“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
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CHA CHA'S CONEY ISLAND BAR
200motels LIFESTYLES
Comedy
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With the new economic reality, you can forget about $500,000 summer
rentals in the Hamptons. Fortunately for New Yorkers, a $2.00 subway
ride will take you to Coney Island beach for a refreshing dip in the ocean,
with the used condoms and Tampex tubes floating in the water with you.
It’s better than remaining in the sweltering city, though one reader recently
compared it to taking a shit in your bathtub and then jumping in.





After a refreshing day of getting your feet all cut up by glass fragments
and swimming in sewage, you can enjoy a languorous postprandial
aperitif at Cha Cha’s Bar on the Coney Island boardwalk. Quite aside from
the dramatic sunsets, which make the New Jersey oil refineries sparkle
like gleaming jewels on the horizon, the panorama presents the romantic
scenario of New York Dept.of Environmental Protection barges as they
sail to-and-fro, transporting solid waste between Jamaica Bay and the
East River, not to mention the enchanting fish fragrance emanating from
the butts of the female bathers.

The companionship you’ll meet at Cha Cha’s is equally scintillating. As I
was sitting at the bar, the girl next to me leaned over and discreetly
whispered, “Don’t look now, but the guy next to me is playing with
himself”.

“So what,” I said. “That has nothing to do with you”.

She responded demurely, “Yeah, but he’s using my hand to do it!”

Cha Cha’s is conveniently located between the Shoot The Freak
attraction, where an insulting sideshow barker insolently invites passers-
by to take potshots at a nut-job human target with a paintball gun as he
scampers through a garbage-strewn lot, and a Nathan’s hot dog stand
selling exorbitantly priced weenies to idiot retards and stinking up Cha
Cha’s with the aroma of fried grease.

OK, it ain’t the Promenade des anglais on the French Riviera.
Nevertheless, it has its advantages. The women there, who resemble the
female gorillas in the Kongo exhibit at the Bronx Zoo, although with less
body hair, are so desperate for money that if you poke a hole in a $20 bill
and push your dick through it, they will blow you just to get closer to the
money. Watch out, though, these broads have a lot of studs and rings
embedded in their lips and tongues, and this, combined with protruding
wires resulting from cheap dental work, can result in you organ being
shredded like a meat grinder.

In addition to just getting blown, you can get laid as well. Once you do the
deal, you just have to walk across the boardwalk to the beach. But as I
previously pointed out, the sand is full of broken glass from drunken
Russians from Brighton Beach who, after getting drunk on cheap Georgi
vodka, celebrate by breaking the bottles like gleeful Cossacks who had
just massacred a village full of Jews. That’s why it’s best to first prepare
by setting aside a cardboard vegetable box, which are available by
hunting around the alley behind the vegetable stalls on Brighton Beach
Avenue, and stashing it under the boardwalk near Cha Cha’s for use as a
mattress. Failing that, it’s preferable to be on top when you perform the
sex act in the sand. That way, it’s your partner who ends up going to
Coney Island Hospital for getting cut up. Another thing to be vigilant for is
bedbugs in the sand which are brought there by underprivileged
Brooklynites and lay in wait, hoping for a better home.

For those guys who prefer masculine companionship, no problem! Cha
Cha’s has got a willing contingent of gay men, who actually cost a lot
less. In fact, depending how ugly the guy is, he might even pay you!
Brooklyn being a multicultural community, it’s helpful to know a few
words of Spanish to aid you in your conquest. One phrase that always
comes in handy is that faithful old standby “Bicho en el culo”. This
translates into “Dick in the ass”, and is always helpful in any transaction.

One last tip concerns Cha Cha’s bathroom, which makes the overflowing
Porto-Sans at KeySpan Baseball Stadium shine like Schmuckingham
Palace by comparison. You can forget all about toilet paper, just grab a
fistful of cocktail napkins. The bathroom is for all sexes and the lock on
the door is broken. Last time I took a leak there, a woman barged in and
demanded if I was quite through. Since my cell phone was ringing, I asked
her if she would hold my pecker, which was still pissing, while I answered
the phone. She obliged, but after she had shook it dry, she asked me for a
holding fee. Since the plumbing has a tendency to get stopped up, the
toilet is prone to flooding, so, in order to avoid ending up floating in a pool
of urine, it is advisable to wear platform shoes or, failing that, to wear
rubber hip boots, which are available for a rental fee from the commercial
fishing boats moored nearby in Sheepshead Bay.

Look, this is nasty. But if you are squeamish about any of the
aforementioned details, the best thing would be for you to get the fuck out
of New York City.
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Enjoy a refreshing libation in sophisticated surroundings at Cha
Cha's. If you like, you can step next door to Shoot The Freak and
shoot a misfit in the head with a paintball gun. For an additional fee,
they will sell you live ammuntiion!
Meat fascinating people!
There's always
something
interesting going
on!
Take a ride on the
Merry-Go-Round!
Cha Cha's beautiful
waitresses are
waiting to take your
order!