Thursday, May 30, 2013

TT: Bat Shit Crazy

Ask me what drives me crazy and I will answer easy enough...the word "crazy" drives my crazy.

"Why?", asked the gentle reader. I will tell you why...

Crazy is a dismissive term for a greater underlying issue. Crazy is when you don't know what is wrong so its labeled as such and tucked away.

Crazy are what women are labeled when they cry uncontrollably after giving birth, unable to bond with their newborn.

Crazy is the mother who hasn't slept for days and snaps at her kids.

Crazy is the word used when you are overwhelmed, and tears stream down your face.

Crazy is Jonestown.

Crazy is Hitler, and his years of occupation. It's not like the European powers ALLOWED him in to the Sudetenlands, oh no, he is just crazy...all by himself.

Crazy is the guy who had copious access to weapons, and shot up a school.

Crazy is the teenage mom who just wanted to feel like a teenager again and leaves her baby with her ten year old brother to babysit.

Crazy is the veteran babbling derogatory terms like "zipperhead" to himself on First and Santa Clara.

Crazy is the person who doesn't agree with your opinion, and therefore is clearly wrong on everything in life...fucker must be crazy.

Crazy is a label for something we are not educated on, and something we do not understand. It's for the explanations that we can't conceive. And I am sure many will say that this post is crazy.

Yes, this word, CRAZY, it drives me fucking crazy.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Do's and Do not's - Facebook Edition

Don't ever search for a birth parent on Facebook...EVER.

You end up with a gout riddled ex boxer clinging on to his glory days that were over before you could say "vegas uber cunt grabber". He'll expect you to call him dad and possibly help him out since you know, he donated sperm to create you, now you need to pay up...When you don't, he will say that he has kids all over the U.S., and he loves every one of them despite not having relationships with any of them, and then will tell you he could go to any one of them to take care of him...good luck with that douche.

Then you'll end up with his family. His mother will be this lizard looking woman who will try to make disparaging remarks about your birth mother, even though she had never met her. Then she'll question you as to why you are not married and having kids by the age of 25, since all of her other ghetto grand kids were knocked up and well established with babies by the time they crossed the graduation stage of high school. Her exact words will be "are you broken"? Thanks biological grandmother.

Your half sibling will ask you for money because you know, its your duty as a sister. They'll call you in the middle of the night because they got in to an argument and need to be picked up from some seedy part of town...and expect you to be the one to do it...since  you know..."we are family". If you are dumb'll fucking do it.

Your other half sibling will give you shit for not accepting her with open arms and loving her the way you love the people you were raised with. She'll threaten to throw you off her Facebook and cut ties with you forever, to which you reply, "bring it the fuck on, cow".

By the time its all over, two years have passed and you have changed your number to hide from these people. YOu'll think you were raped by the "Lifetime" Movie Channel. And you'll delete your Facebook for a time, because fuck that ordeal was exhausting.

Do get a Facebook.
Don't look up a biological parent on Facebook.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Subjective Evil

As my good friend and confidant Fox Mulder once said: I want to believe.

No, the reference is not for something supernatural...or maybe it should be considered super natural. But I want to believe that there is no such thing as evil, that human beings are born good, do good, manifest good. I want to believe that evil is by product of circumstance, and not gene that is mutated and inherited.

If you grew up religious you were taught that evil is the counter part to God's beauty and greatness. If you are not religious, evil is the face plastered among God's soldiers as they sacked Rome, desecrated temples, and conquered lands in the name of the Lord.

If you are an American, evil is a dark skinned, turban wearing asshole that flew a plane in to the towers. If you are a black American, evil is the white police man who shot Oscar Grant at the Bart Station. If you are a mexican american, evil is the politicians that call your mother illegal and tell her that despite years of back breaking service, bearing children and raising them American, paying her taxes, this is not her home and she should go back from where she came from.

To a mother, evil is the guy that raped your children and left them for dead. To the rapist's mother, evil is the father that raped her son for years and made him in to a monster. To the rapist, evil is his mother who didn't stop it.

Where does evil begin, and where does it end. It's scary to wonder where it begins, because it means that we have no way to identify. Evil takes the forms of smiles, hugs, marriages, family, politics, music, and faith.

I want to believe we were all born good.

*Disclaimer: I do not believe that anyone wearing a turban, or brown skinned is evil. I do not believe that police men and politician are evil. However, we do live in a society where people openly believe this. I hope you can take it as this: our perceptions of evil will always depend on our circumstance. Evil is subjective, hardly every objective.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Bastard of Bolton

In junior year of high school, my friend introduced me to the Song of Ice and Fire Series. I will try not to be a snob and say something like "you mere mortals may know this as the hit HBO series of Game of Thrones". But I am not going to make promises. Since the age of 17, I have been voraciously reading these books, devouring the essence and rage entrapped in the pages created from the brain of George RR Martin. I have created email monikers with "myrcella" and passwords with "housestark". I convinced myself that my children would be named Arya and Bran, Elia and Tommen.

Then came the day that HBO acquired that rights to make the Book in to a series. I was fucking thrilled. Countless conversations regarding adapting the book in to a movie had been etched in to the ears of so many that were willing to listen. But one thing remained true, there were way too many story lines and characters to fit into three hours of the screen. But this, the series on HBO would allow for characters, language and the major boob fest to play out. 

It's been fucking epic. Despite some minor changes, this show is just the right amount of awesome-ness. But I think I may have to take a break...

Last night I dreamt that Ramsay Snow/Bastard of Bolton was torturing my friend's and forcing us to work at Kaiser Permanente...and the only way I woke myself up from the dream was to scream loudly into my boyfriend's ear..."I'm going to fucking kill myself". I imagined me saying it in a demonic voice when he woke to told me that I freaked the fuck out of him.

I think I need a little break from George RR Martin...

Friday, May 17, 2013

Margarita in Rome

So let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...

Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who  wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say  "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.

It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic

So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my fucking hard can this be?

The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited  to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a  big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.

I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because  because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.

I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity  its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."

I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with  my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!

So began my lone travels, as a  Stupid (Mexican) American. 

Thursday, May 16, 2013

TT: This could take a while

It's Theme Thursday...and boy do I have a grocery lists of things that I am proud of...and its a list because I am a lazy duck today and am not up for formatting a paragraph.

1. Myself...because I am a motherfucking self proclaimed genius...agree with me or not, but deal with it!

2. My musical taste - I can jam out to Siouxsie Sioux while dancing cumbia with the taste is all over the spectrum...except for pop, keep that Britney Spears/Rihanna blasphemy away from me.

3. My book collection, it is a fire hazard, and can potentially get much bigger, but its a nice size and readily available...I love it.

4. My drinking. My boyfriend might be able to win at the chugging competition, but I can out drink almost everyone when it comes to tequila. I don't get crazy, I just get loving, and I can drink it all night. Bring it the fuck on.

5. I can dance mexican  folklorico, and whether these nimrods like to admit it or not, I was amazing. I had the feet of an angel, with the grace of a flamingo. My skirtwork was on point, and I look like a god damn authentic rancherita when I am on that dance floor.

6. I am proud of my sister, who after having a rod inserted into her hip, can still rock those stilletos, and manage to make a hospital room look like a vegas nightclub. You rock Chavis.

7. I am proud of my brother, who is about to embark on the AIDS/LIFECYCLE, riding his bike from SF to cure AIDS.

8. I am proud that I am a college graduate, and semi educated (despite what I said on number 1). I think I have a long road of education ahead of me, but I made it this far, and I am not going to lie, I am still excited for myself.

9. I am proud of my WWII collection, which is mostly a Nazi collection, that consists of a 1939 SS Panzergrad special edition cigarette case, made for those that were stationed in Athens, my 1932, first Edition of Hitlerism, written by Louis Leo Snyder, and my 1942 edition of Mein Kampf. No, I am not a Nazi, I am just fascinated by World War II, its atrocities  and how gullible the world can and will be. I have more know.

10.This was a really difficult topic for me, despite the joking at the beginning  I don't take pride in a whole lot, but I do take pride in my life, my relationship, my family, and my future.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Mama, Mamon, Mamitis

In the Hispanic/Latin culture, there is an epidemic that has plagued the people, nay, men of these lands. I am sure that other cultures may have a similar epidemic, however being a Mexican, it is fucking prevalent and debilitating to many of the men, boys, and potential coupling that could ensue. It is called Mamitis, and to those who have it, we call them Mamon. Now you may have no fucking clue what either of these words mean...probably because a) you don't speak Spanish  b) you have never encountered said plague, and or c) your man/ex man/brother/cousin/dad may never have suffered from this umbilical cord disease.

Now I am going to explain exactly what these words mean. And I am going to provide crude and very offensive examples of this disease. But I feel that I must post this it carefully and don't draw any fucking conclusions...take it for what it is:

1. I am not referring to any one that is in my life today, these examples are from men/boys that I knew years before, and may not have necessarily been in a relationship with, could have just been an acquaintance.

2. I am about to get offensive towards Peruvians. Now if you ask yourself, whats the difference between a Peruvian and a Mexican, my knee jerk reaction would be to say "fuck you". But, geographically, physically, and culturally, there is a huge fucking difference. I do not have a personal vendetta against the Peruvians, I was just once highly annoyed with one and made a greatly offensive comment to that asshole which I am about to share with you. I promise to be as equally offensive to my Mexican people in future posts, if I haven't already.

3. Take it in stride..this post is for fun, not educating, so before you get all up the ass, just chill.

4. I love men who love, respect and honor their mothers. If they treat their mother's in such a manner, chances are they will treat you with the same honors. I can attest to this now. I think there is a balance with family, and I have found the perfect man with the perfect balance.

Now, mamitis is a condition when a grown man has yet to detach from his mother's umbilical cord. this is a very popular phenomenon that goes far beyond the mother land. Every decision, every meal, and every bowel movement is done with the hand holding of his mother. She may at times wipe his ass, make rude, comparison comments to his girlfriend/wife (this has never happened to me...because I am fucking perfect), and get all up in his shit with other woman. He in turn, may compare his girlfriend to his mother, making comments about her cooking, her manner of ironing, and whether or not she is the god damn goddess like his mother. Now his mother may be a fucking saint, but he may just be an asshole with an Oedipal complex, it happens.

I'll give you an example...

I made this giant mistake and had a relationship with a Peruvian. Now this Peruvian, was a little special. I shit you not, he went to his mother's twice a fucking day. Once in the morning, and once at night. Each time picking up his little care package, because god forbid he make himself a fucking sandwich. Now I decided to be nice, and make him dinner. Fuck me right? Well here is how that dinner went...
Sits at dinner table -
Him: whats this?!?!?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: I mean what is this? This isn't how my mom makes food?
Me: I am sorry? What do you mean? I am not understanding?
Him: well its not my mom's, my mom doesn't make food like this, she doesn't use this ingredient, or this ingredient, and she always does this to...
Me: Do you see a fucking tree in my house?
Him: What?
Me: ....!?!
Him: What is that supposed to mean?
Me: I am not sure if you knew this, but Motherfucker, I am a Mexican...not a people do not still swing from fucking trees like your people. And take a look at my face...its not your fucking mom's face...and smell that? It's my god damn food and it smells amazing!!!!!!! Call your fucking mom and tell her to set an extra fucking table in the tree!

That was just the tip of the comparisons, and mind you, I was already at my wits with this asshole for continually comparing my body type to a tits are real asshole! So I already had some pent up anger...but this incident was the most notable. I wish I was making this up ....

Another time, when I was visiting this one place in another country...I need to be a little vague, I encountered a forty something year old man whose umbilical cord was severely attached and possibly moldy. Now this fucker owned his own house down the street from his mother, but remained living in her house. He would literally walk through the door, drop trouser for his 80 something year old mother to pick up and wash. She made his meals, she rubbed his back. She would sit at his bedside at night and rub down his legs. You all know the Oedipal story right...well I thought I was in the fucking episode of the twilight zone. I pity the rancherita than ends up with that animal.

So "M" is for mamitis.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

The Good Samaritan

If you were raised religious, then you will most likely have heard the parable of the "Good Samaritan". In short, it is a story as told by Jesus Christ of a Jewish traveler who was beaten, robbed, and left for dead along some road less traveled. Two religious men come across this traveler, a priest and a levite, both shun and avoid, leaving the traveler to rot, to die in a place that was not his own. A Samaritan comes across this nearly dead body.

Now I had to do a little research. I have used the word Samaritan before, but I felt that if I was to use this word today, I needed to know its origin. It was so easy to call someone a Samaritan because they bought me a hot dog when I was a dollar short. But the Samaritans are an ethnoreligious group with close ties to Judaism and claim descent from the Israelites  Historically, the Samaritans and the Jews, much like this half dead traveler, are enemies. It would have been logical, and well expected for this Samaritan to leave the dying Jew traveler for the buzzards and flies that had already begun to peck at this man. But he decided to stop and help his ailing "neighbor". It must be understood that for Jesus to tell this story to his would-be audience, would have caused much provocation. His portrayal of a Samaritan would have most certainly shocked his audience, especially in a time that was so riddled with violence and chaos.

This morning an article came out regarding the body of Tamerlan Tsarnev, one of the perpetrator's of the Boston bombings. A much less known fact is that his body had been sitting in some freezer, waiting to be buried. A poor funeral home director had to house this scum's corpse.

The article noted that finding a burial place for this shit head's body to lay for the remainder of eternity, was next to impossible. No community, no open land, waste disposal, wanted to be the keeper's of the rotted flesh whose soul had long disintegrated and turned into a troll. Not a cute pink haired troll either. It was not until, as described in the article, that a  "courageous and compassionate individual came forward to provide the assistance needed to properly bury the deceased.”

We are all angry and seething from the devastation caused by the cunts that terrorized the Boston Marathon. Families are one member less, runners and spectators are missing limbs. Some of them may never walk. Some may never be able to even watch a marathon. Any one of us would jump at the opportunity to cut the cock off of these fuckers and jam it down their mother's throat. That would be the easy and logical response. But this one guy, this guy who gave in and buried the soulless fucker, he really was the courageous one, because he had every right to burn the fuck out of the body in the town square. He could have disclosed the location of where the body was interred so that we could all take turns pissing and shitting over his eternal resting spot, making it an open toilet for all. But he quietly buried this shit of a man. 

This is not written as an intent to politicize, and certainly not to hurt the feelings of anyone. When tasked to write of a good Samaritan  I had thought of the people who had done good deeds their whole life. The people who have given up a seat when someone was tired, who had picked me up from school when I was stranded. The people that give up their personal money and Christmas morning to feed the homeless. The teachers that buy supplies with their own money. And make no mistake, these people should be heralded. But when I read about this one little man, this man who without provocation, stepped forward to do something for someone so reviled, I couldn't help but feel that this man truly embodied the parable as told in the Bible. He did something for someone that he believes to be a disgusting human being. And maybe he didn't  do it for him, maybe he did it for the widow and child that were left behind, for the Uncle and the countless others who loved this troll as he was, but not for what he did.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Musically Fucked

Rather than tell you the story of some fucked up people, I thought I would give you a playlist of music whose titles of the song contain the word FUCK. Enjoy!

Electric Chairs - Fuck Off
DKs - Too Drunk To Fuck
Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart – “This Love is Fucking Right”
Fuck You (Ode To No One) By The Smashing Pumpkins
'Nazi Punks f-u-c-k off' - by the Dead Kennedys

Tenacious D - Fuck Her Gently
Insane Clown Posse - Fuck The World

Thursday, May 2, 2013


Yeah, that's right, I said the word beaner.

As you may already know...I am Mexican, and I grew up, within the US borders, as VERY Mexican  I have the mariachi outfit to prove it. My house spoke primarily Spanish  and we ate beans and rice all the time.

We were so entrenched with the Spanish and being Mexican, that I grew up thinking Charlton Heston was a Mexican because our copy of "Ten Commandment's" was dubbed in Spanish...I was not a bright child.
I mean everybody knew that Jesus Christ was a Mexican,  look at his beard for Christ's sake. And didn't everybody have goats in their back yard and mariachis come play for their 4th birthday? Did I mention that I was also a brat?

Food was a major item in the house but wasn't it for everybody? You come home, and mom immediately wanted to shovel beans and carne down your throat. "Oh mija, you aren't hungry anymore, here! Let me make you a quesadilla". And if there wasn't a newly killed chicken boiling on the stove, there were always tortillas and beans to eat a plenty. All of this is normal right? All people in the US grew up like this...right?


So I also had the advantage of being sent to a Catholic private school, which had one other child who had goats in their backyard, and that fucker was filipino, not a mexican. And my mom wasn't a fan of having other little fuckers, that weren't family kids, in her house. So when I did get permission to invite some of these little shits...this is what they told me...

Him- "you have all those people living in the house? you have goats in the backyard? Dude, you're a beaner"

Me - "oh yeah, thanks. I love beans"

Laughter erupts. I didn't get it.

Later that night, I picked the perfect opportunity (while she was watching Sabado Gigante)  to tell my mom about the day. "A'ma, sabias que soy una beaner porque me gustan frijoles" Translation: Mom, did you know I'm a beaner because I love to eat beans....The look on her face was priceless, and the next words out of her mouth were epic! "QUE CHINGADOS DIJISTES?!?!?!" Translation: what the fuck
did you just say?

And that was the day that I learned that the word beaner is derogatory...and that my upbringing was slightly different from some of the other kids.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

A is for Apostate

I decided to join in the ABC swearing challenge. It's my first line and already I am struggling. But here goes...

A is for Apostate. Apostate, a deflector of religion. It does not have to be specific to religion, but in this case, it is. And here is why...

I was raised a catholic, and I'm Mexican  You don't have to be a Catholic to be Mexican, and you don't have to be Mexican to be a Catholic, but in my house, the two went hand in hand. And you will often hear/read my self definition as a cultural Catholic. Customs and culture intertwined with Catholicism, and I am supremely grateful to my mother for forcing me to learn the rosary by heart. Te amo mami.

But here is where my word comes in to play.

Being a Christian/Catholic, there are these values that are thrown around, displayed on American media, raped and distorted for political agendas. Christianity, Jesus, family values are words that are now used to ensure that the interest of conservative political thugs are "protected" and their enemies right's stripped. I had no idea that Christian America was under attack.  (SARCASM).

A joke was recently made, a comparison if  you will, in regards to the coming out of Tim Tebow as a Christian, and Jason Collins as a gay man. The former was seemingly criticized and told to keep his comments while the latter is hailed as a hero. And it bothers many that the American media had portrayed the two differently. Lets get something straight, we are living in United States, the land of the free worship, as long as its a Christian denomination.  Jason Collins' coming out is and will be viewed as heroism so long as the rights of the LGBT community are continually and blatantly oppressed.

And here is why I am an apostate. My beliefs, my orientation, my religion, and my culture, will never supersede the basic, inalienable rights of the citizens of this country. Those religious convictions, they were merely a building frame to the awesome that I am today. Being a good person, a righteous person comes from the relationships, experiences of the years that pass. I do not care what some archaic book says in the first half about smiting the sodomites, because there is a whole lot of bullshit in their about marrying a few and dying over blended cloth. Not to mention that I am a sinner, multiple times over. I have not always honored my mother, and I have wished for things that another person possessed. I love my God, and believes he loves us all, but have also cursed him and asked him "why!?"

So no, I am not a good catholic, I am not a good follower of the church. I am an apostate.

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