A city councilman in Chula Vista, California, which borders my home town of San Diego, has filed a complaint with that city’s Human Resources department, alleging that Chula Vista’s mayor, Mary Casillas Salas, was being racially discriminatory when she said, “John, you’re such a gringo,” when the Caucasian councilman said the food at the Mexican restaurant where both were dining was too spicy for his tastes.
Used to be in this grand country of ours, if a man had a case of dwarf testicles, he concealed it. Those days are long past on the national stage, of course, with professional small-nutters like Charlie Kirk making a good living by complaining that the Super Bowl halftime show was “sexual anarchy,” even though there was no sex and only Mary J Blige showed any skin. Tucker Carlson proudly displays the pearls in his pubic fuzz every time he complains about AOC’s being too sexy to be in politics.
Yes, I said pearls. They’re white and they’re small. Still tinier testes are owned by the Former Caucasian-in-Chief, who whines about “racism” every time he gets served a court order. The entire Republican Congress, with few exceptions, are nutless wonders entirely, having sacrificed their manhoods on the altar of the Orange Lie-Boy.
It is still a shame that this trend has percolated all the way out here to San Diego. Generally, we San Diegans embrace our gringo natures. We live among our Mexican neighbors in peace, gratefully accepting their services as landscapers, plumbers, roofers and mayors. We eat at taco shops that serve burritos the size of one of Dwayne Johnson’s forearms and hot sauce that could burn the paint off of the Space X capsule. We drink Modelo Negras and fishbowl-size margaritas. We laugh at the tourists who try to pronounce our street names.
All of us have underestimated a hot sauce at one time or another, and scooped our chip too deep in it. The proper thing to do when this happens is to gag, sneeze, weep, and have your face turn a sunset shade of red, while all your dining companions laugh at you. To be called a gringo at that point is the least of your worries.
But the politician in question, John McCann, shamed us all and himself and incidentally proved that his cajones were the size of hummingbird huevos, by filing his complaint. The complaint was dismissed some months later when he was advised, in proper legal form, to grow a pair.
I urge him to accept multiculturalism. I have. In fact, in my refrigerator, I keep a prime example of the blending of white and Hispanic food values. It’s a bottle of chipotle mayonnaise. Goes great on my tacos de pescado gringo viejo,* for which I am modestly famous.
Squirt some on your tuna salad sandwich, McCann. It’ll warm up those frozen peas in your tightie-whities.
*Old white guy fish tacos.
Used to be in this grand country of ours, if a man had a case of dwarf testicles, he concealed it. Those days are long past on the national stage, of course, with professional small-nutters like Charlie Kirk making a good living by complaining that the Super Bowl halftime show was “sexual anarchy,” even though there was no sex and only Mary J Blige showed any skin. Tucker Carlson proudly displays the pearls in his pubic fuzz every time he complains about AOC’s being too sexy to be in politics.
Yes, I said pearls. They’re white and they’re small. Still tinier testes are owned by the Former Caucasian-in-Chief, who whines about “racism” every time he gets served a court order. The entire Republican Congress, with few exceptions, are nutless wonders entirely, having sacrificed their manhoods on the altar of the Orange Lie-Boy.
It is still a shame that this trend has percolated all the way out here to San Diego. Generally, we San Diegans embrace our gringo natures. We live among our Mexican neighbors in peace, gratefully accepting their services as landscapers, plumbers, roofers and mayors. We eat at taco shops that serve burritos the size of one of Dwayne Johnson’s forearms and hot sauce that could burn the paint off of the Space X capsule. We drink Modelo Negras and fishbowl-size margaritas. We laugh at the tourists who try to pronounce our street names.
All of us have underestimated a hot sauce at one time or another, and scooped our chip too deep in it. The proper thing to do when this happens is to gag, sneeze, weep, and have your face turn a sunset shade of red, while all your dining companions laugh at you. To be called a gringo at that point is the least of your worries.
But the politician in question, John McCann, shamed us all and himself and incidentally proved that his cajones were the size of hummingbird huevos, by filing his complaint. The complaint was dismissed some months later when he was advised, in proper legal form, to grow a pair.
I urge him to accept multiculturalism. I have. In fact, in my refrigerator, I keep a prime example of the blending of white and Hispanic food values. It’s a bottle of chipotle mayonnaise. Goes great on my tacos de pescado gringo viejo,* for which I am modestly famous.
Squirt some on your tuna salad sandwich, McCann. It’ll warm up those frozen peas in your tightie-whities.
*Old white guy fish tacos.
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