From the Land
of Burros but No Asses
I’m visiting my cousin, CE, in his new temporary digs in
Mexico. I can’t believe Aero México tried to charge
me for two seats because of my natural endowments. Hell, there were
empty seats on the plane. And I bought ten drinks. They backed down,
finally. But the noive!
I can’t believe CE has shamed his extended family by actually
growing skinnier on Mexican food. What a gastronomic oxymoron! I
think he was nearing 270 when he left Long Beach, but from his baggy
jeans I can see he’s already broken one zero and may pass
another if I don’t get him to the right eateries. And his
beautiful wife, Kathleen, and their dog, Kenyon, have also lost
weight. Must be the altitude of this central plateau.
Naturally this fact has filled me with trepidation regarding my
own well-upholstered frame, the ultimate soft landing for every
woman who adores me. I have lovely sofa ladies on every continent
except Australia, where the weather’s just too damn hot and
the woman are too easy. No challenge obtaining platypussy there;
in fact, it’s probably the best place for me to spend a sexual
wombatical, not that I’m in any hurry to do so. And did I
mention their beach culture renders most of the female population
too wiry for my tastes in any case? I have to skulk around the diabetic
clinics to find someone even faintly attractive.
Now for Mexican women, most of whom are mestizos of mixed Indian
and Spanish descent. It’s a sad, sad fact, but Mexico should
be known as the land of flat asses. Pancake keisters. Nalgas
The more Indian blood in a woman here, the more likely it is that
properly heated, her posterior could iron my dress shirts without
leaving a single crease. Most mujeras are built squarely
and carry weight in their bellies and limbs without an extra ounce
to donate to that great hemisphere of feminine supremacy, as typified
by Serena Williams, whose marvelous plum adorns the American sports
pages. I don’t know if she’s an athlete in bed, and
though a little anorexic, I’d take her if she’d have
me, though we might require a few extra pillows.
I have several theories to explain the tortilla butt of the average
Mexican woman. Chief among them is the fact that I have yet to see,
much less sit upon, a cushiony chair or couch since coming here.
One has three choices for seating: wood, stone, or metal. I suppose
the original Indians sat on stone, and viewing evolution from a
LaMarckian standpoint (my bottom line), it’s easy to see how
their asses have flattened over the centuries. The European influx
has gifted perhaps 5% of mestizo women with a respectable ass, based
on my initial observations. And most of them, as elsewhere in this
perverted world, are also afflicted by relative anorexia, given
And how I hate this new retro-plague of hip-hugger jeans! As if
their asses weren’t square enough without emphasizing the
bisection of a square into two equal rectangles with only an imaginary
a waist above. I thought the ‘60s were over (good riddance
Paula Prentiss), but these new low-cut pants have descended to parts
south, a fashion disaster if ever there was one. One dermal rectangle
and one covered in denim. Hip-huggers have criminally de-emphasized
the female ass even on those who possess one. Then all the friggin’
gay designers probably like it, as they seem intent on transforming
girls into boys and vice-squat-versa.
An ass, first of all, requires a waist for proper definition. I
expect the measurements of most Mexican women are something like
34-32-32-- built like the proverbial brick shithouse.
By the way, I long since devised a system to quantify the female
figure. The breasts are designated first, the ass second, and the
legs last. A, B, and C are used to designate types. An AAA, for
instance, denotes mosquito-bite tits, a flat ass, and stork legs—think
of a long distance runner or Olive Oyl. B is for medium, neither
flat nor flush, a woman with the suggestion of curves but not truly
curvaceous. C is for parts fully fleshed as in Marilyn Monroe. Every
woman’s figure can be classified accordingly.
Relative weight can be denoted by appending a number. If no number
is added it means the woman is of normal weight, a 1 (or anorexic
in my book). A 2 corresponds to pleasantly padded, though beyond
Reubenesque, but a 3 must be positively Dweebleresque. Thus the
perfect woman, for my purposes, would resemble Marilyn Monroe inflated
to at least 250 lbs., the classic ‘C3-C3-C3.’ (Any resemblance
to airplane monikers in my system is purely coincidental, but you
know I like soft landings.) If the figure is not proportional, say
a square-bodied woman with a big rack, average butt and skinny legs,
one can also denote the separate parts, as in a C2-B-A.
So, Serena Williams, because her rack is not quite of ‘C’
quality, though her legs are fine, would be a ‘B-C2-C,’
even if her ass has more muscle mass than most. We’re talking
shape here, not subcutaneous composition. Most Mexican women are
‘B-A-Bs,’ although Barbara Streisand herself qualifies
as a C-C-C, and I know because she was the first to wear a transparent
plastic dress to the Oscars. Isn’t this fun? Madonna’s
a CBC, as is Demi Moore. Poor girls, not even the greatest personal
trainer can turn a B ass into a C. Butt implants are now available
(I even read of an Italian woman who left a pair of them in her
will for a friend), but I can’t imagine how uncomfortable
they must be when sitting on stone. (Wouldn’t any woman with
both a tit and butt job be forced to sleep on her side.) Moreover,
considering these grotesque deceptions plastic surgeons have invented,
did you know that because of internal scarring, they must be replaced
apx. every ten years, just like artificial joints? What an assle!
What Mexican women need to compete in the global sex market is
an influx of new blood. We all know most black women are either
CCBs or BCBs, their legs usually Bs because of skinny calves. But
if we were to export, say, five million shiftless black deadbeat
roostering dads and spread them throughout Mexico, emptying much
of the American prison population for nonviolent crimes, the resulting
generation of Mexican women might approach perfection, especially
since they would, besides being hindly gifted, also overcome the
chicken leg gene so common among blacks. Their main remaining defect
would be a certain broad-shoulderedness, but somebody has to carry
water uphill. And if fed properly, I could come back in twenty years
and have a flock of 3C-3C-3Cs at my disposal.
Speaking of disposal, a word about Mexican plumbing. Besides the
fact that the seats are too narrow and shallow for any respectable
industrial-sized butt like my own, the pipes are too fragile to
handle any paper, so after you wipe your arse you must throw your
original Jackson Pollock miniature in the trash. I find this a great
help, not only as a casual Rorschach for my usual jovial mood, but
also as a preview to the color and consistency of my stool (and
in Mexico that seems to be a day-to-day proposition, especially
if one can’t resist greasy street vendors, and I can’t).
So while meditating on the throne upon which the blessed Elvis was
assumpted, you can get actually preview the impending revelation
of your glorious waste before adding it to the local reservoirs
from which Mexicans obtain their tap water. I’ve noticed I’ve
been producing more bile here for some reason, experiencing a slight
Doppler shift towards green. Yet even I have the good taste not
to bore you with the bland, watery, bleached yellow offerings the
occasional case of turista inflicts.
Did I mention this was an artistic town?
“People under 50 talk about sex while those over 50 talk
about their bowels.” Being on the cusp, or crease, as it were,
I can’t resist trumpeting both. And ye of superior breeding,
with your linen tablecloths and crystal chandeliers, O tell me how
often the latter (nether) subject comes up in conversation during
even the most exalted repasts! Isn’t it only natural to discuss
an exit strategy while swallowing a culinary invasion? A well-balanced
man should be equally at ease in discussing his exits and entrances,
I think. To quote Abraham Maslow: “A self-actualized person
has no aversion to bodily functions.” I don’t think
the good psychologist takes his point far enough, however. I believe
a self-actualized person, in his bodily self-esteem, should glory
in his bodily functions. And anyone who claims otherwise I consider
a hippo-(shit)-crite. Who doesn’t like the smell of his own?
“The quality of life depends upon the liver.” (I would
mention one exception, however: following an over-ingestion of garlic,
the garlic-fart or “gart” can be intolerable even to
Another unfortunate thing about this town where CE has flown to
escape his nonexistent fans (though I could swear I heard him singing
“I am a net god!” in the shower): as in other lands,
even if women gain a healthy amount of subcutaneous lipoid deposits,
their shape remains the same. But I do have my greedy eyes on one
woman in particular, a B2-B2-B2 whom I’ll call “Maria.”
My ambition, I’m sorry to confess, is not purely sexual, as
she has a thriving pharmacy downtown and is the wealthiest woman
in town, owning near half the real estate according to the cabbies.
Fortyish, a legend in her own prime, she has buried either five
or six husbands depending on whom you talk to. (Speaking of cabs,
it is a great indignity to my MarlonBrandonian, OrsonWellesean ass
to try and squeeze into the little Nissans here. I sometimes fear
my left cheek may interfere with shifting, but have had no accidents
yet, thank the Great Behind.)
Back to Maria. Not a bad ass for a Mexican, and with proper feeding
it might even improve enough to satisfy my Hindenbergian fetish.
(Ah, Serena!) As I am normally the one who gets paid in any relationship
of pleasure, having a reputation as “Gigolosaurus to the Well-Upholstered,”
I can make an exception for a woman of great wealth. I have expensive
habits, after all, though no nun.
What remains to be ascertained is whether she has buried five or
six husbands, as I would only volunteer to be the lucky seventh.
Of her last two husbands, the first was a wealthy Mexican doctor,
the second an even wealthier American. Already pregnant from her
late Mexican husband, she re-married quickly and in her legendary
persuasiveness led the American husband (#6?) to believe the dark
(moreno) boy thus conceived was his own. The locals still laugh
about how the dumb gringo used to carry the boy around, though they
were too polite (else respectful of Maria) to tell him the obvious
Further, if I become her seventh husband, I may even survive her,
else succumb to a natural death, as my body has been a toxic waste
dump ever since I drank my first beer at age five. I stand (or preferably
sit) unbloodied and unbowed after over forty years of abusing food,
drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, and every other oral or psychedelic
pleasure to be had on this earth, including Jimson Weed and glue-sniffing.
Although Maria owns a busy pharmacy and has access to all manner
of lethal drugs, I wouldn’t even need to hire a taster. Anyone
who tries to poison the mighty Dweebler has a big surprise coming.
I’m not Hamlet’s father, for God’s sake; I think
even Lucretia Borgia would have given up on me. I’m the fat
white mouse who’s escaped every research facility in the world,
both accredited and non-accredited. Before I discovered my gift
with the large ladies, my income was mainly derived from paid volunteer
studies for new drugs. Others sometimes died but I never suffered
a single side effect. I could out-Rasta Bob Marley (dead of lung
cancer at 38) or out-drink Richard Burton, Richard Harris and Peter
O’Toole combined. And I can definitely out-eat Marlon Brando,
wandering in a flowered mumu on his island in Tahiti.
I could out-dose Timothy Leary or Baba Ram Das-- speaking of whom,
my dim cousin, that inexcusable fan of the late pencil-thin mummy,
T.S. Eliot, likes to discuss the greatness of T. S. Eliot’s
Four Quartets. I read Baba Ram Das in high school, and
he said the same thing as Eliot much more succinctly in just the
title of his book, BE HERE NOW.
God, how he bores me, cousin CE and his pretentious attachment
to highbrow literature! He doesn’t even like WrestleMania,
but I hear rumors his guest editor for this issue is publishing
something called "PoemMania." Fuck all the anemic blueblood
wannabes. Give me a hot dog and a John Wayne flick!
Anyway, in my plan to court Maria (while temporary propinquity
beckons), I have been frequenting her pharmacy and stocking up on
corticosteroids to increase my girth, more round my moon face, perhaps
even achieve the classic, pathognomonic “buffalo hump”
of Cushing’s disease, so ass to render my corpus even more
irresistible. Thus far I haven’t asked her to dinner, but
love foam has passed between our eyes if I’m not mistaken,
though my eyes have been squeezed a bit tight by my attendant flesh.
It’s not that I need glasses, more swimming goggles to keep
my upper lids from obscuring my pupils entirely. Plastic surgery
is good for something, I suppose.
There’s a saying down here, “It doesn’t matter
how many times you’re married or divorced, only the last spouse
is for keeps.” And if I achieve such hallowed status with
Maria, I plan to be for keeps, although she may be in danger of
being crushed during the act, which would, of course, not only make
me innocent of her death but also the wealthiest man in town, with
a free pipeline to all the drugs I want. What’s important
is that she believes I have money, so I’m always flashing
my wad of pesos around and dropping bills on the linoleum when I
visit her business, ignoring them as children and employees happily
scoop them up. If my strategy succeeds, I may soon be stashing my
wad as well. And then I’ll fatten up Maria and all will be
well, all manner of things shall be well.
One last word: As for my dim cousin, CE, he may be the luckiest
man in town, as his wife, the beautiful Kathleen, without
my indiscreetly assigning her letters and numbers, has a real waist
and a behind to beat all the natives in this ass-forsaken town,
white as the moon to boot (or so I imagine, never having had the
pleasure of seeing it). Good thing she’s too skinny for moi
or I might be tempted to work my sofa magic on her. What she sees
in my cousin I’ll never know, though as a surgeon and musician
he reputedly has good hands.
I will say no more lest I wear out my welcome here, but I sure
hope I don’t wear out my ass; it seems the most precious commodity
here in Flatland, Mexico.
--Dweebler A. (‘A’ is for Asshole) Cramden