A Tubular Take

Juan‘s punch is pleased. Dr. Malan and your host go back many lunas. Doc’s Dodge Ram and medical kit were indispensable when paying my dues on the incantatory Yaqui stand-up circuit. The Doctor, known throughout southern Mexico as El Luz Callon, is quite lucky with firm senoritas and arty hat dances requiring fireworks. I still burst into girly squeals over the ‘ice pick incident‘. Please excuse me while I gasp for air. Ah, in pain but off the plywood. I’ll save stories about our lengthy incarceration inside Yucatan’s Pero que Dices prison for Valentine’s Day.
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The Republicans have recalled Joe the Plumber from Gaza. This can only mean they’re getting serious about countering President Obama’s reckless job creation plan. Sammy Joe must strike a nerve with cage fight fans who prefer their lobotomized Will Rogers served with raw alopecia. Col. Larry “Pickles” Pepper, Sammy Joe’s agent, called me last week wanting to know if I was interested in ghost writing his meal ticket’s autobiography, tentatively titled “Joe Two Good Four Ewe: WTF?”

“NO!” said Juan.
“Come on, Juan. Doesn’t baby need new shoes”?
“I’m busy”.
“Since when?”
“Since Juan read Rick Warren’s book. Jesus wants me to live large. I’m working full-time, five hours a week. I’m allowed to slap the Old Lady around so long as there’s no tell-tale serious bruising. Juan’s blessed”.

And that was that; the connection went muerto. Add Pickles receiving lap dance-while-driving to the growing list of dangers associated with bumpy distractions when getting soaked in Verizon‘s wireless tub.
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Wonderful news: Work continues on the border fence. Real Americans will soon recapture jobs lost to shifty Mexicans. Juan can’t decide between a career in motel housekeeping or tackling the challenging opportunities available in areas that require college degrees, like live poultry evisceration. I’ll have to pray for guidance when making that decision. Unfortunately, Pastor Rick said shaking the Magic 8 Ball is not a sanctioned prop when beseeching divine instruction. However, draped in an official Saddleback prayer hoodie gives the petitioner an edge over those who worry Rosary beads. On a lighter note, Pastor Rick asked if Juan would please stop referring to tail gate parties as further processed animal sacrifices.
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Madame Rosa is convinced Tom Daschle’s red eyeglasses sank his confirmation schooner. I agree. Since when have rich lobbyists paid their fair share? Tom would be shunned, barred from the capital’s finer restaurants, if he treated his taxable income like an average middle-class schmuck. Another Tom is livid.

“Liberals are pussies!” shouted Tom Delay, Sugarland’s colorful bug exterminator. When asked to elaborate, the former “Hammer” made obscene gestures with a rubber hose. The small crowd that gathered around his van offered encouragement, egging him on to perform more revolting acts with his spray tank’s long appendage. Visibly exhausted after fifteen minutes of manic debauchery, poisonous tubing his profligate prop, Delay finally collapsed to scattered applause. Kathy Lopez viewed this as proof he’s planning a political comeback.
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Juan is saddened that Olympic hero, Michael Phelps, has tasted bong water. Our culture has gone up in smoke. It was only a matter of time. Dobson’s Gawd, like Elvis, has left the building and is eating fried chicken where metal girdle straps mean rough love for sexually confused adolescent males.

Juan