| “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 |
| Haven’t we had enough of so-called “artists” getting up in public circumstances and saying vile and nauseating insults about Jews and Black people? Artists are supposed to be a little more universal than ordinary suckers, a little more tuned in to the cosmic vibration of life, or whatever it is. I believe that comedy is supposed to be about LOVE. LOVE LOVE LOVE. All you need is love. That’s why I invented the Mel Gibson Inflatable Sex Doll. You pull the string and it shouts “Fuck me, rabbi, fuck me!” |
| THE MEL GIBSON INFLATABLE SEX DOLL |
| 200motels Gay Sex |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
Now, when I heard Mel Gibson pleading to get fucked by a rabbi, it tore at my heart’s emotions. Am I not an Ordained Rabbi, with a degree from The Jackie Mason College of Rabbinical College? As a rabbi, the happiness of even vile, rubbishy scumbags like Mel Gibson is my paramount concern. For this reason, I donned my priestly vestments, greased my rabbinical staff with kosher maple syrup and plunged my erect, equine member into Mel Gibson’s rectal cavity. As the minutes passed, I felt the pressure build up in my loins. The air in the room began to steam up with my perspiration as I hammered away at Mel Gibson’s butt. Soon his ass started filling up with flies, who were lapping all the perspiration and lubricant as I thrust away at him. The only sound in the room was his desperate pleading for me to “Fuck me, rabbi, fuck me!” I became so enthralled by the act of love I was performing on Mel Gibson’s butt that even when the friction of my screaming member against the latex walls of his rectum produced a cloud of thick black smoke to engulf the room, I could not bear to stop grinding deeper and deeper into the burning, fly-infested chamber of his ass. All of a sudden, I heard a loud BANG! The mechanical, piston-like motion of my throbbing member had burned a hole in the walls of Mel Gibson’s rectum, causing an explosion which had stunned the flies feeding on the sweat and the maple syrup, causing them to fall dead to the floor. An eruption of gas and hot air blasted through the burnt-out walls of his ass, propelling latex solar Mel from my grasp and causing him to fly about the room, banging into walls and knocking over lamps and furniture. I tried to grab him, but he flew about the room in such a frenzy as to evade my grasp, destroying the room’s furnishings. I realized to my horror that my girlfriend, Magpie, was due to return any moment, and she would be enraged to find the whole room destroyed, the floor covered with the corpses of dead flies. As Mel Gibson careened through the air, ruining paintings, shredding upholstery, shattering crystal ware, the gas from his ass shattering my senses like the scream of a jet engine, I realized that the only thing that would stop this madness would be to shoot him with blasts from Dick Cheney’s shotgun, which I had procured earlier that day. I grabbed the shotgun, pointed the muzzle at Mel Gibson, who was momentarily stuck in a corner of the wall, and pulled the trigger. The ensuing explosion caused a blast that blew out the windows of the room and ripped the clothes from my body. But at least Mel Gibson was dead. Or so I thought. This week his latest movie came out. Like a ghoul who refuses to die, the only thing that will keep this cocksucker in his grave seems to be for a wooden stake to be driven through his heart. Who can forget his last little valentine to the Jewish people that portrayed us as crooked demonic torturers of an eminently gentile Jesus? What charming bouquets of affection would he toss in our direction this go-round? As it turns out, he has directed his gentle attentions toward the indigenous peoples of Mexico, portraying the Mayans as ghastly, barbaric torturers who dispatch each other in the most hideous ways imaginable. Thanks again, Mel, for contributing to world civilization in the only way you know how, another manifestation of white, Christian culture sprung whole from the tortured rat’s maze of your cranial interior! Nowhere in Gibson’s latest epic is there a scintilla of anything approaching the universal truth of the Mayan empire as a golden age of architecture, astronomy, mathematics and literature that lasted for centuries and built hundreds of majestic cities throughout Central America. Or the fact that they left behind a rich literary heritage in the form of books and manuscripts that were immediately obliterated at the arrival of Mel’s heroes, the Jesuits. In Mel Gibson’s world view the Mayans, like the Jews before them, are reduced to the level of subhuman cretins and bloodthirsty imbeciles. It seems to me that there is an psychiatric element of projection going on in Gibson’s twisted psychology. Admittedly, I haven’t seen this masterpiece. I’ve been visiting the Yucatan for several decades. I’ve seen for myself the actual remains of the Mayan civilization and spent many pleasurable hours conversing with the charming descendants of this noble race, in addition to reading books about their achievements and philosophy. I don’t need to have them portrayed to me by a burnt- out, degenerate drunken scumbag of a nazi prick. Fuck you, Mel, and the horse you rode in on. |
| I Had Sex With Mel Gibson!!! |