Caucasian gossip

Although rare, sometimes it is not good to be a Guatemalan. Yes, I know, we pretty much are the chosen people, but being perfect sometimes has its price.

You see, not only are we the best looking people, we also were blessed with what some may call “gifts”. These “gifts” are many and vary from having the glossiest facial hair to being able to make the best flan. What could possibly be bad about making the best flan? Nothing. Flan is the dessert of kings, but I don’t really want to talk about flan right now. I want to talk about the extraordinary sense of hearing that Guatemalans have.

Come on El Guapo. That’s like Aquaman. Who gives a shit that you can hear well?

You’re right. Today, I curse this gift that Dios has bestowed upon my people. I say give it to a more deserving people because right now I do not want it. Do I like to be able to hear the police coming from 5 blocks away when I’m playing craps in the alley? Si! Do I like to hear the loaf of bread falling on the floor only to be served to my table? Si! Do I like to hear what the good looking group of women is saying across the room? No! No?

You heard right mis amigos. If you had spoken to me two days ago, I would have bragged about being able to zone in on a conversation and repeat it verbatim to my friends. Now, as I write this, I report that I no longer wish to have this ability. It very well may be my curse.

I was at a lounge called the Science Club tonight watching white people dance. I was sipping an over-priced Dutch beer when the word “Orgasm” trickled into my ears. You see, over the years I have trained my hearing ability to tune into the following words: orgasm, threesome, immigration, pupusa, and flan. So, the moment the “o” word was uttered I tuned in to a group of attractive 30-something women wearing high heels and leopard print purses:

“Are you serious? I’ve never heard of that happening.”

“Dead serious. My sister had the same thing when she gave birth to her second.”

“Were you on drugs?”

“No. Greg and I didn’t want to have any drugs involved.”

“Oh, of course the man doesn’t want drugs. Why the hell would he care? The man would probably complain about having a sore finger from taking so many pictures.”

“Greg was great. He was right there next to me the whole time and when I came I was looking in his eyes.”

“I don’t get it. You had an orgasm in the middle of child birth? Shit, I want to have kids then. I can’t even come the regular way.”

Ladies of the world, please. Please keep certain conversations to the insides of your Volkswagens and not fine establishments where El Guapo is frequenting. Orgasms during child birth? What kind of Caucasian invention is this?

I wonder to myself what will happen if this vicious rumor makes its way to my beloved Latino population. My Dios, we will be everywhere.

I stare off into space thinking about a United States where the most people have rhythm. Not so bad I guess. Then my eyes focus and realize that the angry woman is staring at me. She winks. I smile. She smiles. I leave.

She has orgasms on her mind and all I can think about is child birth. Too much pressure. Even for El Guapo.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo