| “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 |
| DIVORCE ITALIAN STYLE |
| 200motels DIPLOMACY |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi and French president Nicholas Sarkozy are sitting at the bar of the Hotel George V in Paris, staring glumly into their drinks. Berlusconi – Women! Sarko – I know what you mean… Berlusconi – My wife Veronica is suing me for a divorce. Sarko – I heard. Berlusconi – I mean, she can’t do anything. I own all the judges. Sarko – Naturally. Berlusconi – But still, she’s complaining to all the newspapers, calling me a philanderer, accusing me of dating children. First of all, none of these women she’s accusing me of is a minor. Mamma mia, no child ever looked like that, with their big tits and asses! Only an idiot could mistake them for children. Sarko – You don’t have to tell me! My wife Carla’ s Italian. Berlusconi – Exactly. But in a sense, being the prime minister of Italy, I’m obliged to take a paternal interest in all my citizens. All Italians are children. Sarko – Well, look what Malraux wrote: “There is no such thing as an adult person.” Berlusconi – In a sense, I am actually furthering the cause of women’s liberation. I want to promote their future in politics. My idea is to nominate a whole group of beautiful women to run for my party in the next election. [nudges Sarkozy] Can you see that? A whole gang of beautiful dolls running against those dumb-ass professors and intellectuals of the left! Who would you vote for? Sarko – Oh, it’s a foregone conclusion. Berlusconi – My concept is to turn Italian politics into a beauty pageant with an orchestra and a master of ceremonies. You know, that’s how I got my start, as a singer on cruise ships. I can still sing. How about this: O sole mioooo… Sarko – You still got what it takes. Berlusconi – I’ll say! But my wife! What more could any woman possibly want out of life? She has jewels, furs, palaces, jet planes! Any woman would be thrilled! Sarko – They’re never happy. Look at my ex, Cécilia. I had to chase her all the way to New York, and no sooner had I gotten her home that she ran away again. French women, they’re like cats. Leave the door open even for a second and they’re out of the house. Berlusconi – But you know what my wife told the reporters? That I never attended my kids’ birthday parties. Birthday parties! I bought them a whole sports stadium and a champion football team. If they want to have a birthday party they can have it on one of my yachts and invite 500 of their friends. Oh please, birthday parties! She’ll do anything to damage me. Sarko – You think you have problems? Somebody broke into the apartment of my wife’s ex-boyfriend in Paris and stole a whole carton of pornographic photos he took of her while they were living together. Berlusconi – Oh no! Sarko – Yes. And these are not just artistic nude shots. What I’m talking about is hardcore pornography of her sucking cocks and taking it up the arse. Not that I care! In France that’s normal behavior. Nevertheless, it could be inconvenient if those photos started appearing right before an election. Berlusconi – Anyway, here’s Barack Obama. Let’ s see what he has to say. Obama – Hi, guys! I can’t stay long. I promised Michelle I’d get back to the embassy in time to read the kids some bedtime stories. Sarko – What are you drinking? Obama – Oh, just some mineral water. I have to get up early so I can work out before the NATO conference. But never mind that. [lights a joint and passes it around] Take a hit off this. It’s medical marijuana. Sarko – Ffffftttt! Très bon. Berlusconi – Bene! Bene! Where do you get such good weed? Obama – Are you kidding? I’m from Chicago. Berlusconi – We were just discussing women. How do you control your wife? Obama – Very simple. I just do everything she tells me. Berlusconi – What? Obama – You got a better idea? Sarko – That’s totally unacceptable. Obama – What do you want me to do? I got her and her mother blasting me in stereo. Berlusconi – Her mother?!! Obama – Yeah, she lives with us in the White House. Sarko – I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Do you mean to tell us that you’re the President of the United States and you’re being pushed around by your wife and her mother right in the White House? Berlusconi – No wonder the Americans are losing ground… Obama – Look, it’s not so bad. When it gets too loud, I just go out on the White House lawn and sit on the kids’ swings and take a coupla’ hits off a joint. Then I shoot some hoops until Michelle tells me it’s time to come in. Sarko – Thank God Napoleon is not around to hear this. He would spin around in his tomb. [crosses himself] Berlusconi – Stop that! Everybody knows you’re Jewish. Obama – Look I know what you guys are thinking. But with all the problems I got, with the automobile industry, the banks and the economy – the last thing I need is more aggravation when I go home at night. Sarko – Have you always let women push you around like that? Obama – I wouldn’t know. Michelle was my first girlfriend. Berlusconi – You married your first girlfriend? Obama – Well, sure. We started having sex, so we had to get married. Sarko – I’m astounded. Berlusconi – You know, I’m starting to get a clearer picture of what’s going on here. The reason our wives are behaving like lunatics is because they see American women behaving totally out of control, so they figure they’ll do the same thing here. It’s the bloody television shows from America. Sarko – Do you realize what you’re doing to us?!! Obama – Who, me? Berlusconi – Yeah. Go back to your country and take your narcotics with you. Bartender, another whiskey! |
