Ever wonder why some mexican kids be running around the grocery store singing, dancing, crying, yelling, and picking their nose, somehow, magically, all at the same time? They’re all over the place like a coked up midget Robin Williams, which explains why the girls arms are so hairy, but I digress… These kids just aren’t punished anymore.
Where did we go wrong? Well, many of us older
cats vato gatos got whipped and yelled at on a daily basis. Those are some deep wounds we’re still trying to heal with bud light, tattoos, carbohydrates, and shaving our heads. We’re basically Britney Spears during her crazy phase.
Part of the healing involves not hurting our kids like our parents did. So they get chubby (carbohydrates) and a bit spoiled. On top of that, Chicano parents are pinche tired, man. Work work working at a job where you’re not allowed to sit, mowing the lawn afterwards, and finally, changing the oil in the wife’s Explorer (“I feel safer up high, bleh blah bleh mijo”) as a cool down.
The only solution is to leave the kids at home but that’s not possible. You see, the way of the Mexican, forces families to go to the store together-no matter what. Why this is, nobody knows. This mystery is right up there with the Mexican love of Hawaiian pizza. The code will never be cracked.
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Birthday? Baby Shower? Baptismo? Daughter lost her first tooth? Whatever the reason, the celebration is to be had at the park. The place where alcohol isn’t allowed, but to us, that just means beer, no hard liquor.
Carne asada, Tecate, Bud Light, Corona, and…Pacifico? Who the fuck brought Pacifico? Pinche, Osvaldo, I swear man. Damn his wife is fine though, lucky motherfucker, how did he get her? I’m not hatin’ but seriosly, pinche Osvaldo, man. Ooh, oh, Tio is drunk again. He’s singing with the music… in his car. Don’t drive tio, have some cake. The car is just on so the battery won’t die? OK, cool. Wait where you going? You lied! Dad, Tio took off drunk. “He’s just making a beer run, leave him alone.” Why are there so many kids? I have cousins I don’t even know about. Damn that salsa is hot, I need another beer. All that’s left is Pacifico? FUCKING OSVALDO, MAN. I swear.
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True Story: My dad still has one of these in his garage. It’s from 1996.
I don’t know why but every Panaderia has been giving out the same two or three calendars for the past thirty years. Of course the dates have changed but the image is always the same, an Aztec Warrior carrying “Maria” in his arms. You know, the one where every other day is some kinda saint’s holiday or something. The only time these come in handy is on Mexican Mother’s Day since Aubelita wants to here from you then, not on American Mother’s Day.
In fact, the year’s almost over. Next time you see your abuela, take her some pan mexicano, give her a hug and the new 2012 calendar. Also, light her veladora, according to the all-knowing panaderia calendar, tomorrow is St. Augustin Don Martin Pedro’s birthday.
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Part of the Mexican Way is to show off your chest hair. Bonus points if you’re wearing a gold chain with a crucifix. You see, it’s hot as hell in Mexico, or maybe Mexico is hell? Anyway, in order to stay cool, our dads and tios have figured out that unbuttoning that third button reduces temperatures by up to 20% OK, I made that shit up and Mythbusters won’t return my calls so let’s just go with it.
Chest hair is part of the machismo that we pride ourselves in. It means you’re a man. You have a job, drive a Ford, and will serenade your girl with love songs when you’re drunk. We’re bullfighters, lovers, and hairy, mysterious men with a gold Jesus buried in a forest of curly pelos. It drives the white girls crazy too. They say once you go black you never go back. But ladies, trust me-once you go Mexican, you’ll never second guess again.
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We drink that malt liquor, Gringo. We drink it when we’re in that 90’s gangsta rap mood. When we crease our Dickies and feel like getting tore up. We love the Old English font too instead the boring ass Helvetica all the white boys with glasses be drooling over. I mean, check out this maricon cabron:
Nothing like getting your last name tattooed across your back, or placed above your Raiders sticker above the back of your pickup; As long as it’s in Old English (even if you don’t know English.)
I aint trippin though. God knows this site has more typos than your dad’s got tools. I mean hey, it’s not Vato’s fault his tattoo artist went to night school and took Spanish and got a B.
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The Way of The Mexican involves driving Fords.
To be OG with it, you gotta drive a mid 90’s Ford Explorer or a Thunderbird.
You see, our (grand)parents didn’t come to the US to have us drive Japanese cars, we buy American. Plus, even though they may not run tip top, we got a mechanic or three in the family. Tio Jose Luis can fix that intake manifold no problem. All he needs is a spare weekend. You just gotta hold the flashlight and make parts runs and beer runs. Then just go to the remate and get a CD player and you’re all set.
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Mexicans have the best ghost stories. You couldn’t scare us by saying some scary monster was hiding under our beds. You know why? We didn’t have an “under the bed!” We had a box frame with the mattress on top.
Parents had to get inventive. They were always fond of one ghost story. La Llorona. Everyone has their own version of it. Here’s mine.
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