MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART I)

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and it happens a lot.

PART I
I took the weekend off so that I didn't end up on a kill-crazy rampage. On the way out of the office, one of my least favorite co-workers cashed in on a promise I made, oh... let's say on Angela Lansbury's 8th birthday. I promised her, waywayway back when, that I'd use my Godly writing skills ("skillz") to co-author an environmentally-themed article for a hippie-themed magazine. Basically our conversation went thusly:

she: "Hey, I was thinking we could write an article together about blah blah blah boys blah blah the mall blah blah blah chewing gum blah blah stickers."
me: "Uh-huh, sure, sounds good, let me know what you were thinking, uh-huh, yea, cool!" TRANSLATION: "I am not listening to you. I am thinking about soup. Please get the fuck out of my office."
she: "Awesome! I'll write my half and then send it to you, and you can write your half!"
me: "Yup. I'll do that. Just send me what you've got and let me know when my half is due!"
TRANSLATION: "I am still not listening. I am using words that you used so you think I am listening. I will say whatever I have to say so that you will leave and I can go home, do the dishes, look at internet pornography, and drink a beer in the shower."

Then I forgot all about making this promise until Friday.

At 6:00pm Friday, February 9th, 14 hours before I left town, at my favorite coffee-and-gelato shop, I opened up my email to find one half of an article due a mere six hours in the future. I attempted to open the file. The file would not open. I used my skillz to MAKE the file open. The document was full of gibberish (non-representational symbols). I used my skillz to convert the symbols to readable text. The readable text was full of gibberish (incoherent ramblings of a semi-intoxicated 4 year-old).

I understood the majority of the individual words on the page, but I could not understand how they fit together to form even a whimper of a coherent thought. No matter how long I stared at the words or how many times I slammed my cranium against a marble statue of Tony Henry in the corner, I could not figure out how, oh merciful God, how a literate person could have produced such insanity. I quickly realized 1) I was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than I had originally intended, and 2) I would rather shit in a pillowcase and mail that to the magazine instead of this current abortion of a literary piece. People might think, "yes, he put his name on a pillow case, defecated into that pillowcase, and then submitted the pillowcase for publication," but they would also think, "at least he didn't spell his name with a Hello Kitty sticker."

Stormclouds formed behind my brow. Lightning struck my brain. Faint whiffs of steam began to rise from my ear sockets. I picked up the phone and dialed the coworker's number.

"Hello?" said a man's voice on the other end of the line.
"Hi, is RuPaul* there?" I inquire, smoothing out the tremmor in my voice [*RuPaul is a made-up name. Her name is not really RuPaul]
"Who??"
"RuPaul? Could I speak to RuPaul, please?" I ask politely.
"um...."
"I'm sorry, but I think I may have the wrong number," I offer. I'm a Midwesterner. I have an extremely polite phone voice. The situation did not warrant such a courteous offering from me, but there's no sense in being curt with a stranger.
The voice answered back with, "Uh, yea, I think you DO..."

To which he added, "...QUEER!!"

Many patrons of the coffee-and-gelato shop would later remember hearing a sharp sound from somewhere close by, somewhat akin to the noise large bubblewrap blisters make when ruptured or a dry stick splintered over a knee. The sound came from deep inside my lizard brain where the decision to transform from "I am mildly annoyed" to "some motherfucker's gonna die, kill, kill, kill" gets made. If you'd have stuck a thermometer in my mouth at that moment it would not have read a balmy-yet-homeostatic 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermometer would have read, "hot lava; his blood is hot lava right now."

Then I blacked out. When I awoke, I performed such feats of literary alchemy I would have made both Marcel Proust and David Copperfield proud of me (for "magic" reasons, not "rape" reasons... apparently he's an alleged rapist. Too bad he couldn't make those rape charges disappear, huh!? Am I right, folks?! High five!!). Anyway, I win. Score one for the Gipper.

I went home, 1) made myself a bloody mary, 2) drank a bloody mary, and 3) repeated steps 1 and 2 until step 1 became too hard. I awoke the next morning in deference to (or maybe in an artful dodge of) renal failure to a kick-ass vacation weekend.

Score.

PART II
(to be continued... I will answer the "WHAT drunken, +50 hotel prostitute?" question)