DEAR MEXICAN: Why is it that people from Chihuahua and Monterrey are such jackasses? They come from pinches ranchitos and talk about their haciendas; they cross the border and act as if their cagada does not stink. Why do pinches chihuahuenses act as if they are better than us American citizens? They eat at all-you-can-eat $6.99 buffets and still want to take a plate to go for their abuela and primos and try to feed the whole familia. They stay at our hotels and treat the maids like rats, as if they were conquistadores. They speak loudly, as if everyone wanted to hear what they have to say—they are not E.F. Hutton. They think their putos pesos can buy anything. When you ask them where they come from, they start by telling you their abuelos are Spaniards and most of their familia are Spaniards, as if they are ashamed to be called mexicanos. The women, with their fake blond hair, wear their pantalones so tight that when they walk, their pants go up their puto culo. Please tell those cabrones chihuahuenses and putos monterreyes que cool down, that they are just as Mexican as the rest of us, and that they still smell like frijoles and are not Spaniards.
DEAR GACHUPÍN: Nothing like some intra-Mexican hatred to prove that the idea of a Mexican nation united for Reconquista is as realistic as a Mexican government free of narco money! Your specific insults toward people from the Mexican state of Chihuahua (or, as they're known in El Paso, fronchis) and city of Monterrey (their nickname is regiomontanos) marks you as someone from Texas, as that's where the majority of immigrants from northern Mexico have landed. And the reason they act so uppity isn't so much because of where they're from, but rather what they are: ricos who have fled the chaos of their home states for the safety of Texas, where pompous, ostentatious pendejos are not only welcomed, but become governors and presidents, as well.
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DEAR MEXICAN: I'm a gabacha . . . kind of. I was born here, but my padres are mexicanos. So I'm a gabachacana. Anyway, my question is in regard to fixing my authentic mexicano's papeles. He's 23, and I heard that once you're past 18, it's harder to do it. He's never been in trouble with the law, he pays taxes, and he's a hard worker. But I heard that even all that would do him no good and he would need to spend, like, 10 years in Mexico. Now, I'm a patient person, but que chingado, man? I'm not gonna risk him meeting some paisana hoochie over there and having me wait a decade for him. So, what steps can I take to prevent such an atrocity? What would you suggest is the best way to fix his papers without the risk of having him meet some skeezer down south?
White Sox Winner!
DEAR GABACHA: While I'm all for people making up ethnic labels to describe themselves, gabachacana makes you sound like an apricot. The easy answer is marrying the chavo—you're still going to face a long process, but it's faster than waiting for the Obama administration to make Dios-knows-how-many deals with labor, the Mexican government and Republicans to offer a “comprehensive immigration reform” that's as comprehensive as a tortilla chip trying to cover a bowl of birria. Better yet, why not just move to Mexico with him? As I've said before, Mexico is the true land of liberty now, a libertarian paradise that becomes more and more appealing as technocrats up here try to game the system for themselves and make los Estados Unidos into just another Mexico–oh, wait. . . .