Hey, little house mouse. You’ve been running around my apartment for a couple of months, maybe longer.
I was sitting on the couch the first time I saw you, and you quickly scurried away. A few days later, I noticed you under the spare motorcycle tire I keep in what passes for a closet in New York City, but that time you only hid from sight.
The third time you came out of the kitchen, stopped in front of the bookcase, and stood up. Suddenly, you were very confident. You knew I wasn’t going to chase after you because 1) I didn’t do so the first two times I saw you and 2) in plain sight, staring directly at me, you started eating whatever you were holding in your tiny paws (Legs?).
With your beady eyes, you came to an important conclusion: “That lazy motherfucker never chases after me, so why do I exhaust myself trying to hide from him? I’ll just eat this here. Plus it’s not like I’m stealing because I got this from the trash bin. He wasn’t going to eat this.”
When I was a teenager, I used to kill rats in my uncle’s stable. They were big, aggressive, chubby rodents who used to feed off the special race horse food. Two of my uncle’s workers and I used to make cruel game out of it: whomever killed the most rats, either with a rake or any other garden tool, would get to use my uncle’s pellet rifle exclusively for a week.
But I’m not that person anymore, little house mouse. Plus, in this cruel city, we’re all looking for ways to survive, right? I still respect that. Though I know you may decide to bring a bunch of your little friends and infest the entire building — especially because of my lax attitude — but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.
The other day, when my girlfriend brought home four slices of pizza, two of which had pepperoni, I asked her to leave a single ring of sausage in the box.
That was for you, house mouse.
But she hates you, so she left nothing. I swear my girlfriend is a very considerate person, but she’s not the only one who feels no sympathy for your furry little head. This week my roommate caught you wandering inside his room, and he doesn’t take kindly to strangers.
Now there’s traps all over the apartment, so I want to warn you: he put peanut butter inside them. I hope you hate nuts, but you probably don’t.
If you get caught, I want to be the one to take your body out. I’ll put you inside a box with a full pie of pepperoni pizza.
I owe you that much, little house mouse.
Oh, right. Old-school Mexicans humiliate their children by pretending they don’t exist.
I’ve been visiting my mother, and all of our immediate family, for the last week. They’re old-school, rural Mexicans. The kind who always offer food, even if they hate you.
I’m in my mid 30s now, and have been living on my own since I was 18, so at our gatherings I get a proper adult seat at the table. They listen to what I have to say, but it wasn’t always like that.
It’s not like that for my younger relatives, either. At family reunions, I see them out of the periphery of my eye. They’re trying to get a word in, but those older Mexicans won’t allow it. Why would they? What have those mocosos (snot-nosed kids) done to deserve anybody’s respect? Did they pay for their food? For the roof over their head? For their car, gas, clothes? No? Then they don’t exist.
Yes, they’re physically there, but unless they can prove their worth through monetary independence, they’re no one. If they try to make their voices heard, they’ll be silenced by a death stare, or an abrupt change in conversation.
If they persist, other humiliations will be flung at them, such as being asked to do something entirely meaningless, just like their opinion. “Vete a ver si ya puso la marrana” (go see if one of the pigs laid an egg) is a classic. My grandma had one of the most bizarre just-get-the-fuck-out-of-here phrases, which I’ve never heard elsewhere: “Vete a descular hormigas” (go chop the asses off ants).
I know these Mexicans sound like assholes, but they’re like that because they believe in resilience, not fragility. Giving encouragement to a mentally and physically healthy person seems redundant to them. Those people already have all they need to succeed, they’ll think.
To gain their respect, at the very least a person will need to become self-sufficient. That’s how you earn the right to sit with them. Either you’re with that, or you’re not there at all.
“Trump Dating” site doesn’t want the gays, but allows the “happily married” to join
You can even be mad at Trump Dating, a new website for lonely — or not so lonely, but just promiscuous — maganogamous people. It’s a perfect representation of their cherished administration, since it’s also homophobic — it only allows “straight” women or men to sign up — and, just like Trump, it’s all about adulterous relationships:
“When you kick off the process of starting a profile, you get two options for labeling yourself — ‘straight man’ or ‘straight woman.’
Yet according to Trump Dating’s rather strange drop-down menus, married people are welcome. For a relationship status, the site offers options like ‘have a significant other,’ ‘happily married,’ and ‘unhappily married.'”
And since no self-respecting republican-specific dating site should exist unless it takes an issue with race, Trump Dating allows their users to be super specific about their genealogy:
“The ethnicity options also seemed oddly specific. In addition to the typical categories, the site includes choices like ‘Scandinavian,’ ‘Polynesian,’ ‘Eastern European,’ ‘Western European,’ ‘Mediterranean,’ and ‘Eskimo,’ a term used to label the indigenous people of Alaska, Canada, and Greenland that is considered offensive and inaccurate.”
OMG, you guys. There better be a second menu where users can identify which of the five Aryan subtype races — Nordic, Mediterranean, Dinaric, Alpine, and East Baltic — they belong to. Otherwise the server room of this Trump Dating is gonna get tiki torched.
Culture3 weeks ago
Calm the f*ck down with your “Despacito” Grammy outrage. It’s not that serious.
Culture4 weeks ago
Dating a Latina from another country gives me the right amount of separation from my culture
Culture3 weeks ago
Just because I’m not dating a Mexican doesn’t mean you shouldn’t
Culture3 weeks ago
Adultery, greed and hypocrisy: The dark side of Chespirito