserted Anton B. Schmucklevitch, director of The Methane Institute in Washington D.C. “When calzone combines with Chinese egg rolls in the intestines of fat people, a noxious gas is produced that dissolves the ozone layer in the atmosphere and produces a greenhouse effect capable of obliterating all life on earth.” Fat people are particularly hazardous because of their increased gas producing capacity. “The average bus driver is capable of producing one thousand times more methane from one can of Cheez Whiz than a fashion model snacking on a power bar,” asserted Schmucklevitch. “We must act now to protect future generations from suffocation.” An additional hazard to Brooklyn residents is that drivers of |
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| SUV vehicles, who favor the large-size cars because of their increased capacity to accommodate fat butts, are sometimes subject to gas attacks which force them forward in their seats, resulting in their feet pressing down on the accelerator and causing the vehicle to run up on the sidewalk, crashing into pedestrians and store fronts and putting grandmothers and small children at risk. Many proposals have been put forward to combat the flatulence crisis in Brooklyn. One concept, designed by Continental Pipeline Corporation, which markets natural gas, is to distribute Gas Collection Kits to all people with large backsides. The kits, designed by Hyman P. Buttman, consists of a plastic tube which fits snugly in the rectum, attached to a balloon which collects the gas. “The ingenuous element of this invention is the patented computerized valve that control the flow of gas from the user’s butt and prevents leaks into the atmosphere,” proudly asserts Buttman. “That should make the morning commute of transit riders much more pleasurable." Naturally, pants would have to be widened to accommodate the ever-expanding volume of gas, which would be collected at conveniently located collection centers. Is the fashion industry up to the challenge of making attractive plus-size styles that could accommodate an ever-expanding bag of gas sticking out of a fat person’s butt? We asked the eminent fashion authority Poquito Maricon of Plus-Size Consultants. His idea? Bring back the bustle, an eighteenth century fashion concept that accentuated women’s posteriors. “Only instead of just having bustles in dresses, we would put them in pants and shorts, even in bathing suits. That way you would be designing ladies fashions that would be environmentally responsible. As for the men, no real he-man from Brooklyn is going to be thrown off his game by something as inconsequential as a bag of gas sticking out his butt.” Could the volume of gas harnessed from the fat backsides of Brooklyn have an effect on the nation’s balance of payments? “It would certainly be a plus factor for the economy,” said Nutley Bagel of The Treasury Board. “We could eliminate shipments of liquefied natural gas from Bolivia.” Just think of it - the Backsides of Brooklyn wipe out a whole South American country. THANK YOU, BROOKLYN! |
