| “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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| Tragedy |
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| BEAM ME UP, HILLARY! |
| 200motels PRESIDENTIAL POLITICS |
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| Don’t tell me that American presidential politics has not entered The Twilight Zone. Forget the evaporating dollar, the bank crisis, the Iraq war! The real issues that concern Americans are now floating to the surface. I have long maintained that Americans are behaving like imbeciles because environmental degradation is causing them to suffer genetic breakage. But having failed to discover any corroborative evidence to substantiate that assertion, I am forced to confront the possibility that they are just a bunch of incoherent boobs. The presidential candidates seem to be adhering to H. L. Mencken’s truism that “nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public.” Only they seem to be applying that immortal adage for purposes of universal suffrage. This landscape of electoral mirth is so rich in detail that it is hard to divine where to start excavating. Hillary Clinton is a rich load of nonsense. In between leaking nasty digs at Barack Obama, she found time to invoke alien invaders. Citing the extraterrestrial invasion portrayed in the film “Independence Day,” she exhorted voters at one campaign stop to “unite on behalf of our planet.” Even Richard Nixon, who was a past master at setting up a phony issue and then knocking it down, would have saluted this little piece of stellar sophistry had he survived to witness it.Giuliani, no slouch himself (remember his campaign to shut down the Brooklyn Museum over a painting of “The Black Madonna” executed in elephant dung, in a bid to rally blue-collar support for his anticipated 2000 senate run against Clinton?) has never pointed his nasty little snout toward the celestial constellations either. No, for an inspired bit of rubbish like that, it takes a real visionary. Now, I was born in this country, so I am a U.S. citizen by birthright, but my mother confessed to me on her deathbed that I was conceived in a spaceship hovering in the sky above Roswell, NM, to which she had been transported after having been abducted while motoring between Albuquerque and Truth Or Consequences. That explains why I can see through walls and fly. But no matter, the point is that as an Alien-American I resent being singled out as a scapegoat in order to get votes. Oh sure, take it from me, there are a lot of evil aliens who would like to suck up all our water and eat all the earth’s human inhabitants, but most of us are honest, tax paying citizens who just happen to prefer drinking beer through our noses. It takes all kinds, right? But bad as she is, Clinton is not capable of the kind of buffoonery manifested by her Republican counterparts, who have an even more bizarre voter base of lunatics to whom they must pander. After apologizing to Mitt Romney for the seventeenth time, this time for saying that Mormon Church doctrine teaches that Jesus and Satan were brothers, Mike Huckabee qualified that pronouncement. What he really meant to say was that they were only half- brothers, having been born of different mothers. Romney, in the meantime, broke down and wept recounting the immense joy and relief he felt in 1978, when church doctrine was changed to permit black men to become Mormon priests. Whom would a ruling like this affect? Maybe one guy, because if I recall correctly, Mormon theology used to condemn black people as the direct descendants of the evil Cain, who murdered his brother with a club. I remember many years ago having breakfast in a diner in Salt Lake City on Easter morning. The place happened to be situated right across the street from the immense Mormon Tabernacle, and I had the good fortune to be there just when the service let out and the beautiful, blonde, beatific elite of the Mormon community streamed out into the sunlight, framed by the magnificent church and surrounding snow-capped mountains, and not a black face among them. But no matter. At least I resisted the temptation to refer to these eminent Republicans as Mutt Romney and Mike Schmuckabee! This year the African-Americans have their own champion in the electoral war, mounted on an ebony charger to do combat for progressive causes. Barack Obama represents not only people of color and the Rainbow Coalition, but, politics being what it is, he’s also charging forward with the blessing of the large corporate interests who normally fund Republican candidates. After eight years of blundering Republican misrule which resulted in our currency becoming the laughing stock of the world (The New York Times recounted an anecdote of an American woman in Morocco offering a dollar to a beggar who scornfully declined it as being worthless and asked for some “real money”. Ouch, when mendicants in the Kasbah throw your money in your face, that hurts!), the corporate interests have hedged their bets and are supporting Obama in the hope of derailing Clinton. How else to explain the enthusiastic coverage being given him by such phalangist organs as The New York Post and The New York Sun? Obama, who began his campaign in a positive tenor with the realistic goal of increasing his stature so that he could hopefully cash in at a later date, has of late become aggressively insulting and nasty to Clinton, egged on, surely, by the false advice of his handlers, who are undoubtedly benefiting from corporate largess for their part in this Shakespearean drama reminiscent of Othello. They are telling him that he actually stands a realistic chance of winning the nomination. What he is actually doing is driving a wedge in the Democratic coalition of blacks and liberal whites. Obama reminds me of the old boxing story of Depression-era Italian fighter Primo Carnera, who was a mountain of a man but totally unskilled as a boxer. He was brought over to this country and matched against opponents who were paid to take a fall. Sports writers were paid to promote Carnera as unbeatable. After enough pressure had built up, his handlers set up a match between him and Max Baer, who was a mad dog, who had already killed two men in the ring. This time they didn’t pay Baer to lose, but instead bet the farm on him. Naturally, he demolished their tomato can, making everybody rich except Carnera, who hadn’ t been let in on the gag. Pretty funny! Is Barack Obama the new Tomato Can of politics? Is he a Trojan Horse set up to be knocked down, the same way Hillary Clinton set up me and all the other space aliens living peaceably in this great nation? Let the American voters in their infinite collective wisdom decide. Don’t ask me. I don’t know any more than any other extraterrestrial freak trying to survive in New York. I live by the doctrine enunciated by Hillary Clinton’s future ex-husband, Whatsisname. Only I changed it. Now it’s called Don’t Ask/Don’t Know. |
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