| “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 |
| Oh, so now Hillary Clinton has got her knickers in a knot because people are paying attention to her shabby wardrobe, which looks like it was bought off the discount rack at Bolton’s! She’s complaining that the press is remarking on a tiny bit of cleavage that she showed while delivering one of her marvelous speeches before the United States Senate, instead of focusing on the idiotic speech. First of all, we all know her speeches blah blah blah. Second of all, I pray to God to deliver me from Hillary Clinton’s pathetic cleavage. If she would have anything at all, maybe Bill Clinton would have focused on that instead of being sacrificed to the ravages of Monica Lewinski’s thong underpants. If you don’t even have the talent to attractively package yourself as a person in public life, how can you be trusted to conduct public business? Everybody looks terrible! Any Italian barber in New York could do a better job for $20 on John Edwards’ haircut than what he is getting now for $400 in South Carolina. Who gets his hair cut in South Carolina anyway, except for B’ rer Rabbit and the Tar Baby? Eliot Spitzer looks like a raincoat flasher on the 7 train. Whatever you say about New York State Senate Majority Leader Bruno, at least he has the decency to appear in public wearing nice suits. He looks like Johnny Carson, but that’s not so bad, considering that he’s no kid. Bruno may be stealing like crazy, but at least he has the presence of mind to spend some of his stolen money on decent clothes. Whoever is promoting the concept that you need to look shabby to be taken seriously needs to have his head examined. I think the rationale is that if you are focusing on your appearance, you can’t be spending enough time thinking about serious policy questions. That’s like saying you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. Anyway, even on their best day, the middlebrow dorks who are formulating public policy are no literary geniuses no matter how you look at it. New Yorkers are particularly susceptible to this line of reasoning. New York is a city where ugly people have got all the good jobs and attractive people are working as bartenders and cocktail waitresses. Like the fable of Cinderella and her ugly sisters, the homely people intend to maintain the status quo, and are prepared to go to serious lengths of destruction to enforce it. Ugly does as ugly is. Look who we got running things, and look how they’re being run. It’s Halloween 365 days a year, with bow-tied neo- conservatives in wingtip brogues and broads in “Hairspray” bouffant hairdos calling the shots, and the city is being run like a shithouse. We need a political party where only smart-looking people are allowed to join. I guarantee you good ideas would come out of a situation like that, and people would smarten up to be admitted. Look how great they’re doing in California with Schwartznegger! We need that here, instead of freakin’ Eliot Spitzer and Giuliani, who should be used as a scarecrow on top of the Liberty Tower to scare terrorists. Elegance and charm still count for a lot in this world. By insisting that our public figures appear as though they forgot to remove the hanger from their suits before putting them on we are shooting ourselves in the foot. While we are on the subject, let me be the first to call for Eliot Spitzer to resign as governor. I voted for him, but I don’t care about him anymore. He is guilty of the same kind of targeting of political enemies that sank Nixon. Now the cover-up, like Nixon, is worse than the original blundering. The man is a rube and a political neophyte. Six months into his first term as governor, he has been hogtied and hung out to dry by Bruno who, for all his faults, is a competent politician. Spitzer comes from a background of coarse, loudmouth blowhards. New York Magazine reported that eating dinner with the Spitzer family, with screaming and yelling, is like an Animal House food fight. At these dinners any kind of civilized intercourse is considered to be insubstantial and superficial, and people fight over policy differences and social polemics to the extent that you can’t even eat. This Spitzer seems to believe that nothing is getting done unless the atmosphere is ratcheted up to the point of sickness and nausea. His big reputation is that he is revolting and obsessive to the point of hysteria, which is OK, I guess, if there is a point to it, but as a general day-to-day procedure, I think I’ll take a pass. New York already has enough big pricks. What we need is calmness and rationality (Bloomberg), not freakin’ screaming banshees and enemies lists. |
HILLARY CLINTON'S TITTIES
| 200motels NATIONAL POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
