| “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 |
| CHEAP SEX |
| 200motels MARKETING |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Just like the real estate boom of the real estate boom of the last few years is driving people out of New York because they can’t afford it, the high cost of sex is driving me out of women’s butts. Women have learned to drive up the market price for pussy and it’s forcing working stiffs like me out into the cold. Women don’t like me to begin with. Maybe it’s my cheap discount store deodorant, or my K- Mart designer jeans. In order to cut down on unproductive dates, I invented a portable estrogen test so that I could find out in advance if a woman was ovulating before I spent all my money entertaining her. I would wait until she spat out her gum or put out a cigarette, then I would go to the bathroom and put the butt in the little plastic tray. If the goo turned blue, it meant that she wasn’t ready to have sex. In that case, I would go back to the table and tell her that my grandmother had just died and abruptly call off the date. If the goo turned red, however, that meant that she was horny. In that case I would return to the table with flowers and blow my whole check on her. This technique was wildly successful for a while. I even made money selling my little estrogen test to other cheap, horny men. The problem is, the word soon got around. Men started talking up the test to other men, and women who got stiffed started complaining to each other. Now, when women start thinking the results are invariably bad for men, and the girls developed a counter-strategy of getting cigarette butts and used gum from their horny girlfriends and leaving them around for the men to pick up. The men would seize the bait, rush into the men’s room to test it and when it glowed bright red they would run back to the table and spend their whole week’s pay on the women, who would then thank them with a handshake and go home by taxi. The men, not realizing that they had been outsmarted (again), would come back complaining to me that my estrogen test was a fraud and demanding their money back. I even got beat up a few times. So I went back to my little chemistry set and developed a cologne that was irresistible to women because it contained the active ingredient that the U.S. Treasury puts in the ink they use to print money. I started marketing this to men, and soon all the men were walking around smelling like freshly printed hundred dollar bills. This drove the women crazy, and they were throwing themselves on their backs the minute the guys walked into the room. This time, however, it caught the attention of the Gay Liberation Front and its diabolical leader, Christopher Crystalballs, who was a mad scientist dedicated to turning all men gay. He broke into my laboratory and contaminated my cologne with an ingredient that made you smell like a guy’s butt when you put it on, and the worst thing about it was that it wouldn’t wash off. This drove the women away in droves, but it attracted gay guys like flies, and you couldn’t wash it off. This time men were coming back to me and not even demanding their money back, but just beating me up. By now I had had all the entrepreneurial drive beaten out of me. So I just went back to trying to figure out how to get laid on the cheap. I found a place in Jamaica, Queens where you could get laid for just five bucks. It was called Ahmed’s Halal Butcher, where they slaughtered sheep and goats for the shish-kebab vendors who sell food from the hot dog stands on Sixth Avenue. For five bucks Ahmed would let you have sex with the animals before he slaughtered them, and for another five bucks he sold you a couple of pounds of lamb chops for a souvenir. The only problem was, you had to invest $89.95 for a pair of fisherman’s hip boots to wear when you were having sex with the animals. You were supposed to wear the hip boots and then put the animal’s hind legs in, so it couldn’t run away. I found this to be too expensive, beside the embarrassment of wearing the boots on the subway on the way to and from my “dates.” Anyway, I would prefer to have sex with human beings if possible. Then I remembered an old Spanish proverb that had been taught to me by my grandfather: “Si tu no tienes chavo para comprar una mujer, el maricón puede ser tu mejor amigo.” Translated into English, it means, If you don’t have money for a woman, a gay guy can be your best friend. I went down to Ricky’s Costume Store and bought a rubber mask of Hillary Clinton. Then I went down to Chelsea and hooked up with a gay guy. Then I laid the guy facedown and put the Hillary Clinton mask over the back of his head so that it was facing up. Then I jumped on the guy. I was happy, the guy was happy and Hillary Clinton was happy. Shit, in life you have to make compromises! |
