Lazy Domingo: Mitochondria

“El Guapo, I’m freaking out.”

Miguel is what one would label a worrier. Miguel and I have been friends since we could throw rocks and know better. He is mi hermano, mi wing man, mi crutch and greatest friend. He has seen my smiles, tears, sweat, and blood. In life, yo creo, that you are given one true friend chosen by God. Miguel is mine.

What is it this time Miguel? What happened to make your brow wrinkle with worry?

“No lo se. I don’t know. I’ve got this thing.”

What thing?

Miguel points to his pants.

Que?

“I need you to look at something.”

There are lines in life. We set these lines without knowing, but there are lines.

“I really need you to look at this. I’m seriously freaking out!”

Some lines shouldn’t be crossed. Maybe the term “friend” is thrown around too much.

I watch Miguel pace back and forth as he runs his hand furiously through his hair. I feel like cereal. Would it be rude for me to get up and eat a bowl? Si. Perhaps it would.

“I have this thing. I’m sorry that I’m asking you, but I need you to look at this.”

Miguel, I don’t want to. I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to. You can not possibly begin to comprehend how much I don’t want to.

“Come ooooooon hombre. You were always good in Biology. Just look at it and see if it’s normal.”

Mi madre used to make me tell the familia what mitochondria was. I could say the definition verbatim from my green biology book in English then I would translate into Spanish. This was always a big deal in my house. To this day, when mi madre thinks I’m not applying myself, she brings up the Meee-toh-kohn-drrrrrrreea. Right now I wish Miguel hadn’t been forced to suffer through my family definition recitals. Is this payback?

Miguel, go to the doctor man. I don’t want to look at it.

“I don’t want to pay the $50 co-pay if it’s nothing. Just look at it. You’re good on the Internet. You can look it up.”

Damn this computador. Fine. Whatever. He is my friend. “Friend.”

Fine. Vamos. Fast. I have to go.

Miguel furiously tries to take off his braided brown leather belt and hobbles over to me. Ah Sunday, I used to like this day. I should have gone to church with mi madre. Joder…

He drops his jeans and lowers his boxer shorts and I see some redness on his hip. I breath a sigh of relief when I realize that I’m not going to have to see what I had originally thought. Maybe God does like me. I scoot closer to have a better look because it looks very strange and is definitely not a mitochondria.

The door opens. “El Guapo, I need your……”

I am one foot away from my best friend’s crotch and mi abuelita is standing in my room looking at us.

No one says anything. We are wax figues frozen in time. The words aren’t coming to mi boca to explain what is happening because I know that nothing will sound good. Miguel has his pants at his hips. Mi abuelita, for once in her life, has her hands at her side. Every single hair on my neck and arms are sticking straight up. I feel like one does after he has finished vomiting and is waiting for the next bout to resume. I still want cereal, but know this is not the time or the place.

My eyes divert from mi abuelita and my hand rises in an attempt to explain what is happening.

“Ahrgh. You two spend too much time together,” says mi abuelita as she fans her hands in our direction without making eye contact and leaves the room. “Miguel, go see a doctor. You have a rash.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

Miguel, how the hell is she going to know I say as I get up and push him away. Go to the doctor. Damn, man. Eres un verdadero idiota.

There are lines in life that should not be crossed.

Time for cereal. I want Chex.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Furniture Store Pic: Papeles de Gringos

I wanted to show you a picture of a furniture store by mi casa:

"Credito Sin Papeles de Gringos" is roughly translated into : Credit without the white man's papers.

I love this. The white man gringos have been making it difficult for us to get credit for too long and my neighborhood empresarios have taken away the gringo paperwork. It's about time someone other than Sears gave us credito.

Please take a look at the objects in the picture. Creo I believe that there is a picture of two white people at the beach. Yes, we Latinos like to have as many pictures of white people at the beach as possible. It is common knowledge. There is a Latino version of the Holy Mary. In mi casa Jesus has blonde hair with blue eyes, so I like that some people out there believe the Christ family was Latino. If they were, they were most likely Guatemalan. Si, Jesus was Guatemalan. Miguel says Jesus was black, but I personally believe that Jesus wouldn't like Miguel very much:

Ok, that sign was a fake from www.churchsigngenerator.com

But, this sign is real:

I took it today off of 14th St. by the U St. corridor. Can anyone love a prostitute? Luckily, this question was answered for me when I was eating sopa de mariscos (seafood soup) for breakfast at a local food place.

There is a place where I eat breakfast every Saturday and Sunday morning called "El Amigo". It is a dive Salvadorean restaurant that has great food. You know, one of those places that only accepts cash. I sat at the counter next to some women. I said good morning to the woman when I realized she had a stubble.

Now, unfortunately some of the Latin women (not Guatemalans as we are perfect) have problems with facial hair. This woman however, was no woman. I was about to eat breakfast next to one of my neighborhood transvestites. Que dia glorioso, Oh Glorious day!

I wasn't aware that the transvestites came out during the day, but here they were in all of their unshaven belleza, beauty. They even put on makeup OVER their stubble.

My sopa de mariscos was good and El Guapo had a smile on his face the entire time. I do not know how often I will have the opportunity to eat breakfast next to a transvestite, so I cherished the moment. The transvestite said something to me that was so profound that I will carry it in mi cabeza, head for the rest of my life:

"Can you give me the salt?"

Yes, madam transvestite, I can.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Oh, si, I believe you can love a prostitute.

Diablo: Hola El Guapo! Hola Velvet.

As many of you know, I am El Guapo. As a Guatemalan male, it is mi duty to protect the women of the world. Yo will not stand by and let women be disrespected in any way.

Recently, Velvet in Dupont, was disrespected and I volunteered to ayudar, help. I apologize in advance since this will offend some people. Please realize that El Guapo does not stand for disrespecting women.

Velvet posted these and I'm including them in chronological order so you can follow from her site:

1) Choose your Adventura: A La Velvet in Dupont
2) El Guapo to the Rescue
3) El Guapo, no, es too much!
4) Patriot Act? Si! Oh wait...No?

I, El Guapo, do not like to do things like this. Please understand this. Velvet is a delicate flower who will not be harmed when I am around.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sleeping on the bus: Hoy no.

The rumblings of the bus relax me. The clatter, honks, and squeals become one and I doze off to what is mi urban song.

Algo, something hits me in the face. It actually sticks to the very corner of my mouth, hanging off my lips.

Mis ojos, my eyes are still closed, but I’m awake and can feel something hard in the corner of my mouth. For a split segundo I decide if I should use my right hand or my tongue to explore this foreign object that has interrupted my slumber.

Click. Nic. Click. Pah.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I know that sound. I know that fucking sound. I open mis ojos with my lips firmly pressed together holding the foreign object in its place. I know that fucking sound. I know what is stuck to my mouth and I’m afraid to move it. Hijo de una….

Look at that… Look what is going on here.

Click. Click.

How many fucking fingernails does this woman have? I finally grab the piece of her body from my mouth and hold it in my hand. Like tissue paper, I had to look at it. I even showed it to the woman sitting next to me. I leaned into the aisle and very quietly said:

Um, mam’, your fingernails are going everywhere.

“Why don’t you MAAAAHND yo’ fuckin’ bizness, motha’ fucka’.”

She said this very loudly. On a bus, in DC, in my neighborhood, you don’t want attention. On a good day, no one bothers you and all is bueno. Well, I had a piece of nail in my mouth. It was a dirty piece of nail and while I can appreciate someone maintaining their fingers, I don’t think they should do it in a public place.

Well, you’re right mam’, it’s not really my business. But you see this in my hand? This, mi amiga, is your nail. It hit me in the face. So, it’s my business now.

Ay, Dios. I’ve embarrassed her. The bus driver looked at me from his rear-view-mirror, shook his head and laughed.

“You fuckin’ illegals think you own this fuckin’ place. Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

I’m in a mood now. It’s suddenly mi time of the month. El Guapo is officially pissed.

Well, yeah, sorry about all of us coming here and taking over. Just tell me this, are you going to take off your shoes and start on your feet next? Because if so, I’m moving to the back of the bus. I smile. It’s a great smile.

Now, I’m an attraction. People are staring and laughing. This is the El Guapo show on the 54 bus. Great…

Then, the woman looked at me, shook her head, and laughed.

“You’re right.” She laughs out loud, puts the clipper in her winter coat pocket, points at me and says, “You’re all right, Jose. I like you. My bad ya’ll.”

For a moment, for un segundito, I thought about telling her not all of us were named Jose. But you know what, who gives a shit?

She gets off at the next stop. I’m just glad she didn’t beat my Guatemalan ass.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

So, what do you do? : Que?

“So, what do you do?”

My least favorite fucking question that everyone asks each other in DC.

I act like I didn’t understand what she said and put my hand up to my ear.

“I’m really enjoying talking with you. You’re a lot different than most of the guys that come in here.”

Translation: Not a lot of Mexicans come in here. I’m totally digging the brown honey. Are you by any chance Guatemalan?

I’m a dancer.

“Yes, I know you can dance. I’ve been dancing with you silly (she touches my chest), but what do you do for a living. For dinero.

Gracias for translating that for me you fucking bitch.

Oh (smiling) for dinero… I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Yes, I’m a dancer for money. I’m a professional dancer.

“Like at a club? Are you an exotic dancer?”

You have no idea, mami.

Actually, no. I’m a performance artist. I’m paid to dance on stage, but with my clothes on. Well, most of my clothes. It depends on the piece.

“Wow! That’s so sexy. What do you dance?”

I specialize in three types of dance: Improvisational Reggaeton Tap, Square Dancing Irish Swing, and Malaysian Finger Dancing.

“I’ve never heard of those.”

Yes, they’re muy popular amongst the performing arts community. I don’t mean to brag, but you’re speaking with the best fucking Malaysian Finger Dancer in North America.

“Oh my god! Really? Can you teach me?”

Well, Malaysian finger dancing is muy complicado. I lived in Ghana for 3 years before I was able to get my certificate.

“Ghana? Is that where Malaysian finger dancing comes from?”

No, the art of Malaysian finger dancing is actually of Australian origin, but all the world renowned teachers are in either Ghana or the Vidal Sassoon in London.

“Isn’t that a hair place?”

Just during the day. At night it becomes a premier Malaysian finger dancing studio.

“Are you like a celebrity?”

Yes, sort of. I have a pretty popular Malaysian finger dancing CD out. It’s called “Stromboli con Fingers”. You can buy it at any hardware store. Thanks for your support.

I walk away. Is it this hard to meet people in this ciudad?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Taxi: Soup anyone? ;-)

“El Guapo, you’re so lucky. You’re tan all year round! You just have that exotic look about you.”

Ah, the exotic look. Yes, I am very lucky. You call it “exotic”. I call it “cabs won’t pick me up at night.”

Miguel was with me and I partly blame him. In order to “blend” he popped up the collar on his flannel shirt.

Gracias to the girls outside the club who offered to hail a cab for us. You may have gotten confused because Miguel was talking about making soup. He’s an idiota and doesn’t yet realize that Spanish slang doesn’t translate into English.

“Um, do you guys want us to hail you a cab?”

Thank you. We’ll be ok.

“Those guys are all dickheads. They don’t stop for me sometimes.”

Yes, we’re used to it.

“Ay, mami. I would like to make you soup.”

“Um, what?”

Please forgive my friend. He suffers from being an idiota.

“Did he just say he wanted to make me soup? Is he a cook or something?”

“Si. I make the best soup ever.”

Miguel, come on hombre.

“Why is he bragging about his cooking ability?”

I’m sorry. Miguel is an idiot. (I then whispered in her ear that he is angry for having syphilis.)

You see, Miguel was trying to literally translate: Te voy hacer la sopa.

I will let you Google this. Miguel is a true idiot. God bless him for trying.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Mi abuelita: Lectures

Entire conversation translated from Spanish. Abuelita speaks English, but she will be damned before she speaks it in her house.

“El Guapo, come here.” Yes abuelita. “What happened with Mercedes?”

Note that she has asked me this 17 times this week.

Abuelita, Mercedes and I aren’t together anymore.

“Why not? I liked her?”

Note that she always told mi madre that Mercedes had no manners and smelled of corn.

I don’t know Abuelita, sometimes people grow apart.

“Did you wear the condoms?”

Oh no… I bit my bottom lip at this because I don’t know what the normal reaction to this question is supposed to be. I wasn’t laughing, I was just in an awkward situation. I looked up at the ceiling for guidance, but I wasn’t in the kitchen and was unable to speak to Dios. This pause, (on my part) only lasted mere seconds for she continued.

“In my day, the condoms weren’t good. Now, they are good. You have to wear them.”

My lip is bleeding. I can taste the bitter blood in my mouth. This is by far the worst conversation that I have ever had in my entire life. Dios, por favor, llevame. Take me now. I’m serious. I no longer wish to be here.

“El Guapo, women like responsible men. Wearing a condom is responsible.”

Dios, a heart attack will do. Maybe a stroke. I’d like to have an open casket, so don’t make me too droopy. I prefer to not have any pain, so any type of painless death would be great. Right now. Please take me. Estoy listo, I’m ready.

“Your grandfather didn’t like to wear condoms. This is why I had so many children.”

Dios, remember that whole thing about having a painless death? Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. If I can die right now, en este momento, I’m ok with the pain. Perhaps a drive-by shooting? A bullet right through the chest and one in the leg. Seriously, make it painful. I don’t care anymore. Just take me now.

“They have so many kinds now. My friend Dolores said there are some with little bumps so it feels better for the woman. You should buy that one.”

Hey God, hi, it’s me El Guapo. Yeah, um, have you been listening to my pleas these last couple of minutos? No? Well, here’s the thing, my 89-year old grandmother is talking about condoms. I think she just finished describing a ribbed condom. Now, I’m not sure what it is that I have done to offend you, but whatever it is please accept my apologies. Si, por favor. Lo siento mucho. I am very sorry.

“With condoms you don’t get the herpes. Don’t forget about your cousin Eduardo. He had them. He also had them on his lip, but I know he had them other places. I heard him talking about it. He wasn’t a responsible man.”

Dios, remember how you said it’s wrong to kill yourself? Does it count if I just stop breathing? The reason I ask is because I haven’t been breathing for a while now, but I’m still here. I don’t mean to criticize your work on the human body, because you did a stand up job, muy bueno, really, but how long before I pass out? Isn’t there a purgatory of some kind? I’d be ok with that. Do you see me lighting this candle? Yes, I’m doing this for you. I will light more. To lo prometo. Por favor. Please make this stop.

“You’re a good boy. You will find someone.”

You’re mi hermano, Dios! Gracias.

Yes, abuelita. I hope so. When will I know that I’ve found THE one?

“You will know.”

But how?

“She will be the one, that when you’re awake, makes you wish you would never blink because you don’t want to stop looking at her. She will be the one, that when sleeping, makes you wish you would never awaken because you don’t want to stop dreaming about her. You will know.”

God I hope so.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Driving: Los mejores? The best?

The other day Miguel and I were driving my cousin’s car to get some groceries when someone yelled at us:

“Learn how to drive you fucking Mexicans!”

First of all, I was driving, and I am not Mexican. I am Guatemalan. If you ever see a good looking Latino, you have three choices: 1)Guatemalan, 2)Has some Guatemalan blood, 3)Knows a Guatemalan and has taken on some Guatemalan qualities. These are the only options, lo siento.

I thought about delving into the psyche that makes people call all Latinos Mexicans, but instead I decided to explain how we, Latinos, drive. It’s much different than the world many of you are used to with all your fancy reglas, rules. We like to simplify things. Do we see the signs? Do we know the speed limit? Do we know the laws? Si. We just disagree with what they have to say.

Quiet around hospitals? HA! No. If we have a car we will play our music loudly. What will we play? Gasolina by Daddy Yankee. That is the only song that we own and that is the only song that we play. That’s it. Don’t know it? Download it. It is the best song ever made in the history of man (El Guapo is the rey/king of hyperboles when it comes to this). You will feel Latino and want to make love to your woman/man. You don’t understand what he says because the bass is too loud? Too bad. Music is all about bass. Does it hurt our ears too? No. All Latinos are slightly deaf. This is why we listen to our music loudly. Always.

Crosswalks? En serio, Are you serious? Pedestrian crosswalks? No. If you are a pedestrian, you should automatically assume that we are not going to slow down. Actually, if we see you trying to cross the street when we’re coming, chances are that we’ll speed up. I’m sorry, let me correct myself. We will speed up. If we get too close, yes, we will once again use our horn. It’s nothing personal against you. We just don’t believe in the whole idea of crosswalks. They’re too constricting. We Latinos need to be free.

Turn signals? What in the name of San Miguel are those good for? If you are behind a Latino you should always assume that we are going to turn at one point or another. Just expect it. It takes the fun out of driving if you know when you have to brake. Also, we like to use our horn. Ever have a child become mesmerized with turning a TV on and off? The child giggles when he realizes he is in control of the TV. This is how we are with horns. We giggle (I do so in a very sexy way) every time we make the horn go off.

Pull over when emergency vehicles are coming? Again, no. We love this! This is when we can race down the street. Everyone gets out of our way because they say, “Hey look! That ambulance is chasing the Mexicans!”

Again, I am not Mexican. I am Guatemalan. Perhaps you did not see my hat with the words: Guatemala. This is ok. I almost ran you over. Please note the Guatemalan flag sticker proudly displayed on my bumper. If for some reason you are not behind me, you will see the Guatemalan flag prominently placed on my rear view mirror.

It has been said that Asians are the world’s worst drivers. No. Asians are the world’s most careful drivers. Latinos, and please accept my apologies for saying this, are the worst. Ever. Period.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Confession: Para mi mama

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been over 10 years since my last confession.”

What in the name of Celia Cruz am I doing here? Mierda.

Mi mama talked me into going to confession after she saw me talking to a couple of Mormon missionaries. I tried to tell her that they save my soul every Tuesday evening and she lost her paciencia. Unless you are Latino, you do not fully understand the wrath of a Latin mother.

Her hands flailed, she cried, she prayed to every saint en el cielo, she said my abuelo was rolling in his grave, she told me she may be having a heart attack, no, this was a stroke, she told me to feel her heart, her own son having his soul saved by Mormons, she looked up to the sky (ceiling) and had a conversation with God, what had she done to deserve this, her own son, Ave Maria, why her, do you want to kill me El Guapo, is that what you want…

No mama. It was a joke. They’re nice kids who have to convert people. I think they get a Tupperware set if they convert a Latino. I was being nice mama. I was making a joke about the saving of my soul.

Oh, your soul is a joke? This is funny to you?

Another conversation with God, who in mi casa, lives right above the kitchen ceiling. I’ve looked up there. There is a crack. I should fix that.

What do you want me to do mama? What can I do? I’m sorry.

“Ten years my son?”

“Yes, padre. I don’t know the little prayer you say now. I’m sorry.”

“My son, this is a confession. This is very serious. Please do not take this lightly. There is no “little” prayer.”

Oh no. I have made the padre upset with me. I can not charm him with my amazing guapo smile because of this screen! DAMN THIS SCREEN!

“Padre, please, I am nervioso, I am sorry. I need to be cleansed. Por favor. My humble apologies.”

“Very well my son. Do not be nervous.”

He says the prayer.

“What are your sins my child?”

“I was speaking to Mormons.”

Loooooong pause. Oh Benicio del Toro was I in trouble. Look, those Mormon kids are nice. They are like the Latinos of religions. Everyone makes fun of them. They walk around in the ghetto trying to save souls and I am nice to them. They tell me their stories about tablets and Indians and I listen. Sometimes all it takes to make someone’s day is to listen to their story. Now, I will be saying prayers until I turn 64. At least I will have a song.

“My son, are you serious? Speaking with Mormons is not a sin.”

“No? Mi mama didn’t like it that I was speaking with Mormons who were trying to save my soul. She was crying to God in my kitchen. My abuelo is rolling in his grave. Tupperware set. I’m here to save my soul the real way. The Catholic way.”

“My son, is that your only sin?”

Ten years of not going to confession. Ay Dios mio! Are you serious?

“Sometimes I have thoughts father. About women.”

I do. I’m Latino. This can not be helped.

“My son, that is normal. Just make an effort to have pure thoughts.”

I then reached into my pocket to grab the four pieces of paper with my list of sins. I had highlighed sin number 4 about something with my old girlfriend Margarita when I was 17. My buddy Miguel said it was a sin, but I was never sure so I was going to find out now. Also, number 132 was highlighted. I had dated una Argentina. I wasn't sure if that was a sin. I had so many questions that were going to be finally answered. I was ready, but he started to say a prayer that absolved me of my sins.

Come on hombre! I wanted to know about the Margarita thing. Was I taking his time? Did he need to go to the bathroom?

“Gracias padre.”

“Go in peace my child.”

It counts that I was going to read the list. It counts even more that I was touching the list.

I am feliz because my mother may not talk to God in my kitchen ceiling for a couple of more days and as long as my mother is happy, that is all that matters.

Miguel says that touching the paper doesn't count and that I have to go back. What does he know? He can't even grow a mustache.

I miss my mustache.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Para ti: Anonymous Blogger

Moments ago... Perhaps it was minutes ago…. Hours? I am sorry. My mind does not work right now. I will dig deep into this beautiful Latino body and try to tell you what happened to me.

Recently, I have been receiving comments in regards to my sexy mustache. It seems that some brave commenter, who comments anonymously, found issue with my thinking that my mustache is ever so sexy. It is part of what makes El Guapo, well, guapo.

Although I may put forth an image of utmost sexiness, if you prick me, I will bleed. My blood is red like yours, oh anonymous commenter. Si, maybe it’s sexier when it comes out of me.

Your blood drips out of your finger. See?

My blood, oh anonymous commenter, slowly trembles from the wound and drips, nay, dances to the floor.

Do you see the difference oh anonymous commenter?

Your words hurt me. What can I do for you to love me, anonymous commenter? Que puedo hacer?

There must be only one thing! I shall shave this sexy mustache that has caressed my face since the age of 11, declared to the world that am a Latino and yes, that is my Guatemalan hat on the bus, please give it back.

So, moments ago, with my madre, several aunts, mi abuelita, several cousins all of whom were crying at my feet, begging me to stop. Picture the scene anonymous commenter. Latin women wailing because of you. Do you see what you’ve done oh anonymous commenter? Do you see the torture you bring into the El Guapo household?

Leave me! I tell them as I hold in my hand something that was previously not allowed into my house: a razorblade, Mach III. I must do this or anonymous commenter will forever haunt my dreams.

Anonymous commenter, I gazed into the mirror and saw my extremely sexy eyes trembling with fear. Anonymous commenter, I wish you could be here to taunt me, but your words are for ever drilled into mi mind. I slowly took the Mach III to my upper lip while a tear which could not be stopped dripped down my face onto the floor; and the floor trembled.

Did I use shaving cream anonymous commenter? NO! I wanted to feel the pain of your words on my face. I started slowly and then vigorously removing my old friend for you anonymous commenter. The women, all of them, were saying: El Guapo! No! It is such a nice, sexy mustache, please El Guapo. Por favor!!!

I could not look at my face in the mirror for fear of not seeing my old friend. I washed my face and dried with a yellow towel. I opened the door to the gasps of the women in my family. Mi abuelita put her hand to her face to block my view. Why? Why do they do this anonymous commenter? I ran to the mirror and opened my incredible eyes and saw my face.

Anonymous commenter, it was, ay, it was glorioso! Amazing. Increible! I was even more guapo than I could have ever imagined. The level of guapo-ness was one that I was not familiar with and at first I was afraid, nay, petrified. I kept thinking I couldn’t live without you by my side anonymous commenter, but because of you, mi grande amigo. I am even more Guapo.

GRACIAS! Oh, brave anonymous commenter for showing me the light. Your brave anonymous comments on blogs have finally found their purpose. I blow you a kiss and know you will get it, tonight. Maybe tomorrow, though.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

I am Latino: I Dance

I am Latino and I dance. Please do not think of the “jump up and down” dancing that is prevalent in many of the clubs in DC. Latin dancing. The type of dance that makes a woman forget her name as her hips become entangled with the movements of my body. Merengue, salsa, samba, it doesn’t matter. I can do them all. Perfectly.

Please do not take my first paragraph as bragging. I say this as a warning to all the men out there. Unless you wish your women to fall madly in love with me, do not agree to take them Latin dancing. Unless you plan on dancing. Dancing well. Very well.

Latinos can smell the fear on non-dancing men. That’s right. I saw you looking at the way mi culo shakes to this beat that is driving your woman crazy. No problems hombre. I know I look good. I also saw your girl sigh at you after she saw me dancing. You acted like you didn’t see it, but you did. Sorry amigo, this is where I ruin your night.

Do not hate me for being muy guapo. I am Latino. This can not be helped.

My short stature, mustache, and honey hips do not give you much of a chance, but you were the one who brought your girl to my place. You were trying to show her that you were spontaneous and a fun guy? Tsk, tsk hombre.

I walk over after she has looked at me several times and I ask her to dance. You of course don’t like the idea, but she touches your arm and says she’ll be right back. Now, you’re the confident male that doesn’t mind if your woman is dancing with others. Have you seen my honey hips? You should mind. Your blonde hair, blue eyes, and 6-foot tall high school linebacking body are no good here. This is not Adams Mill.

On the dance floor, I control your woman in a way that she has yet to experience. These are exotics sounds, sensual movements, and feelings that you cannot get with your Dave Matthews Band. Dancing, I make love on the dance floor. Soy incredible. Yes, I am that good.

The next week you will sign up for dance lessons. Arthur Murray should pay me commission.

Do not worry, I do not take away the women any longer. I give them back to you. This Latino is not a mujerigo (player). This Latino just wants to find the woman he can dance with for ever. Just beware of my cousins. They are many.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Sad Hombre on the Bus: Que Paso?

I saw a man on the bus today and his face was distorted with pain. His sun-weathered face trembled while he tried to hold back the tears. This was an hombre who had lost his soul.

"Que paso hombre?"

His lips tightened and he pulled his hat down over his eyes and I left him alone.

It is a very sad day in Washington DC.

Maybe next year. I need tater-tots.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Cowboy Hats: No!

Miguel and I stopped at a local over-priced bar on my bus route to have a couple of over-priced beers and be ignored by the bartender.

As we walk in I see a man wearing a white cowboy hat, a leather Ducati jacket, VERY tight jeans, and a shirt that said “I LOVE TATER TOTS”. As you can imagine, I immediately wanted to kick him in the face. Why? Several reasons.

1. This is Washington DC. El Guapo doesn’t approve of cowboy hats within the DC city limits. It’s already bad enough that the Texan minions of Satan have infiltrated my fair city with their watches on “Texas time”, their big-bubba-belt-buckles, and their desires to build a wall for everything. Leave the fucking hats in Texas.

2. A Ducati leather jacket. Why don’t you wear a jacket that says: “I have a small penis”? I know. I know. You compensate for your little pablito by having a Ducati. At least your girl now has a calf-sized vibrator.

3. Tight jeans. This isn’t Poland amigo.

4. “I LOVE TATER TOTS” T-Shirt? Why must you wear this with a cowboy hat? Is your penis really this small? Everybody loves tater tots. I have never met one person who did not. I love ketchup. I put it on everything. Should I get a T-shirt?

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

CVS: Por favor! Please!

Todo el mundo, Everyone, in Washington DC knows of CVS Pharmacy. In DC, they are in every neighborhood doing what large pharmacies do: charge you $10 for a gallon of milk. Yes, yes, yes, you pay for the convenience, but come on.

Anyway, I have a problema with CVS.

Unfriendly customer service? Yes, but not my top issue.
Long lines? Yes, but not my top issue.
Handwritten “No cash back for Debit” notes? Yes, but not my top issue.
Not enough religious candles? Yes, I’d like a larger assortment, but not my top issue.

My top issue? STOP LOCKING UP THE FUCKING CONDOMS!

Why must you do this CVS? Why? Why in my neighborhood of Columbia Heights and not in Dupont Circle? Why do I have to let the entire world know that I am about to make sweet, sweet amor with some lucky woman? And for the love of Guadalupe, when you unlock the glass case, let me pick out what I want. Do not make me say “Ribbed for her pleasure” out loud. Por favor!!!

People wonder why Latinos breed so much. It’s because CVS locks up all the contraceptives. I believe that CVS is single-handedly responsible for the high birth rate amongst Latinos in the DC area. Please CVS! Please let us pick out our own condoms! Do not page “Ronnie to the condom display!” I beg you. And Ronnie, do not say, “My man!” when you give me the condoms. Please. Do not attempt to high-five me. When I ask for the 12-pack, do not say, “MARATHON MAN!” Please, I am Latino. I am known for my love-making. I cannot help this.

Why do you lock up the condoms? Do you do this so that we have to buy more diapers? This is very smart of you CVS. Very smart. If you stop locking the condoms, I promise to buy more Hallmark cards. I will send mi Madre a card for every holiday you imagine. Mi abuelita will get Kwanzaa cards. Please, do this for El Guapo. I am tired of using used grocery plastic bags for protection. I do not want a child right now. Do this for me. Por favor!!! I will only buy CVS-brand items. Whatever you want. I will do it. Please!

Gracias.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

I don't know Jose!!!

I don’t know Jose. I know a Jose. Actually, I know about 75 Jose’s, but I don’t know the one that you’re talking about. I don’t fucking know him.

It may be hard for you to understand, but not all people from Guatemala in DC know each other. We don’t emit a scent that makes us know each other. We’re not animals (don’t listen to the pinche Costa Ricans!).

Why the tone? I will tell you amigos. I decided to go to the Black Cat this weekend to forget about things. You know, my Mercedes is no longer mine and Miguel thought it would be a good idea to be around many white people. He said it would make me forget.

I like white people. I have many white friends, but sometimes people in this city are plain idiotas or as my good amigo would say: douche bags.

I walk into the Black Cat and go to the bar and immediately a man with perfectly manicured sideburns says to me: “Hola mi amigo.” Listen pendejo, I’m not your amigo. Believe it or not, many of us have been in this country for a long time. Sure, we may wash your clothes and clean your house, but along the way we picked up your language. This is how we will eventually take over things, but I digress…

So, my new “amigo” decides he wants to show off to his friends by speaking Spanish to me. By the way, this is annoying and we hate it. If you try to speak to one of us and see that we don’t speak English THEN switch to your Spanish. Don’t insult us by talking about Destinos. Anyway, my new douche-bag amigo:

“Como esta usted?” To his friends: “I was a Spanish lit minor in college.” Oh, great, now I have to decide if I want to play along with Capitan Neruda or break my Corona bottle over his head. Oh yes, we do drink Coronas. All of us. Yes, with the lime. I know.

I try to tell Senor Neruda that I speak English, but he insists in Spanish:

“I like to speak Spanish amigo. I only get to do it when I’m back home in Miami.” All of a sudden he develops a Cuban accent. He says it Mee-ah-mee. I would like very much to kick him in the face. “So, what restaurant do you work at?” Ave Maria, Holy Mary….. I tell him in very perfect English so his friends can understand that not all of us work in a restaurant. His friends laugh and he becomes angry.

Of course Miguel, being the pinche cabron that he is, says that he does. Neruda knows the restaurant and asks if he knows Jose. “Little short guy, mustache, always wears a hat, swears a lot. You have to know him. If you’re from Guatemala, you definitely know him.”

Short, mustache, hat, swears a lot… Yes my flipped-up-collar friend I know him. I know 500 of him.

I try to explain that there are several thousands of Guatemalans in the DC area and we don’t all know each other.

Know what happened next? Fucking Miguel did know this Jose and it ended up being one of his inbred cousins.

So, although I was trying to make a point, this man with the perfect sideburns and flipped up collar will for ever think that 1)We all know each other; 2)We are all related; 3)We all wash dishes.

I hate Miguel. I looked for the famous Aja, but she was no where to be found. I cried a little bit then I called Mercedes and hung up. Yes, even sexy Latinos like me drunk dial. Sometimes even my sexiness cannot be helped.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

PS: DCCookie, you are MUY guapissima. I did not know Canadians were so sexy like you.

Fat White Person Song

A Latino would never make this video:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1180662760907882321

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo

Wonderland: Feliz Ano Nuevo! Happy New Year!

Feliz ano nuevo! I hope that all of my amigos had a very safe New Year’s Eve that was full of fantastic adventures. I’m sure that I’ll be reading them this week.

For me, my New Year’s Eve was muy interesante. My girl Mercedes and I got into a huge fight and we ended up not spending the night together. I’m not sure what our situation is right now because I have chosen to let her cool off for un poquito. Latin women, you see, need more cooling off time than the regular white girls.

What was my fight about? Well, she asked me a simple question that many men get asked.

“Do these pants make my butt look big?”

You see, I’ve been watching a lot of Laguna Beach lately and for that one second I forgot that I was Latino and answered like a white boy:

“No. Not even a little bit.”

You see, this was the wrong answer. Latinas like to be bigger in the bottom. For that split segundo I just thought I was in Laguna Beach and I answered like one of those chicos would have…. Anyway, many expletives were strewn around and she ended up going out with some friends of hers who hate me. They’re Costa Rican and I know what they’re up to.

So what did I do? I decided to go hang out with people I cannot offend and went to a bar near my house: Wonderland. Wonderland is a bar that is in Columbia Heights and is new to the area. Not long ago, it was a black gay club. Now, it is a place where trendy white people go to listen to music, drink and “dance”.

I have been there before to admire the “dancing” that white people do and once again felt like I was watching a Discovery channel documentary. Three bands played. One was good and could keep a rhythm. The band was called The Apes and had a keyboard player who was muy guapa. Just something about a skirt with red leggings. Dios, the keyboard player for The Apes was muy guapa and I don't normally like las nieves. She played like she was in a trance and Latinas don't do that. I believe they are from DC and play around here, so if you want to go see a good white man’s band then take if from a Latino who knows nothing about your kind of music and listen to them.

Beside The Apes, the other bands made my ears want to cry. The dancing that came from their music was not really dancing, but more of jumping up and down in an off-beat manner. This made me want to cry very much, but the band of singing women made things even worse. Is it not necessary to sing well to be in a band? Dios mio!

To fit in, I trimmed my mustache and nodded my head in an off-beat manner to try to fit in.

The crowd was very mixed. Oh no, mostly white, but I mean mixed in terms of fashion. There were the trendy crowd that likes bad music and bad dancing and the crowd that seems to feel out of place in DC. I have seen their kind when riding the Orange Line Metro. It is nice to see that they are venturing into my ghetto, but I think their black pants and Tom Cruise hair may be more comfortable in Arlington. I guess it is nice to mix.

I like Wonderland. The white people for some razon feel the need to speak Espanol to me the moment they see me and when I humor them they buy me drinks. It is almost too easy. Muchas gracias for buying me all those drinks! It is not necessary, but I like to not spend anything when I go out. One girl told me about a novella called “Destinos” and kept talking about Raquel. Only Americans will learn Espanol by watching TV.

Also, just because I am from Guatemala doesn’t mean that I know Jose who washed dishes at a restaurant you worked at 3 years ago. Unfortunately, there is not a meet and greet of illegal Latinos from Guatemala.

Mi amigo Miguel was with me and he became afraid of the white dancing going around him and wanted to leave. He instead helped himself to some a blonde orange line girl who bought him drinks after seeing him bailar. Miguel can dance very well for white person standards. Es una pena (too bad) that Miguel drinks like a Mexican because he was muy borracho (very drunk) and I had to take him home. The blonde girl wanted to come too, but his mother would have not liked to have a strange girl at his home.

I hope that next year Wonderland allows El Guapo to pick their bands as I would make sure to pick ones that didn’t make my orejas (ears) cry. I will go to more bars like this in my attempt to understand you people.

In the meantime I think I am single, so pardon my sad tone. I hope Mercedes knows that I love her bottom and do not think it is small at all, but perfecto.

Anyway, Feliz Ano Nuevo!

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo