By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Dear Mexican: This November, a trusted employee of mine came out about his status as an illegal immigrant. Our big-box retail conglomerate's policy clearly spells out the termination of my employment should I fail to report such an offense, but I love the mojado to death. He's loyal, punctual, and works all the hours I can provide him. Plus he's 60 years old, been in Colorado for 10 years, and worked at our company for seven. I want to keep my job, get him U.S. citizenship or permanent residency, and retain him as an employee—IN THAT ORDER. Isn't our cookie-cutter legal system set up such that I can simply pay a lawyer to find a judge who'll confer citizenship on the man? Or should I shut my mouth, run business as usual, and wait for his illegitimacy and falsified documents to catch up when he'smuy, muy viejo?
¡Ayudame, Por Favor!
Dear Help Me, Please: Don't doubt the powers of piratería—the Mexican art of forgery. Besides their desire to maximize profits, many companies hire illegals because they simply don't know they're doing so: fake green cards, driver's licenses and Social Security numbers can dupe even the most vigilant immigration official. Your wab could probably pilot a 757 with his documents. Beyond piratería, he has a couple of options, but none of them is hopeful. You can write letters to Congress asking them to pass an amnesty bill that will legalize the 12 million or so illegals (at least seven million of them Mexican) that live among us. Have your wab seek sanctuary in a Catholic parish—that's how Chicago activist Elvira Arellano (no relation to The Mexican) has staved off la migra for nearly a year. Does your wab have any U.S.-born children? Then tell him to pray for a lawsuit filed in Miami federal court that argues the government deprives U.S.-nacidos children of their civil rights when their illegal mamis y papis get deported. Your wab can also achieve at least permanent residency by marrying a chica calientecitizen—but even then, they would have to file a chingo of paperwork. Ultimately, the best chance your wab has for citizenship is leaving the States and applying the right way. Yeah, I'm cracking up, too.
I catch the bus every morning in Taco Town. One of your people approached me the other day and, after explaining that he was "a little buzzed," welcomed me to the neighborhood and pointed to his dilapidated shack across from the bus stop. He was really nice, but are Mexicans usually drunk by eight in the morning? I thought you guys slept till noon.
Dear Gabacho Bean: You got your stereotypes wrong. Taco Town isn't where Mexicans live but a funny Saturday Night Live skit that depicts my mother's traditional 4,000-calorie Mexican breakfast. Mexicans usually aren't drunk by eight in la mañana—if your friend was buzzing, he must've not slurped up the morning bowl of menudo that allows Mexicans to mitigate their natural pedo state. And the only Mexicans I know that sleep until noon are college students exhausted from studying and working to pay tuition while their gabacho peers puked away Daddy's allowance.
¡ASK A MEXICAN! CONTEST! The Mexican is looking for pictures of the most stereotypical Mexican restaurant logos in the country to include in his upcoming book. If you'd like to see your picture in the libro, e-mail me below. The five best pictures will be included, and the winners will receive a free autographed copy of the book along with a lawn mowing of up to 200 square feet.
Got a spicy question about Mexicans? Ask the Mexican at firstname.lastname@example.org. Those of you who do submit questions: they will be edited for clarity,cabrones. And include a hilarious pseudonym, por favor, or we'll make one up for you!