“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
NEW YORK SPORTS
UPDATE
200motels PRO SPORTS
Comedy
Tragedy
Nonsense
Bullshit
I got a lifetime membership at
Belly’s Total Fatness.

Now I can join Joba
Chamberlain and CC Sabathia
when they play bumper cars in
the bullpen at the new Yankee
Stadium. The reason for the new
stadium is that these two
tubbies were too fat to fit into
the old stadium.

When Chamberlain heard that
Sabathia was coming to the
Yankees, he had a flashback to
the 2006 playoff game in
Cleveland and started running
around screaming “The flies!
The flies!” MLB is so excited
that they are developing a
pitching machine that can throw
a Big Mac into Chamberlain’s
mouth from a distance of 60 feet
6 inches.

The problem about baseball is
that everybody spends the most
beautiful part of the year
worrying about October.

People should stop complaining
about Michael Phelps and the
Jets' Shaun Ellis smoking
reefer. It’s obviously enhancing
their job performance. Instead
of complaining, they should find
out what these guys are
smoking and give some to the
other athletes. It obviously
helped Plaxico Burress the only
time he ever missed the ball,
which is when he stuck the gun
in the waistband of his
sweatpants at the Latin Quarter
and it went off, missing his balls
by a couple of inches. I bet he’s
happy about that.

Phelps may lose out on a couple
of endorsements, but he’ll
probably get one from the
Mexican Marijuana Growers
Association, MOTA (Mexican
Organization for Training
Athletes).

Kobe Bryant of the Lakers
scored an all-time high of 61
points against the Knicks. It’s a
shame that every time an athlete
does great at Madison Square
Garden, he’s from an opposing
team. I’m taking up a collection
to buy ex-Knicks president Isiah
Thomas a full bottle of Lunesta,
so that the next time he decides
to check out, he has all the
resources to finish the job.

In the meantime, you got Eddy
Curry, who has played exactly 3
minutes this season, and is
being sued by his male
chauffeur for sexual
harassment; and Stephon
Marbury, who isn’t even allowed
into the Garden despite
collecting $28 million.

All you can say about the
Knicks is that they seem to be
doing better this year because
at least they’re losing by smaller
margins.

Oh, New York sports is a real
mess. The Wilpons family, who
owns the Mets, got swindled out
of $500 million dollars by super
scam artist Bernie Madoff, who
now seems to be picking the
team roster. They signed Oliver
Perez, who was 10-7 last year,
but declined to pick up Manny
Ramirez, who could have done a
lot more for the team. The only
good thing is that they are
bringing back manager Jerry
Manuel, who learned from
managing the White Sox that the
only thing players like José
Reyes understand is a big knife.

The greatest performance at the
Super Bowl was from Bruce
Springsteen, who I thought was
going to pass out from working
so hard during his half-time
show. This guy is no kid, and
with all that jumping around and
sliding across the stage on his
knees, all the while singing and
playing, he looked worse than
James Harrison after his 100 yd.
interception and run-back
touchdown. The problem is,
Harrison pulled that neat little
feat too early in the game and
everybody forgot about it in all
the excitement about Larry
Fitzgerald and Santonio Holmes
scoring touchdowns.

Ben Roethlisberger’s back is
not big enough for all the letters
in his name, and you have to be
a college professor even to read
it, never mind pronounce it.

Between Roethlisberger and
Kurt Warner, there were so
many Germans that I thought I
was watching a rerun of “Hogan’
s Heroes”. Now that Kurt
Warner has crapped out again,
Hollywood is taking him and
Brett Favre and putting them in
a remake of “Grumpy Old Men.”
(“You don’t know shit about
football!” “Oh, yeah? Take that!”
Hits him with his cane)

I feel sorry for Sean Avery, who
was thrown out of hockey for
referring to his ex-girlfriend as
sloppy seconds. Hell, they
should get a look at my old
girlfriends, who are sloppy
thirds, fourths, fifths and
leftovers. (I know, I know…)

Well, that’s all, folks. I got to go
back to my job of shining up the
Porto-Sans at KeySpan Stadium
in time for the Brooklyn
Cyclones opener.