Quotes & Jokes by Al Madrigal
Then I get there and I swear - it's San Jose, CA - there's 2,000 Mexicans. And you know you're half-Mexican when you walk in and you're like, 'Damn. This is a lot of Mexicans. Only half of me is the only white guy here.'
We're down in Mexico. It's for a bachelor party, so we go into a Mexican strip club... I go back with this woman down a murky hallway, and then without missing a beat - these ladies are all business - she goes, 'Go ahead, take out your dong.' 'I'm not taking out my dong. And by the way, who uses the word "dong"? If you want to be hip to the lingo, they're not using the word "dong" up in the States.'
That's what a pinata inspires. It's like, 'Hey kids, let's get your favorite cartoon character and let's lynch his ass. And then we're gonna all take turns beating the crap out of it until its guts come out. We can all scramble for its sugary entrails. Who's with me?!'
Near my house in Los Angeles is a waterfall. I love to take the wife and kids, but it's also near a sketchy neighborhood. So there's a lot of gang members that hang out at the waterfall. It's like somebody took an Ansel Adams photo and then put a Cypress Hill video inside it.
My son comes out of his room wearing these flood pants with holes in both knees. I have no idea where he found these pants. And I go, 'Dude, you gotta change your pants. You can't wear those pants.' He goes, 'I like these pants, these are my favorite pants, I'm gonna wear them.' I didn't know what to say, I'm a young dad, so I go, 'You're gonna be embarrassed.' He looks at me, steps to me a little bit, and goes, 'I'm not gonna be embarrassed. They're your friends. You're gonna be embarrassed.' I was like, 'Son of a bitch.'
Don't bring your sand toys to the park. That's another bad move. Because I go to the park, and I'm on the Vicodin and a little weed too - let's face it - and I go in there, and my wife's like, 'Bring the sand toys! Bring the sand toys!' And I know what happens every single time: I become sand toy repo man from the eight little kids that run off in nine different directions with my sand toys.
I'm half-Mexican - get used to it 'cause in about five to 10 years, you're all gonna be related to one. Whether you like it or not, no matter how much you prepared your family, you're gonna show up at Thanksgiving one of these years, you're gonna walk in and say, 'Hey! What's happening? Since when did we start serving flan?' Well, what's happening is that somebody's boning a Latino.
I bullshit on the phone all day with a variety of people discussing various projects, and occasionally write jokes.
You grow up real quick, a half-Mexican in a sailor's suit, because I'd be riding the streetcar to school everyday - minding my own business, humming out a 'Frere Jacques' - and I realized that in any other town, this might be considered cute. But you know what it is in San Francisco? Sexy.
If my wife has too much to drink at a party, starts yapping a little too much, I don't have to say anything... three little leg squeezes, she knows that means 'Put a sock in it, drunkie, time for you to wrap it up.' Somebody didn't have dinner like I suggested, now you're spouting off at the mouth divulging all the family secrets. You need to pipe down or we've got to fucking leave.
What's happening is there's a warm front of Mexicans that are humping their way north to the point where you'll be up in Canada one of these years, walking around, you'll be like: 'Hey look, Eskimos! They came down.' Those aren't Eskimos - they're Meximos: Mexicans in parkas, trying to have sex with Canadian women.
I like bourbon, any other detail beyond that is going to make me seem like a drunk.
I got distracted by one of the hippie moms who was breastfeeding a kid that was way too old to be breastfeeding. You ever seen that before? It's disgusting. A child should not be old enough to comment on the quality. Like, 'Do you go to Cheesecake Factory, because this is delicious. It's like dulce de leche meets Riesling coming out of this thing, and I've got to say thank you.'
So I go back, reluctantly, down a murky hallway to what looks like a Dollar Store dressing room, and I open up the dirty curtain. There's a velvet Elvis on the wall with the eyes cut out - some weird sort of quality assurance program they're running in there. They got a dirty recliner they pulled off the street with duct tape on it - God knows what else. They got a bloody pipe on the floor. It's like a third world game of Clue.
I'm always alone. Sad face emoticon.