Page Title

“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

Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The
Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to
be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a
terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the
Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer
was able to obtain a copy of the script.

SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing
explosives in the body of a dead dog.

CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades,
two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper
shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup
of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer.
[Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy
meatball!
[Starts sewing the dog up, singing]
I’m singing in Bahrain
I’m friends with Hussein

Mohammed calls from the other room:

MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned
dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam?

CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe!

MOE: What are you doing in there?

CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get
back to you later!

Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens
the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages.

HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph!

CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door]

Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in
microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the
room.

MOE: I said, What are you doing in here?

CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb.

MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to
show you my latest invention.

They walk into the living room.

MOE: Well, how do you like it?

CURLEY: What is it?

/>MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of
an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to
play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron?

CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and
everything!

MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you
press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and
you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything!

CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius!

MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from
The University of Riyadh for nothing!

Abdul walks in.

ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank.
Look what I got for us.

CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one!

MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the
boss.

CURLEY: Who made you the boss?

MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh!

Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley,
who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley
crawls back in the window, all messed up.

MOE: Now who’s the boss!?

CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe.

MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in
kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam!

Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the
microwave oven.

MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the
microwave?

CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix
it.

MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it
is.

CURLEY: Moe, no!

Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on
the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and
bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is
a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with
their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces.

MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven?

THEY GOT GAMES!

200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS

Comedy

Tragedy

Nonsense

Bullshit

SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog.

CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets.
[Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it
needs is a timer.
[Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball!
[Starts sewing the dog up, singing]
I’m singing in Bahrain
I’m friends with Hussein

Mohammed calls from the other room:

MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog
Saddam?

CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe!

MOE: What are you doing in there?

CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later!

Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and
gagged hostages.

HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph!

CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door]

Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as
Mohammed walks in the room.

MOE: I said, What are you doing in here?

CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb.

MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention.

They walk into the living room.

MOE: Well, how do you like it?

CURLEY: What is it?

/>MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin
Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron?

CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything!

MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell
phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything!

CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius!

MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing!

Abdul walks in.

ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us.

CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one!

MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss.

CURLEY: Who made you the boss?

MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh!

Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window.
Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up.

MOE: Now who’s the boss!?

CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe.

MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam!

Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven.

MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave?

CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it.

MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is.

CURLEY: Moe, no!

Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place
explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles.
The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their
faces.

MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven?

CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget!

MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember! Moe starts chasing Curley around,
firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets.

CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop!
Scene fades as the theme music plays.

THE END

CHUCHA LIBRE

200motels POLITICS

Comedy

Tragedy

Nonsense

Bullshit

OBAMA-RAMA Barack
Obama, The Knicks and
Hip-Hop

200motels DISASTER CONTROL

Comedy

Tragedy

Nonsense

Bullshit

Barack Obama is doing his job, all right!
Just what the Republicans are paying him
for – to split apart the Democratic coalition
and deliver the election right into the
hands of those wonderful people who
have been doing such a bang up job of
conducting the nation’s business for the
last eight years.

He started off OK, the new junior senator
from Illinois, introducing himself to the
national electorate as a fresh face who
could act as a bridge across the racial
divide. People liked him because he
spoke English like a normal American
instead of affecting the hick sharecropper
dialect favored by his constituents.

He would have been in line for a top job in
a Hillary Clinton administration, or he
could have stayed in the senate and made
his mark there. But he calculated that
since the Democrats were a shoe-in
November anyway, and since he could
corral the African American vote, which is
a major component in the Democratic
party, why not just elbow Hillary Clinton
aside and grab the top spot for himself,
despite the fact that aside from a good
speech making ability he had nothing to
recommend him?

Unfortunately, the streets of New York are
full of people who can make speeches,
this writer among them. What Obama
neglected to consider is that presidential
politics is just like any other line of work –
you have to work your way up the system.

Nobody understands that better than
John McCain, who found himself in a
Vietnamese prison camp because of his
reckless jet pilotage, and determined that

it would be a good first step toward
becoming president 30 years hence.

That’s why he refused to leave, even
though his Vietnamese captors literally
begged him to go because his father was
commanding admiral of the U.S. Sixth
Fleet and they didn’t feel they needed the
additional aggravation.

But McCain, entertaining visions of a
heroic homecoming and the concomitant
electoral victories that would derive from
it, stuck to his jail cell like a glue trap and
refused to leave. Sure it’s a bogus record.
But at least it’s a record! And, given the
brain-addled mental state of the
electorate, McCain is perfectly situated to
stomp Obama, who has nothing to
recommend him but a bunch of inspired
streetcorner jive talk, like a Giants
offensive lineman.

Whatever else you can say about Hillary
Clinton, she has been in every political
fight of the last 20 years. She is a very
snaky individual who has never lost a
political battle with Republicans, and she
has her future ex-husband, whatsisname,
to back her up.

A lot of people are jumping on Bill Clinton
for playing too rough on Barack Obama,
but this writer feels that he is going too
easy. He is actually pussyfooting around
the issue for fear of offending black
people with the truth – that Obama is a
lightweight and a patsy. That he is so
mentally challenged that he does not even
realize what a chump he is. But to state
the plain facts would be political suicide
given the fragile emotional state of the
black electorate, who could very possibly
sit out the election if the true state of
affairs were presented to them.

Just look at the New York Knicks
basketball team. Coach Isiah Thomas
knows that he has assembled a team of
talented players, but he is afraid to push
them too hard to play as a team because
he is afraid that the team will explode in
protest if he tries to instill discipline. “Don’
t push me!” And he is in such a bind that
he can’t even publicly complain. He
probably commiserates with team owner
James Dolan on a daily basis about the
unmanageability of the players, which
would go a long way toward explaining
why Dolan hasn’t gotten rid of him.

Obama recently let loose a crack about
Bill Clinton which speaks volumes about
his gnat-brain perspective on race
relations. Responding to a remark by
Hillary Clinton about how her husband
had over the years proven his bona fides
with regard to black Americans, Obama
cracked, “I’ll have to see how he dances.”
There it is, folks, a lifetime of studying,
fighting and heartache reduced to a level
of how old, fat Bill Clinton can shake his
booty to a Jay-Z hip hop recording.

Just before writing this story I was
subjected to a whole afternoon of hip-hop
videos in the weight room of my gym, and
it sure ain’t a night at the opera. Those
“singers”, if I may be permitted to flatter
them with such an elevated term of the
phrase, are to music what the Knicks are
to basketball or Barack Obama is to
national affairs – a lot of discordant noise!

I know this kid who is trying to break in as
a hip-hop performer, named DJ Booty.
The kid’s got 5 Cadillacs, 4 telephones, 3
gold chains, 2 thousand bucks and a
partridge in a pear tree. I asked him, “Why
don’t you play the guitar, or the harmonica
like Stevie Wonder used to do?” He said,
“I ain’t got ten years to learn to play
music. I need the money NOW!”

That’s the story of hip-hop. It’s also the
story of the Knicks. It’s also the story of
Barack Obama.

To a lot of people in the modern world a
person like William Shakespeare might
seem like an irrelevant dead white man,
who didn’t know spit about what’s going
on with the people today, with his dukes
and princes making speeches and
stabbing each other with swords and
daggers. Nevertheless, Shakespeare
predicted Barack Obama five hundred
years ago when he wrote “Othello”, the
story of a black man who, given false
counsel, brings tragedy down upon
everybody around him, including himself.
Barack Obama might be well advised to
stay home one night, catch up on his
Shakespeare and get back with the team,
lest he half-wittedly lead the Democratic
Party and, indeed, the whole country into
the depraved depths of Shakespearean
tragedy.

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