DEAR MEXICAN: In the past, you have defended illegal immigrants by arguing they (paraphrasing one of your previous columns) will do the jobs gabachos won't do for the same wages. I agree. I have a white-collar job, so I'm totally content to benefit from the low prices brought about by an uneducated underclass unprotected by American labor laws, content in the knowledge that no Mexican will ever take mi trabajo. But now this DREAM Act comes along, encouraging them to go to college, and my job's up for grabs, too? I already have enough competition from the Chinese and the Indians! What possible benefit could this legislation have for a guy such as me? (And you know they're just going to spend 95 percent of their time in school chanting, “Sí, se puede” anyway.)
NIGHTMARE Act Is More Like It
DEAR GABACHO: I'd rather have college kids chant, “Sí, se puede” than join a pointless fraternity/sorority or get blotto at said pointless fraternity/sorority parties. All that said, though, you don't have to worry about DREAMers taking your job—you'll continue to have your middle-class lifestyle as these DREAMers catapult over you and become your boss because they all possess the drive, ambition and talent that gabachos used to exhibit in college before it became finishing school for high schoolers. Better learn how to grovel to el jefe in English and Español, chulo!
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DEAR MEXICAN: I have noticed Mexican women will put up with being called a ruca, heina, vieja, “my old lady,” even sometimes such culinary terms as “My little pupusa” or chimichanga. But when you call her a “torta,” you are in one major fight. Why? What is so bad about tortas?
Don One-liners
DEAR GABACHO: You're calling her “fat.” Tortas are fat Mexican sandwiches made on French rolls. Want to culinarily woo her? Go old-school and call her a “hot tamale,” or go postmodern and deem her your memela—TRUST ME.
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DEAR MEXICAN: Sometimes when I'm eating a burrito, the bottom end becomes saturated with moisture, so the tortilla breaks and stuff falls out. Is this the result of a lack of burrito-eating skill, an improperly made burrito, or just the way it's supposed to be?
Chipotle Chingón
DEAR NEIGHBOR OF MEXICANS: Don't be a Mexican and accept the world the way it's supposed to be, ESPECIALLY the art of the burrito. Gabachos are so clueless they think burritos are supposed to vomit out their contents as though they are coeds in pre-narco Acapulco—¡que pendejos! A true burrito is an immaculate cylindrical god, wrapped up as tight as bacon around a hot dog, its structure so sound you can throw it through the air in a spiral, and it won't explode. This isn't even a question of size, of beans and rice erupting out of the flour tortilla because there's simply nowhere else to go: The largest burritos on Earth are those made in the Mission District in San Francisco (where Chipotle's founder found his “inspiration” for the chain's burritos), where the Mission burrito is a way of life, larger than bricks, wrapped tight in foil, and never explodes (and a shout-out to my favorite taquería—that's what burrito emporiums are called in San Francisco—in the Mission, El Castillito!). If a burrito gets so soggy at the bottom it disintegrates, then the maker either put too much salsa/guacamole/sour cream in it, or the meat's so damn greasy it's not worth eating. If your burrito disintegrates, demand a refund—or, better yet, sue the business owner for defaming the burrito's good nombre.
