Que Viva Mexico

One time, in Mexico, I was in the middle of this jungle and it was hot. Hot and sweaty, the sun was high and I was sick with heat. Under the hot sun was this Mexican guy who had a sledgehammer and he was just beating the shit out of this piece of concrete. Sweat was running from his face and he was fully dressed--his pits were drenched. People walked by and said kind words to this old man pounding stone and he would look up and smile a peaceful smile.

Then it occurred to me ... even Mexicans hire Mexicans to do their shit work. Very devious.

If I was a Mexican I'd probably try to escape to Los Estados Unidos. At the border I would put on a fake British accent and repeat, "Tut, tut, it looks like rain." Especially if I didn't understand the question.

"Papers?"

"Tut, tut, it looks like rain."

I would tell everyone that I was born in Spain but raised in England and travelling in Mexico just slumming it. That would be my cover story.

When I got to the US I'd go to all the hot parties in San Diego...which is where I would live, probably in La Jolla.

At the hot parties people would talk about The Spanish Armada and I'd jump in and say, "We should have totally won that, you bitches!" Then I'd draw my stiletto because all Mexicans carry stilettos and I'd stab anyone who said anything about weather conditions being a prominent factor of that war.

Other Mexicans would say, yo yo yo yo, wazzup, Ese! And I would shout them down with my British accent, "Go back to school, young man." I would be all about making sure the other Mexicans spoke good, or I would stab them, too.