| “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 |
Floyd Landis was out plowing the back 40 acres of his family’s Amish farm in Pennsylvania. His family was too poor to have an ox, so the plow was being pulled by a sheep. Floyd wiped the sweat off his brow and said, “When I get some money, I’m going to buy the biggest ox in the county. Maybe I’ll get an ass too.” Just then, his mother, Myrtle, came out into the field. Floyd a handful of red beans. “These are magic beans. Take them to Lancaster and give them to Mr. Klingonmeister and he’ll give you a bicycle in exchange. If you take the buckboard and leave now, you can be in Lancaster before dark. Then you can sleep in Mr. Klingonmeister’s barn and return by buckboard tomorrow.” But young Floyd had his own ideas. He was going to push the outside of the envelope and go where no Amish had gone before – he was going to take THE BUS! “I sure hope those things are safe,” he said. When the bus came and Floyd boarded, it was scarrrry. All those people were lined up and sitting in rows, and they were all looking at him in his black Amish coat and hat. He went to the back of the bus next to the toilet. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “an outhouse on wheels. And it smells real good, not like our outhouse back of the chicken coop. What will they think up next!” Because of all the stress of going on the bus, Floyd was tired and he decided to take a nap. The problem is, he had boarded the wrong bus, and instead of going to Lancaster PA, this bus was the Express to Los Angeles! The bus pulled into the depot in LA just as Floyd awoke from his nap. “Gee, everything looks different,” he said. When he got off the bus, Floyd went up to the first person he saw and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?” As it happened, this person was Mel Gibson, who was distractedly walking through the bus station fingering a rosary and reading “Mein Kampf.” Gibson looked up from his book, saw Floyd Landis in his Amish hat and coat and said, “Are You A Jew?” Then he went back to reading his book and walked away. “Wow, what a nut-job!” exclaimed Floyd. He went up to another person and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?” This person was Barry Bonds, who was waiting for Greg Anderson to arrive on the bus from Vacaville State Penitentiary. Bonds smoothly asked Floyd Landis, “What are you going to do at the Amish meeting house?” “I’m supposed to give these red beans to Mr. Klingonmeister for a bicycle,” said Floyd. He showed the beans to Barry Bonds. When Bonds saw the red beans, his eyes bugged out. These were the red beans that made you hit homeruns! He said to Floyd, “Mr. Klingonmeister couldn’t make it so he sent me instead. He told me to give you these.” Bonds produced a handful of syringes. “Do you know what these are?” he asked Floyd. “Sure, those are needles, like the ones my mother uses to sew my bloomers when she cuts up the old flour sacks.” “Not exactly, there, son,” said Barry Bonds. “You take this needle and you stick it in your butt, and it makes you big and strong.” “Oh, you mean like the magic beanstalk?” “Yeah, like the beanstalk. C’mon, gimme the red beans!” “Not so fast.” said Floyd, “I’m thinking.” Seconds ticked by as Floyd thought. A little angel appeared on his shoulder. It was Lance Armstrong. Lance said, “Don’t take that stuff. You don’t need it. Winning isn’t everything!” A little devil appeared on his other shoulder. It was O.J. O.J. said, “Go ahead, take the juice. They’ll never catch you. Look at me. I got away with it. Shit, if we would have had that stuff when I was your age, I would’ve killed twenty people, not two.” “What the heck,” said Floyd, “I took the bus and that didn’t kill me. Maybe I’m on a roll.” He gave the red beans to Barry Bonds. “OK, you got a deal.” Barry Bonds grabbed the beans, shoved the syringes at Floyd Landis and hurried away. “Send me a postcard,” he shouted over his shoulder. Floyd took one of the needles, pushed it into his butt and pushed the plunger. His head lit up like a light bulb. “Whoop-De-Dooooo!” he exclaimed. “I feel like taking a little BICYCLE RIDE!” He ran out of the bus station, knocked down a bicycle messenger and stole the bike. The bicycle messenger got up and started chasing Floyd, screaming, “Give me back my bike!” Floyd reached 120 MPH on the San Bernardino Freeway, but when the cops started to chase him, Floyd Landis Took Up Out Of The Parking Lot And Into The Sky! Now he was really flying. On the way, he caught up with ET, who was riding his bike to the moon. “Whoa, mama! I’m a peddling fool! Step on my dick! Whoopee!” cried Floyd. When he got to New York, he just kept peddling, right over the Atlantic Ocean to Paris France. As luck would have it, the Tour de France bicycle race happened to be ending there, and Floyd came in as the leader, mainly due to the fact that all the other riders had been arrested for doping. When Floyd arrived at the finish line on the Champs-Elysses, instead of being awarded a bottle of champagne, he was greeted by Inspector Clouseau, who slapped handcuffs on him. “Monsieur, in the name of the law I arrest you for illegal possession of a controlled substance, illegal steroids, punishable by a prison term of five years.” “Five years!” exclaimed Floyd. “It’s up to the discretion of the investigating magistrate,” said Closeau as he led Floyd to the police van. “Who’s that?” asked Floyd. |
| FLOYD LANDIS WINS THE TOUR DE FRANCE (For Five Minutes) |
| 200motels TOUR DE FRANCE |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| She handed Floyd a handful of red beans. “These are magic beans. Take them to Lancaster and give them to Mr. Klingonmeister and he’ll give you a bicycle in exchange. If you take the buckboard and leave now, you can be in Lancaster before dark. Then you can sleep in Mr. Klingonmeister’s barn and return by buckboard tomorrow.” But young Floyd had his own ideas. He was going to push the outside of the envelope and go where no Amish had gone before – he was going to take THE BUS! “I sure hope those things are safe,” he said. When the bus came and Floyd boarded, it was scarrrry. All those people were lined up and sitting in rows, and they were all looking at him in his black Amish coat and hat. He went to the back of the bus next to the toilet. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “an outhouse on wheels. And it smells real good, not like our outhouse back of the chicken coop. What will they think up next!” Because of all the stress of going on the bus, Floyd was tired and he decided to take a nap. The problem is, he had boarded the wrong bus, and instead of going to Lancaster PA, this bus was the Express to Los Angeles! The bus pulled into the depot in LA just as Floyd awoke from his nap. “Gee, everything looks different,” he said. When he got off the bus, Floyd went up to the first person he saw and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?” As it happened, this person was Mel Gibson, who was distractedly walking through the bus station fingering a rosary and reading “Mein Kampf.” Gibson looked up from his book, saw Floyd Landis in his Amish hat and coat and said, “Are You A Jew?” Then he went back to reading his book and walked away. “Wow, what a nut-job!” exclaimed Floyd. He went up to another person and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?” This person was Barry Bonds, who was waiting for Greg Anderson to arrive on the bus from Vacaville State Penitentiary. Bonds smoothly asked Floyd Landis, “What are you going to do at the Amish meeting house?” “I’m supposed to give these red beans to Mr. Klingonmeister for a bicycle,” said Floyd. He showed the beans to Barry Bonds. When Bonds saw the red beans, his eyes bugged out. These were the red beans that made you hit homeruns! He said to Floyd, “Mr. Klingonmeister couldn’t make it so he sent me instead. He told me to give you these.” Bonds produced a handful of syringes. “Do you know what these are?” he asked Floyd. “Sure, those are needles, like the ones my mother uses to sew my bloomers when she cuts up the old flour sacks.” “Not exactly, there, son,” said Barry Bonds. “You take this needle and you stick it in your butt, and it makes you big and strong.” “Oh, you mean like the magic beanstalk?” “Yeah, like the beanstalk. C’mon, gimme the red beans!” “Not so fast.” said Floyd, “I’m thinking.” Seconds ticked by as Floyd thought. A little angel appeared on his shoulder. It was Lance Armstrong. Lance said, “Don’t take that stuff. You don’t need it. Winning isn’t everything!” A little devil appeared on his other shoulder. It was O.J. O.J. said, “Go ahead, take the juice. They’ll never catch you. Look at me. I got away with it. Shit, if we would have had that stuff when I was your age, I would’ ve killed twenty people, not two.” “What the heck,” said Floyd, “I took the bus and that didn’t kill me. Maybe I’m on a roll.” He gave the red beans to Barry Bonds. “OK, you got a deal.” Barry Bonds grabbed the beans, shoved the syringes at Floyd Landis and hurried away. “Send me a postcard,” he shouted over his shoulder. Floyd took one of the needles, pushed it into his butt and pushed the plunger. His head lit up like a light bulb. “Whoop-De-Dooooo!” he exclaimed. “I feel like taking a little BICYCLE RIDE!” He ran out of the bus station, knocked down a bicycle messenger and stole the bike. The bicycle messenger got up and started chasing Floyd, screaming, “Give me back my bike!” Floyd reached 120 MPH on the San Bernardino Freeway, but when the cops started to chase him, Floyd Landis Took Up Out Of The Parking Lot And Into The Sky! Now he was really flying. On the way, he caught up with ET, who was riding his bike to the moon. “Whoa, mama! I’m a peddling fool! Step on my dick! Whoopee!” cried Floyd. When he got to New York, he just kept peddling, right over the Atlantic Ocean to Paris France. As luck would have it, the Tour de France bicycle race happened to be ending there, and Floyd came in as the leader, mainly due to the fact that all the other riders had been arrested for doping. When Floyd arrived at the finish line on the Champs-Elysses, instead of being awarded a bottle of champagne, he was greeted by Inspector Clouseau, who slapped handcuffs on him. “Monsieur, in the name of the law I arrest you for illegal possession of a controlled substance, illegal steroids, punishable by a prison term of five years.” “Five years!” exclaimed Floyd. “It’s up to the discretion of the investigating magistrate,” said Clouseau as he led Floyd to the police van. “Who’s that?” asked Floyd. “Judge Judy.” |