By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Dear Mexican: A gabacho in the local daily suggested that some of our prisons be outsourced to Mexico to save us some money. What are your thoughts? Would wabs make for good guards looking after homies and white-trash inmates? Have a chew on that taco.
—Mike the Mick from Missouri
Dear Mick: My thoughts? Ew...a Missouri taco.
I'm planning to do some landscaping at my farm and wanted to know: is it better to hire the Mexicans looking for work who wait at Lowes or the ones who wait at Home Depot? Which ones will do the best work?
Dear Gabacho: Neither. Try the ones at the local union, so a farmer can pay a non-exploitative wage to Mexicans for once.
I was recently at a Mexican beach where people kept coming up trying to sell me jewelry, key chains, time-share condos and all kinds of other shit I didn't want. What I wanted was a joint. Virtually everyone I asked told me he'd go see his cousin and would be back in an hour. None of them ever came back. What happened?
Dear Gabacho: They left for los Estados Unidos. Figured all Americans are as pendejo as you.
How I do I explain a dead Mexican in my bed? Moments before, he was alive and muy caliente. But when I mentioned matrimonio, he stopped and looked at me with wide eyes. Then, that was it. El fin, like it says at the end of an old Mexican movie with Pedro Infante. Is this how Mexican lovers normally react?
—Sonriendo gringa en Tucson
Dear Smiling Gabacha: The reaction you describe is endemic to all guys, not just wabs. No, the standard Mexican hombres coitus finish is spilled horchata, a satiated chica and a new soldier for the Reconquista.
What is it with Mexicans and shoes? Or is it Mexicans and shoe stores? Is it a Mexican-national thing only or are Mexican-Americans enamordos con zapatos y zapaterías, también? Here's a story: my sis-in-law had a baby shower for her first baby and her cousin-in-law, a Mexican national from Tijuana, gave her and her bebe SHOES—stiff, shiny, leather (plastic?) SHOES—even though the little guy was a good 8-10 months away from starting to walk. What's going on here?
Dear Gabacho: We like shoes! They help us kick gabacho ass, flee gabachos, climb over them for jobs, stomp on their illusions of a monolingual America, jump over their walls and teach good posture for all of the above acciones.
What is it with Mexicans, beer, LOUD music and prepaid phone cards? Every day, they buy a five-dollar phone card that they say they are using to call Mexico, but I know those cards have five-plus hours on them. Is that what they do all day after getting drunk from cheap beer? I lived in a once-quiet and peaceful Asian and Anglo-Saxon neighborhood, but after 10 Mexicans moved into one of the houses, I have been up all night into ungodly hours.
Dear Gabacha: Those Mexicans are courting you. And, judging by your intimate knowledge of your neighbors' phone use, it's working!
Don't you get tired of answering these ignorant questions and somehow becoming the voice of all Mexican-Americans, because Lord knows you guys are ALL the same (just a hint of sarcasm there)? I understand that if you didn't set a few people straight they'd never know and they'd continue to wallow around in their ignorance, but don't you just want to slap them? Maybe a little bit? Just to get it out of your system?
Dear Gabacho: No on all counts. Ignorance-busting is a muy bueno career and written patadas beat physical cachetadas (use a Spanish-English dictionary, gabachos) in any era.