John Manning wrote:
> I Pack the Meat That Todo el Mundo Eat
>
> SO THERE I WAS, doing what all the top-rated Mexican Americans do on a
> Wednesday, por supuesto. Just sort of lazily, self-indulgently and
> unproductively massaging my seductively oily forehead and leaning
> against a choice telephone pole on the corner. I thought to myself, "It
> sure would be nice if I had some work. You know? But really, it would be
> nicer if I didn't." And with each gentle nudge of my temple, I willed
> all potential employers far away from the curb underneath my wing tips.
>
> The sun glinted off of my cholo-stylie shades and in the still and warm
> morning, I was content to reflect upon the day while stroking my
> elegantly-angled mustachio. I could hear a small plane humming in the
> distance and as I cocked my ear to fully absorb the sound, I found
> myself (idly) hoping I could start my siesta early. The excitement of
> the morning was wearing down what little urge I had to contribute to
> national productivity. And after all, I had to take care of myself. This
> is very important for Americans. I know. I have a TV. Many expensive
> lotions and powders and creams and medicines and foods are needed to
> nurture an hombre's comfort. And it was almost time for my 10 am
> application of Peaches and Cream.
>
> As I watched the tumbleweeds roll by, I reflected on how fantastico it
> is that mi papá was born in America (instead of in Mexico, like mi
> abuelo) and that we (and my family line) have been given such a glorious
> chance to not live in Mexico and to have a shot at the Great American
> Dream Life. And this is a thought that regularly occurs to me.
>
> I usually engage in this bit of Mexican Reflection on Wednesdays, and
> usually near the meat-packing plant up the road from my pad. Because
> that's where I chill, you know?
>
> Truth is, us Mexicans love meat-packing. Despite the notions to the
> contrary. Ay, Dios mio, we love it! Mmm-mmm-mmm. Personally, I could
> pack meat all the live-long day. And that's why so many of us would do
> just about anything to snag such an esteemed position. I mean it can be
> a very tough decision, choosing between a life of meat-packing,
> spinach-yanking, yardwork, and hotel-room cleaning. I have solved this
> particular dilemma by devoting my life to the maintenance of a very
> beautiful mustache, and letting other less-important considerations sort
> of drift. Let history be the decider of who was gainfully employed and
> who was a ladron-a thief-stealing from the American people, ¿qué no?
>
> Suddenly, as I was feeling the warming effects of such thoughts spread
> throughout my entire being like a tidal habanero tingle, La Migra
> entered the driveway, many vans jamming the space.
>
> ICE vans filled with armed and hostile men and women tipped into the
> parking lot, and emptied. A clumping cluster of intense jackbooted
> individuals hit the pavement, one after another. I watched them flood
> the sidewalk with their dark uniforms, their guns, cuffs, opaque shades,
> and was immediately furious that all the dust from their spinning tires
> and flappy movements was clouding up my sunny moment. For a moment I
> honestly considered crossing to the other side of the street, but found
> I just didn't have the energy for such a massive effort.
>
> So I relaxed back into my lean. And dug down into my empathy bag a
> little as I watched the stormtroopers approach the warehouse from
> multiple sides. What a shame. What a shame, I thought, desiring a tall,
> icy, well-sweetened slurpee drink. These particular Mexicanos had
> finally reached the pinnacle of happiness-a life working for humble
> wages doing mindless American labor in the shadows-and here was Uncle
> Alberto to take it all away. I sighed. At leeest they were able to
> feeeel like hard-working, tax-paying Americans for a leeetle while, I
> thought to myself in a thick Spanish "Three Amigos" type accent. And it
> was true. Nobody could take that away.
>
> It seemed like the ideal moment for that slurpee. So I bopped up off the
> telephone pole and prepared to make my way to the nearest 7-11. I
> figured there was just too much activity on the main road, so I skipped
> across the property and came out on a parallel street. I spotted a
> convenience store in the distance, and began to make my way there. It
> was only then that I noticed one of the ICE vans coming up the road,
> probably lagging behind the earlier ones. I was walking casually, and
> not as if in a hurry, but the van did not pass me. It pulled over right
> as it reached me, so I stood and waited for them to roll down the
> window. It opened, but only for six inches or so.
>
> A face with black sunglasses appeared in the dim slit. It spoke.
>
> "Where you going? You work at the plant?"
>
> "No, Señohhhhr," I began, to my own horror. I was using my internal
> Three Amigos® voice out loud! I cleared my throat. "Sorry, officer. Heh.
> Just, you know. Thinking of a movie I was watching on my General
> Electric television the other day. It was given to me by my maternal
> grandmother."
>
> The cop did not move but only stared.
>
> "She was born in New York," I said thoughtfully. "While I was born in
> California. Interesting."
>
> The cop could have been an angry painting.
>
> "I know all this self-reflection is quite American," I continued,
> grinning widely so my well-polished teeth could show. The cop seemed to
> be waiting.
>
> "I hate meat! And those who pack it!" I yelled, happily. I made a "yukky
> spinach face" to the stoic agent of government. "I WAS ACCEPTED TO CORNELL!"
>
> The face lifted its welder-grade sunglasses a millimeter and peered at
> my arm.
>
> "You look brown," it said, flatly.
>
> "I, I, I'm part Saudi-Arabian!" I said, suddenly wishing I had different
> headgear.
>
> "Then what are you doing in such a poor area? And why are you wearing a
> sombrero?" La Migra asked, gruffly.
>
> I swept the hat off my head with mock-horror.
>
> "I knew that man was not just 'patting my head as a friend'!" I said,
> smoothing my hair, as I thought carefully. The well-sweetened slurpee
> was screaming over all the traffic noise, but I knew I had been asked a
> very important question and I had to concentrate. The answer could mean
> the difference between going home and who knows what awaited those poor
> meat-packers.
>
> "Well, Mi-er, officer, I'm on my way to the garage. I just had my Jag
> winterized. Then, I have to pick up my wife for her Botox appointment,
> and we're going to get our twins put on Ritalin for their birthday."
>
> There was a mumble from the back of the van. The window rolled up, and
> it sped away.
>
> I could only sigh with relief as my heart pounded all to hell inside my
> chest. After a moment, I leaned down and picked up my fine sombrero and
> placed it back onto my well-coiffed hair. I twirled my mustachio three
> times for good luck, mumbled a prayer to the Virgen de Guadalupe, and
> then, such as was my destiny on that fine day, I thanked God I was an
> American and set out for my luscious dessert.
> ___
>
> ~~ Nezua Limón Xolagrafik-Jonez blogs as The Unapologetic Mexican and
> never, ever drinks Slurpees.
> http://patriotboy.blogspot.com/2006_...758400936 542

Was de Virgen de Guadalupe 'hoing out of the Church of Inadvertent
Flatulence?

ted