“So, you’re Guatemalan?”
I say this while staring at the 6’4 blonde hair, blue eyed, half-Brazilian brother of mi Linda’s. Half-Brazilian? This corn feeding must be fantastic for growth because I could not see anything Latino about this one. He didn’t have a mustache either. In fact, I don’t think that he would be able to grow facial hair at all. I am very confused with this half-Brazilian full Nebraskan thing.
“Guatemala isn’t in the World Cup are they?”
What kind of question is this? Guatemala has yet to make the World Cup and I’m sure that he knows this. This is the worst moment ever. He might as well tell me that he doesn’t like my mustache or mustaches in general.
“So, who’s your team?”
Anyone but Argentina.
“Really? You don’t like Argentina either? Good man.”
What is this? Did El Guapo just find the way to the brother’s heart? Did my candle lighting work?
“Man, I’m so sick and tired of women saying that the Argentinean players are so hot. If I see one more person wearing an Argentina shirt in Grand Island f-ing Nebraska, I’m going to lose it.”
Of course! Why wouldn’t Brazilians and half-Brazilians alike dislike Argentineans? They share a border with them. There is one living down my street and I get upset about this. Perfect, I can roll with this anti-Argentinean thing.
Yes. Actually, I refuse to buy anything Argentinean because I will not support their economy.
“Hey ma, El Guapo here won’t buy Argentinean wine because he refuses to support their economy.”
Maybe I went a little too far here.
Then, mi Linda’s mother, with her large, gold hoop earrings, gold bracelets, and tight clothing (si, she was muy hot too) floated over to me and gave me a hug.
“Did Linda tell you to say that?”
No, but I wish she would have told me that her brother was seven times my size and hated Argentina.
“Now I know why Linda likes you so much. You’re not only good looking, but you’re also very intelligent.”
I like her accent. If you have never heard a Brazilian speak English, you must seek one out immediately. They speak English by elongating their vowels in a melodic fashion. It’s like Spanish, but without the bones.
If making fun of Argentina was going to get me in the good graces of this family, they were going to be putting my picture up on the mantle before I leave. I am the master of hating Argentina. I have enough material to last me several years.
Then again, I am El Guapo. These corn-fed giants haven’t seen a mustache like mine. Why wouldn’t they like me?
“El Guapo, you’re going to be sleeping in the basement,” her father yelled at me from the smoky downstairs dungeon where the countless dogs seem to congregate.
The basement? En serio? I haven’t slept without mi Linda in several months. The basement? Do they not realize that I am a full-blooded Guatemalan?