Dear Mexican: Over the years, I’ve had several different American doctors digitally violate me to examine my old prostate. Before they examine me, they always play Cat Stevens music. It explains why old American men uniformly hate Cat Stevens.

I’m moving to Mexico soon, and I assume that my next annual physical will be performed by a Mexican. Do Mexican doctors play Cat Stevens before they examine your prostate? Do old Mexican men hate that guy as much as old men from America?

Culo Chris

Dear Gabacho: Does anyone care about Cat Stevens anymore besides Muslims? Certainly not Mexicans. But I can say that old Mexican men hate prostate exams far more than gabachos, because they’d rather risk dying painfully from a preventable cancer than getting anything shoved into their nalgas.

This ain’t just stereotyping Mexican masculinity, but the unfortunate truth. The awesomely titled “I Will No Longer Be a Man! Manliness and Prostate Cancer Screenings Among Latino Men” by Zully Rivera-Ramos and Lydia Buki, which appeared in the December 2011 issue of Psychology of Men and Masculinity, found that “prostate cancer is the most commonly diagnosed type of cancer among Latino men. Due, in part, to lower rates of screening.”

Why the low rates of digital rectal exams? The same reasons are found in “Expressions of Machismo in Colorectal Cancer Screening Among New Mexico Hispanic Subpopulations” in the April 2012 issue of Qualitative Health Research: It’s the machismo, pendejo. Mexican men, like Kanye West, only want toilet paper to touch their anuses, because anything else would make them gay.

And now you know why Mexico is Mexico.

Dear Mexican: My husband swears up and down that Mexican men do not grant drivers the courtesy of “cutting in” or merging into their lane. I tell him that he’s crazy, but every time he runs into this situation, the driver just happens to be a male who looks to be Mexican.

What’s the deal with that? I’m out to prove him wrong, but so far, everything is working out in his favor.

Let Me In, Damn It!

Dear Gabacha: You really think a culture that celebrates coming into this country without papers is going to care about letting people get ahead of them during traffic? That’s like expecting Donald Trump to suddenly offer aguachile at his restaurants—¡no mames!

Dear Mexican: Is it just my imagination, or do Mexican families tend to fiesta on Sunday evenings more than any other day of the week? If the driveway is packed full of cars, the oompah is blaring, and the kids are running wild, it tends to be a Sunday. Why?

Interested Neighbor

Dear Gabacho: My saintly mami told me that when she and her siblings were picking garlic in California’s Central Valley during the 1960s as preteens, they’d work Monday through Saturday; wash clothes and clean around the house Sunday morning; and then spend the rest of their Domingo afternoon relaxing along with all the other Mexicans they knew.

The same goes with Mexicans of this era, although I would add that Saturday evenings are also reserved for weddings and quinceañeras—but since they involve navigating family and rancho rivalries dating back to the Porfiriato, the Mexican considers them more hard labor than puro pinche pari.

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