Dear Mexican: I'm a gay man in his mid-30s who has always loved Mexican men. And this question is not only from my experience, but also that of friends: Why is it that Mexican men are so flaky? They seem the top offending ethnicity in this. And by flaky, I mean not returning calls, giving out their number but never answering or returning voicemails, canceling for lame reasons after initially being very interested, etc. (I'd like to know what they do with all this free time from NOT going out on dates.) Just seems like it's their nature and/or cultura to only be interested in what's in front of them at the moment. What is your take on this?
—Queer and Questioning
Dear Joto: You and everyone else who writes in with their romantic conundrums involving Mexicans should always ask themselves before consulting the Mexican: Is it me? Ladies: When hombres wolf-whistle at you, can it possibly be because you're beautiful and not because Mexicans are inherently lecherous? Same with you, Queer: Maybe your flaky Mexican papi chulos just don't think you're their cup of horchata and are too kind to tell you in person. That said, Mexican men are the least flaky men on Earth. Think about it: Aztec prophecy claimed their descendants would reclaim ancestral lands in the southwest United States—and guess what?
It would help the Mexican cause if other Americans knew of any historic Mexican heroes. Anglos mostly only know about Santa Anna and Pancho Villa, who were both cluster fucks. Cesar Chavez is one shining star—are there any others we should know about?
—Super Duper Gringo
Dear Readers: I know, I know: I shouldn't bother with this question, since it's so obviously a put-on and any answer is ultimately Sisyphean—even if I revealed that Chuy Christ himself was Mexican, Americans would still trash their swarthy amigos. But let's play, shall nosotros? Following is a partial list of heroic Mexicans whose accomplishments benefit every gabacho:
Luis Miramontes was a co-creator of the birth control pill, which lets gabachos screw without shame or worrying about out-reproducing Mexicans.
Mario Molina helped discover that chlorofluorocarbons were eating up the ozone layer like illegals do our social services.
The Virgin of Guadalupe protects all Catholics in her role as the Empress of the Americas and convinces God to spare non-Papists from hell.
Juventino Rosas wrote "Over the Waves," a waltz that provides much merriment whenever a cartoon needs to show people getting seasick.
Salma Hayek's breasts.
Rebecca Webb Carranza popularized the tortilla chip, ensuring the Super Bowl's survival.
And last, but certainly not least, the millions of Mexican immigrants in los Estados Unidos who write the paychecks of Lou Dobbs and his pendejo pundit pals and make life much cheaper for the rest of us.
SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION ALERT! And with this, the Mexican formally bids adios, effective the feast day of Saint Melito. It's been a great run, cabrones, but all the hateful e-mail, all the attacks by PC pendejos and the fact that few of you have bothered to submit video questions to my YouTube channel wear on a guy, you know? Besides, like Mr. Dooley, Olle I Skratthult and The Katzenjammer Kids before me, this column's time has come: It's no longer necessary to explain Mexicans to Americans because Mexicans are Americans. Gracias for all the fights, the propositions of sexy time explosion and the slugged-back tequila shots after book signings, but there's a little ranchito in Zacatecas waiting for me and a barefoot muchacha ready to cook dinner. Vaya con Dios, America, and always remember: Order the enchilada-and-taco combo TO GO.
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