Dear Mexican: I’m a half-Mexican, more American than Mexicant (although to Cockasians, I’m sure I’m just another brown spot on their white carpet). I don’t speak Espanole nor do I care to, not because I’m ashamed, but I just don’t feel the need. If I lived in another county, I would need to, but I live in white-washed Southern California, and 80 percent of my interactions are English transactions.
In the small percentage of meetings with fellow Mexis, when I confess that I don’t know Spanish, I get the frustrated angry jeers and, in one occasion, ridiculed. I’m insulted that just because my TACO skills are less than theirs, I have to be shafted. Here’s the thing: Is it REALLY a big deal that I don’t know Spanish? Why can’t I just be left alone and not have to explain my reasons and FUCK! It’s just like my veganism explanation: I’m a Mexican vegan, and I don’t speak Spanish, and I am PROUD.
No Speaky Spanisho
Dear Pocho: While hard stats on how many half-Mexis speak Spanish are duro to come by, the U.S. Census’ 2011 American Community Survey offers a bit of a clue. It shows that about 20 percent of people of the 2.8 million people who speak Spanish at home, but don’t consider themselves Latinos, can trace their heritage to a Spanish-speaking country. And given that 26 percent of non-Latinos who do habla live in a household that has one Latino member, and 30 percent of such Spanish speakers are married to a Latina/o, we can surmise (with a lot of mezcal, and birria to soak up that statistical cruda) that halfers retain their Spanish about as well as the Mexican government retains narcos.
That said, who cares? If people make fun of you for speaking bad Spanish, let them; then congratulate them for being as bigoted as you.
I play in a fantasy football league with 11 other beaners. Most of them are pretty cool, but one of them is a total pendejo. When his team was mamando verga last year, he basically gave up and refused to set his roster. Then, when several of us called him out on it, he told us to go fuck ourselves.
Normally, the commish would ban an owner like this from partaking in future league activities, but ours is a puto. Instead of removing the owner from the league or handing down any sort of discipline, he told us, “He was a cool guy,” and, “We would like him if we only gave him a chance.” Well, we let the pendejo play in the league again this year, and it was a big mistake—can you believe the pendejo did it again? To make matters worse, we told him several times to set his lineup before the games even started. I would ask our commish to do something about this, but, like I explained earlier, he is a puto. He’s also gone MIA since trade-raping a chunti for the second-best quarterback in the league.
I could go on and on about the problems with the league and our useless commish, but I’ll cut to the chase: Why are so many Mexicans putos and pendejos?
The Prickly Pear
Dear Gabacho: Between all the talk about putos, male rape, pubic hair and mamando verga, methinks you meant to sign up for Grindr, not fantasy football. Then again, with its obsession over Packers, sweaty men and asses, looks like you found the perfect home for your fantasies—¡Que chulo!
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