Friday, December 25, 2009

Rafa says WHAT? Latinos

Gunshots! Cocaine! Poverty! Sexy women! Know what culture I’m talking about? Big hats! How about now? No…it’s not Mexicans. It’s Latinos, and, before you say it, no…Mexicans aren’t Latinos. They are annoying and speak way to fast to be comprehensible. I kicked them out. Maybe if they had kept being awesome like the Mayans or Aztecs, I might have reconsidered. Moving on, all of the aspects described above are completely true and accurate…and also hilarious. This is what we (as I am a proud member of this community) embody; or at least what many people see us as being. Let’s take a closer look at this wonderful culture, shall we?

Skipping over the Mexicans, we arrive in South America where the beaches are beautiful and the rainforests are plenty…plenty dense enough to hide all of the cocaine farms! No, but really, this is true. If one is planning a journey to the deep jungles of South America, one must always remember to not go into Colombia. If you do, you risk being knifed, raped, shot, ripped apart, hit by a blunt object, or all of the above at the same time. Notorious for the inhospitality and the crime, Columbia is an excellent example of where not to go in the world. Now, Brazil is a place to go. If ever in South America, go to Brazil and enjoy the beaches and the much-alluded-to sexy Latino women. But, as always, be careful. If you are at the beach and happen to step two feet away from the shore line you will, I repeat, you will fall into the rainforest and be mauled to death by army ants or any of the insane and destructive animals located in its entrails.

As one moves to the islands located in the Caribbean, things really get wacky. I will now proceed to exclude more people from the Latin community. Any of the tiny, outlying islands past Puerto Rico = not Latin. A prime example of this is the U.S. Virgin Islands or St Maartin. The former belongs to the U.S. which means it is incredibly not Latin. The latter is half French which makes it bisexual…not Latin. As one moves onto the Greater Antilles, there begin to exist actual Latin people. In Puerto Rico, my homeland, the women are nice and the beaches are nicer. It is like the US, but shrunk down to about the size of a cardboard box. If one ever visits, there will be much enjoyment as long as the slum known as “La Perla” is avoided. Translated, it means “The Pearl” and, if John Steinbeck’s crappy book is any indication, this place is equally shoddy and decrepit.

Passing Puerto Rico, one arrives at Haiti and the Dominican Republic. I guess they’re Latin. They speak Spanish, right? Anyone that, when speaking English, pronounces “speak” as “spik” is most definitely Latin. The poverty-stricken landscape of this island is indicative of the bad stuff that happens when a country is Latin. Latino should be an acronym or Lots of Annoying Torment for Idiocies of Neighboring Overlords. Basically, this is what occurs. When a Latin country (like Haiti and Dominican Republic) becomes free, a fight for power ensues in which some sort of tyrant or dictator comes to power and screws everything up for everyone. In the Dominican Republic’s case, the island got split politically in two…good job.

Cuba, on the other hand, is a different story. Let’s start off by saying that Miami should just break off from the U.S. and personify a malignant tumor on Cuba’s side because its overrun with Cubans. Secondly, Fidel Castro (possibly one of the biggest and most recognized names in history) is a horrible person. He scared the Cubans so much that they sought to make another Cuba in the former’s image (hence the takeover of Miami). Now, apart from speaking like if they have a mouthful of marbles, the people are easy enough to get along with and probably provide Americans with a multitude of hearty laughs. “Oye Esse!” is a prime example. I can’t even begin to count the times when I’ve told an American I’m from Puerto Rico and the first words out of his mouth are either “Porto Ricoooo” or “Esse!” both of which are said in a crappy attempt at a Latin accent.

Now that everyone is properly acquainted with the Latin community, I will describe what everyone else perceives us as being useful for: cheap labor or jokes. The cheap labor part is self explanatory and sort of ties in with the whole joke scenario. If the person is a Latino, they must immediately know how to clean and/or cook. We are humble servants in a white world. If a Latin person walks into a house, all the White Man wants to know is if he/she can say “Si señor…” and take orders in English. This directly correlates, as mentioned beforehand, with the whole idea of jokes. As a Latin person walks into any situation, the first comment, whether serious or not, will be about some sort of cleaning or maintenance. “Shut up and clean the floor. It’s what I don’t pay you to do!” is a key example of such things. In all fairness, that is what we are…in America. Otherwise, we are perfectly dignified people. For some reason, as soon as a Latin person enters American soil, there is some sort of compulsion to clean everything in sight. I suppose this could be considered some sort of Latin AIDS. The HIV virus was made to kill gays (duh! It’s totally not a conspiracy!) the same way as this disease seems to have been created to put all useless Latinos to work. Hats off to the Americans…good job for once.

So, we have learned that Latin people are cheap laborers, have cocaine readily accessible, are poor, like to clean, are the subject of a myriad of jokes, and don’t use protection and that’s why there are so many rampant babies around. Oh, wait, I didn’t mention the last one? Well…now you know. Add that one to the list. Throughout our travels—Brazil, Colombia, not Mexico, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic (and Haiti), and Cuba—we have learned what it truly means to be a Latin person. For example, we have endeavored through our travels and attained enough knowledge to say that people in the Lesser Antilles aren’t Latin, but simply white people that interbred with Africans to create a race of islanders that the forests subsequently made savage. The whole time, though, we have still gone on without a clue as to what the Jamaican people are. I am positive they aren’t Latino. Maybe some devolved form of African American? Anyway, the main point of this is to get the message across that Latin people aren’t as bad as they are made out to be…so long as they are kept away from narcotics and knives, anything that has a vagina (ages 13-25 only), and are always working (preferably some sort of house cleaning or heavy machinery). See? Not too bad at all.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Rafa says WHAT? Africans

Africa: the cradle of civilization and the entirety of the human race. It also happens to be the cradle of Malaria, Yellow Fever, AIDS, malnourishment, overpriced oil, new age pirates, random, unpronounceable countries, ever expanding deserts, ferocious animals, killer heat, and probably the most important of them all…thorny bushes…darn those thorny bushes. Probably the only time anyone is introduced to Africans is by two means: super-sweet and tear-jerking commercials or in the Olympics. You will see what I mean.

Your favorite show has just gone on commercial break and you sit idly by, waiting for it to resume. All of a sudden, you hear a piano intro…here it comes. A picture of a sweet, dark-skinned young boy or girl appears on the screen; a slideshow of veritable slums. It is sad…depressing really. “You can adopt little Mika…and give her the chance to go to school; to live another day.” Me? Really? I wanna save Mika! She is so unbearably cute! I want to adopt a little African! …alright, what is wrong with the world? Somehow, Africans are viewed as objects to adopt and take care of. The media assumes that we are all Angelina Jolie and want to have one. They aren’t some kind of puppy or kitty! They are human beings! …at least I think. They are, right? Hm…anyway, I find it disturbing that the only thing that these little children will ever be used for is to make money. We know it’s not really going to their education…it’s going right into someone’s pocket because the only profession that the Africans will be able to pursue is that of Track Racing.

This year’s 5k…who won? A Kenyan. The Olympics…who won? A Kenyan. The World’s Best 10k…who won? A Kenyan. It seems that the only representation Africa ever gets is from the Kenyans. As if one would visit Africa and go on some quintessential safari not expecting to find any bouts of population except in Kenya and being utterly surprised when they do. In all fairness to the Kenyans, no one will ever beat them because they have the best training methods—rampant lions and some sort of venereal disease. One of them is placed in the middle of the Serengeti and, with strange clicks and vocalizations, told to find his way back to the village. Talk about intense training. He knows to avoid thick brush because a lion will chase him, and he also knows to always keep away from any kind of living organism (except for plants) because a single brush with any bioform will give him AIDS, gonorrhea, hepatitis A and B, Malaria, and sickle cell anemia…no, wait, scratch that, they’re born with that last one.

In all fairness, the Africans did contribute something to the world: Egypt. The thing is…the Egyptians aren’t even stereotypical Africans. They look like they belong somewhere in the Middle East. For all intents and purposes in my blog, Egypt and all contributions from the Egyptian culture in this blog (including the super-sweet pyramids) will now be moved to the Middle East. They are no longer a part of Africa. So, assuming that Egypt has now broken free of Africa, I am willing to propose a change to the scheme of the world continents. Change the name “Africa” to “Kenya” and vice versa. This way, everyone will know where and what “Kenya” (the new Africa) is. All of a sudden, the world will realize the importance of getting chased by ravenous beasts of the wild and selling children. “Kenya” will finally… on the map. This way, even the Americans will be able to find it. And that is a feat all in its own.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

United and my guitar

So, I had this experience and I just felt like I should share it with the people that have bothered to go on the internet, type in a long url, and proceed to read an exponentially longer blog post by me. It is these people that make my blog what it is…and yes, I am aware that right now its probably just hit the double digits. But that’s beside the point. My story begins when I was going home…

I have just recently finished my semester at college and was going to fly to my homeland of Puerto Rico. Alongside me were my trusty laptop and my good-old guitar. These two objects possessed the innate capacity to make my life heaven and destroy my shoulders at the same time. Let the reader now be aware that I was going to have to walk through two airports with my two 50+ pound carry-ons (yes…they did weigh that much). The reason that I had brought my guitar with me as a carry-on was because I was flying United. You read correctly: United. You know, the one that breaks guitars. I had remembered as I was packing that airplanes had this cool cubby thing where all the pompous people in first class placed their 500 dollar Gucci coats for safekeeping. Maybe my guitar could find a home there? As I boarded the plane, I asked the first flight attendant about the “cool cubby thing” and she looked at me blankly for a couple of seconds.

“How much money do you have?” she said.

Hmmmmm…I didn’t expect this. I decided to freeze time in my head and think about the situation (yes I do this and no I’m not schizophrenic). How should I go about this situation? …let’s try something.

I looked around and leaned closer as I whispered, “A crap load…”

She immediately started laughing and so did I and she proceeded to point towards the front of the plane. I placed my guitar safely in the cubby and sat down in my seat. 2 hours of fake airplane sleep and 250 of the 500 days of summer later, the plane had touched down. I waited for everyone to vacate the premises and headed towards the front. To my alarm, I saw people cleaning the scraps from the floor and seats in strange reflective clothing reminiscent of construction workers and blocking the entrance to the front. As I tried to scoot past them to get my guitar back, two flight attendants near the door asked me if I was looking for a guitar. I nodded.

“Oh…well…your guitar…” said one as he looked towards the floor in a bout of sadness and apology.

My eyes went wide and for the first time I was speechless. No witty comments…no funnyness…not even a comeback. UNITED DOES BREAK GUITARS!

“You’ve seen the video I take it…” said the other flight attendant.

They both stared at me in dismay. I looked back at them. No response. All of a sudden they both start laughing and the guy points behind me and there sits my guitar, comfortably cradled in one of the seats by the door. Glee…that is the only word to describe it.

No. United doesn’t break guitars—United LOVES guitars. And apparently they have a sense of humor to boot.

(Check out the full video that I mentioned in this post right here:)

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Rafa says WHAT? Europeans

Amidst the chaos of the New York streets, you enter a bar. Tired, your body slumps on the counter and you smile at the bar tender. “Scotch on the rocks on the way,” he says. He knows you oh too well. The drink arrives before you have a chance to piece together your disheveled life and you quickly down the whole thing. As the bartender sighs and takes your glass for a refill, you happen to glance to your left. In one of the booths, you notice a very suave looking man surrounded by many females of the species. You don’t understand. Sure he looks suave, but he’s not particularly handsome…what does he have that you don’t?

“Say it again! Say it again!” the girls chant.

The man calmly takes a sip from his beer and says, “Ellow.” All the girls giggle.

Ugh. It’s a European again. For some reason, those people always happen to come to another country to take away the women. Also, for some other reason that I can’t seem to grasp, women have this fantasy of some sexy French or Italian man with luscious locks that’s going to come and sweep them off of their feet. They then proceed to compare every man they ever meet to this dream image of a guy that seems to come right out of the pages of Ralph Lauren. It becomes tiresome to say the least. So, in honor—or should I say, honour—of these annoying fems, I will proceed to destroy everything they know and love about Europeans and their culture. Let this be a lesson.

Firstly, we can start out with those uber ego-centered Brits. They speak in a form of English that sounds as if they were mumbling and they call it the “proper” way. To that statement, I say this: if you are speaking in a way that the person receiving the linguistic code will assume that you have some kind of speech impediment, it’s not proper…it’s what I would like to call down syndrome. Besides that, they seem like relatively nice chaps so long as one can look past the battlefield that is their dental area. It seems that their teeth are reenacting some part of the War of Independence and, as they did a couple of hundred of years ago, they are losing. The only difference between now and then is that now they are losing all by themselves and not because the French came in to help.

Speaking of frogs—I mean, French—how’s about we see what they have to offer. Paris…The Eiffel Tower…The Louvre…beautiful cityscapes…a romantic language…bla, bla, bla. This is all an elaborate ploy to get into a myriad of easy women’s pants. Whenever they visit another country (like the US, for example), they always say things like, “Hallow…Ei would like to seeee where famus places arr in Amerrica.” And immediately after that statement, women are falling at their feet. Their secret is simple: exaggerate your accent and only talk to women with boyfriends, husbands, fiancé’s, or significant others. This is an excellent approach especially if you wink at that significant other whilst his girlfriend oogles at you. Now, here’s how you fight back! It is a well-known fact that French people have a terrible fear of shaving and cheese that doesn’t have mold on it. Arm yourself with some grade-A American cheese and some sort of a shaving blade. When one confronts the Frenchman, feed it the cheese. It will immediately choke because the cheese actually contains a non pungent flavor. When it is incapacitated, shave it…good regions to remove hair from are usually the heavily forested regions around the armpits or genitals (these areas are ubiquitous for all French and also include women). A common myth is that one should aim for the legs—don’t. They have already taken the liberty of achieving the realm of effeminated metrosexual by waxing them.

Now that we are familiar with the most famous Europeans, how’s about we move on to the Greeks and Italians? Well, they have been grouped into one because they possess many of the same characteristics: white skin, muscular build, long and flowing hair, and a musky odor that could put a bison down. If ever there was a form of euthanasia that was humane, this would be it, for as the woman stares at Paolo Rotini in awe, she slowly inhales the toxin and proceeds to die a slow, enamored death. Even though they had some of the greatest civilizations known to man (the Greeks and the Romans), I think they have milked that pot for all its worth. It’s about time to stop standing there and looking pretty like the buildings that fill the cities.

Last but not least (of the biggest and most well-known Europeans) are the Germans. They killed a bunch of people…so let’s mention it and get it out of the way. Apart from that, their most defining characteristic is that they speak as though they were about to commit some sort of horrible murderous act (all of them) and they have notoriously more hair than the French (mostly just women). Apart from the fact that they can crush a human being with their pinky, they are relatively peaceable-looking people until they open their mouths and one of two things happens: either they sound incredibly threatening or incredibly gay. This is because their voices come in a “manly” setting and in a “prepubescent boy” setting. When German is spoken in the former, it sounds like they tear small animals to bits for sport; if German is spoken in the latter, it sounds as if their anus is too accepting. Their women are no exception to this rule. They are all hairy and possess the name Olga (I’m hereby assuming that Russians don’t exist and are just fake Germans). Their powers far supersede those of the males because they are incredibly muscular and might as well possess a penis themselves.

After examining the European’s top ethnicities, what are the thoughts? Maybe the French aren’t so romantic and just feed you random food that they say has something special in it. Maybe the British are so pompous that they think they can steal our women with a simple “Ellow.” Maybe the Italians think they can row a boat and point out how beautiful one of their cities is even though it was one of the many stupid moves on their part because it is now sinking. Maybe the kilt is actually just a glorified skirt that a gay guy made into a tradition to get back to the straight community. Maybe the Netherlands and Belgium shouldn’t have pretty dikes that prevent their country from being flooded and finally erased off of the map. And maybe, just maybe, Switzerland should not even exist. I believe all of these are ploys they use to pretend to be more than they really are. This is the truth. I’m sure there might be a European right now reading this going: “Damn…this guy knows too much. We must rethink our strategies now!” All in all, one phrase sums up basically everything—“Ugh…Europeans…”