No Soy Italiana, Pendejo
Dear I'm Not an Italian Chick, Asshole: Don't be too upset -- anyone who commits that phenotypical faux paux is actually trying to be nice. The veins of nearly all Mexicans pulse with the blood of America's most-loathed foreign enemies: Spaniards and Indians. And ever since the first conquistador bedded an Aztec maiden, gabachos have viewed Mexicans as only slightly more respectable than a taco. Mexicans, along with other groups (Irish, blacks, Jews) are the darker angels of America's psyche, the part of its Puritan subconscious it yearns for but won't acknowledge and thus hates: miscegenation, Catholicism, fiestas. To cope with the trauma of this unrequited lust, the gabacho mind relegates Mexicans to two culturo-sexual stereotypes that vary with the times. When relations between Mexico and the United States are good, we're Latin lovers and spicy señoritas; when bad, we're no better than greasers and spicy señoritas. Today, relations between Mexico and the U.S. are at the lowest point since Taco Bell introduced its Value Meals, so anyone assuming you're anything but a Mexican is merely being polite. Look at the compliment from a different perspective: Imagine if people called you Mexican. Then gabachos would suspect you were a maid or an illegal and probably call la migra to deport your sweet ass.
Hey, Mexican Dipshit: While driving in your ancient, unsafe lowriders, why do you spics almost always come to a stop in the middle of the street, open all four doors so your kids, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas can pop out, then walk slowly to opposite curbs while giving hate stares to us gringo drivers trying to get around you? Are you wetbacks just jealous of us gringos because of our beauty and brains? Do you drive this way in Turd World Mexico, too?
Bull "We need some attack dogs to keep you beaners off the streets" Connor
Dear Bull: Not sure what you're talking about. The automobile follies sound like a variant of the Chinese Fire Drill, but that prank is more characteristic of gabacho frat boys than Mexicans. Not only that, but no Mexican would ever stop in the middle of the street without turning on his emergency flashers and turning up the radio a couple thousand decibels until Los Horóscopos de Durango sound like Blue Cheer. The only thing ancient about lowriders is their chassis; everything else is top-of-the-line technology -- like hydraulics, LCD TVs mounted in the trunk, and sound systems that can produce a tsunami. Mad-dogging a gabacho is pointless to Mexicans: What good is a silent stare when a well-timed "¡Pinche gabacho!" communicates the hate so much better? And I can't see too many wetbacks being jealous of someone who chose as his pseudonym a shade-wearing, Stetson-sporting pendejo who hated blacks and clung to his culture's old, chauvinistic ways -- in other words, a Mexican-in-training. And attack dogs to keep beaners off the streets? You're better than that, Bull. Everyone knows the best way to keep Mexicans off the streets is amnesty for all -- or S´bado Gigante.
