“What people fail to realize is that there is a great variation in the size of women’s vaginas.”
Mi gente, when you read the above sentence, what is the first thing that comes to mind? I’ll tell you what should come to mind, that the above sentence was definitely, 100%, bet your salary on, that it was NOT uttered by anyone from of Latino persuasion.
The person who said this did not have skin kissed by the sun gods. The person who said this did not have a mustache so perfect that it attracts hummingbirds. The person who said this most definitely did not have a sweet accent melodic enough to woo the clouds to start their orchestra.
Let me describe this individual to you: Glasses, shaggy hair, maroon t-shirt with an obscure band, and clogs. Bueno, I have no idea what these things were, but they looked like clogs. But they were brownish with holes in them. Brownish with holes in them… Ay…
This is the type of conversation that should never be uttered in a public place.
There I was, going outside to enjoy one of the beautiful nights DC is having and enjoy a beer with mi amigo Miguel, when I hear this comment. Picture two Guatemalans walking as if to go somewhere then suddenly, stop, on a dime, to listen more. On a dime.
“I mean, I don’t get it. Why do I have to be the one who gets ridiculed? No one ever talks about her issue. It’s me. I look like an idiot to everyone now.”
I look down at his feet and wish to tell him that he is being ridiculed for wearing brownish clogs with holes in them.
Miguel, by this point, is snickering delight. I see that he’s holding himself back. I count silently to myself. 10…he scratches his the top of his head. 9, 8, 7…his feet start to do hit the pavement in a kicking movement. 6, 5, he’s off.
“Amigo. You need to own that. You must make it yours. If you do not make it yours, she will walk away with stories.”
“What? Dude, mind your own business. I don’t even know you.”
“Si, amigo, you do. I’m the one that she leaves you for. Why? Because I own it. I go down and make sure she knows I own it. It’s mine. It’s never like anything she’s ever had. And don’t think because it’s because I’m Latino. It’s because I make sure she knows that I care about nothing else, but her happiness. Nothing else but her. That moment. It’s all I care about. And you? You wear shoes with holes in them and smoke menthols. You must own it. OWN it.”
“What? Who are you? What’s your problem? Leave my friend and I alone. Thank you.”
In Miguel’s own way, he was trying to help. The holed shoe man did not want to listen.
“Actually, nevermind. I thank Dios that there are people like you. It makes sure that my bed always stays warm. And you? You blame your problems on her, when you just have a little pinga. Pobrecito.”
Pobrecito is right. Poor fellow. Has holed shoes…