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María Rubio was so good as Catalina Creel, an iconic telenovela villain, the role ruined her career

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According to sources on Twitter, and also TvNotas, the holy bible of Mexican gossip, María Rubio, the legendary actress best known for her role as Catalina Creel de Larios in Cuna de lobos, has passed away. She was 83 years old.

Thanks to her role as Soraya Montenegro in María la del Barrio, Itati Cantoral has been dominating the internet with an insane amount of memes, gifs, and even a House of Cards promo special. Itati blew up in the mid ’90s, when older millennials were still teens, and she’s that generation’s go-to character when it comes to Mexican telenovela villains.

Yes, Cantoral was great as Soraya, but the top dog in the telenovela villain game was — and has always been — María Rubio. The Tijuana-born actress was so good in Cuna de lobos that, according to an interview she did with Cristina Saralegui, the role ruined her career:

“[Catalina Creel] was a difficult, beloved character. I enjoyed playing her, but she also hurt me a lot. People completely forgot about María Rubio and now it seems that, after 40 years of being an actress, I’ve only done Catalina Creel.”

Catalina, a murderous matriarch, was known for having some of the best one-liners in telenovela history. But in the same interview with Saralegui, which was filmed over 20 years ago, María proved to be just as cunning and smart as her infamous character, but also incredibly funny:

“[Although I played a villain], I’ve received nothing but compliments, love, and admiration. Never aggression. I think viewers do attack the bad ones — bad actresses, that is.”

If you understand Spanish, check out the hilarious interview below. Watch María viciously own everyone in a panel of full of young telenovela villains:

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Traumatic advice from aunt Rosa: “Don’t torture your Care Bear, Mijo. Or else.”

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I was 6 years old when I yelled at Tugs, my Care Bear. I put him in time-out for not agreeing to the rules of an imaginary game I had just created.

I built a little time-out fortress for him to stay in while I played with my other toys. Coincidentally my tía Rosa was visiting that day. I urged her to see all my toys when she came into the house. I also explained to her that Tugs was in time-out, to which she replied in shock, “Mijo, mira, You have to be nice to your toys.”

I replied, “Tía, I am nice to my toys, but I’m teaching him a lesson.”

She contested nervously, “No, Mijo, you have to be nice to your toys or they might not be nice to you.”

I wasn’t following her logic.

Mijo, if you’re not nice to your toys, then at night time they might wake up and crawl into your bed to cut your toes with tiny razors,” she said slowly while staring at my imprisoned Care Bear.

“What?!” I whispered to her while looking at Tugs from the corner of my eye.

“Yes, your toys might do very bad things to you if you don’t treat them good.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

She stood up and walked towards the doorway.

Mijo, I brought you some tortillas. Come in the kitchen and let’s warm them up,” Rosa said casually.

From then on, Tugs sat on a tufted pillow on my dresser while I slept in velcro shoes for the next year. Growing up in my Mexican-American family meant that everything was possibly alive and watching you.


Felix III – Journeys the cosmos via Holy Hands Vol. 2. Rents a one-bedroom on Neptune. IG: @Futurefelix / Twitter: @thefuturefelix


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I almost died on a flight while listening to Shakira. Now my life has changed forever.

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Earlier this month I went back to California to visit some bitter-ass Mexicans, which also happen to be my family. Yesterday that whole mess came to an end and, while flying back to my precious, dirty, cold, and disgusting New York, I began to overheat.

I’m going through the early stages of man-o-pause, or some shit, because I was watching awful Shakira videos on YouTube — the red-eye flight had free WiFi — when, out of nowhere, I developed an aggressive fever. Beads of sweat started dripping down my forehead, just like Truthful Hips after she was ordered to pay 25 million dollars in back taxes earlier this week.

I didn’t feel like throwing up, but didn’t want to take any chances so I jumped over my dozy neighbors — I had a window seat — and stumbled towards the restroom in the rear. Halfway through the plane my sight began to fade and, instead of holding on to a seat, I accidentally smacked a sleeping passenger on the face.

I have no idea what that person’s reaction was like because I was crawling like a Walking Dead zombie by the time I reached the restroom area. Understandably, I scared the shit out of a distracted stewardess. After screaming bloody murder, the woman asked what was wrong with me, and for some dumb reason I said “la pinche Shakira.”

“Can I have more free wine? Yes, the red, please.”

“What?!” she replied. I realized I was making no sense and composed myself — well, tried to, because I was still crawling on floor. “Sorry, I feel very hot. May I have some water?” I think was my request. The woman handed me a bottle of water and started scooping ice inside a plastic bag, which she eventually placed on my head.

Now, I never get nauseous or sick when I travel, and I have no health issues whatsoever, so I was genuinely scared. Plus dying on a plane while watching Shakira videos is a super lame way to go, so I thought about pulling a Pancho Villa. After he was shot, the Mexican revolutionary supposedly told a man “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.”

I, too, wanted to tell the stewardess to pretend I said something witty or glorious. I also wanted her to run over to my seat to cue up a less embarrassing video on my laptop. Maybe “Maligno” by Aterciopelados? Yes, if I’m gonna go out listening to Colombian music, that’s a great song to die to. “Aw, he was heartbroken,” the paramedics would say. Not “Gross. He was probably perreando all over this tiny, dirty seat.

Luckily the water worked almost instantly. I began to recover my balance and sight quickly after chugging the bottle. A second stewardess walked up to us a few seconds later, but her reaction was a lot more passive than her co-worker’s. “There’s one of you on every flight,” she said.

“Do you think there’s a sick, reggaeton-hating ghost on the plane who goes around possessing people’s bodies?” I asked the second stewardess. “A what?” she replied. “Uh, nothing. I’m going back to my seat now. Thank you,” I told both employees.

I’m never leaving you again, New York.

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