With all the pig fuckers on Wall Street, in Washington and around the Financial World, it was probably only a matter of time before a swine flu outbreak threatened to ravage our increasingly polluted planet. Our insider information tells us that, in order to save on manufacturing costs, pharmaceutical giant Glaxo-Smith-Kline off-shored research, design and product testing to Mexico. The disease, it seems, was created by combining molé sauce with the toxic secretions of Dick Cheney’s swollen prostate and a distillation of hedge fund managers’ arrogance which was then heated by the hyperventilation of bloated radio talk show hosts and stirred by the limp tool of the current American Treasury Secretary. The resultant, and mutated, admixture was then slathered on burritos throughout the Distrito Federal, Acapulco and Cancun and sold to unwitting tourists, who were then used to mule it back across the border.
Excuse us while we cough. Kkkkka… We just got back from Tulum and have raging fevers.
Our sources tell us that the epidemic was funded by (and is part and pork-cel) of a larger, bipartisan conspiracy to divert the world’s attention from the widening and deepening financial crisis, the dire defects of Global Warming, and a little quagmire or two in the Muslim Majority parts of el Mapa del Mundo.
Really, what is more frightening? Dealing with terrorism or fighting a GLOBAL PANDEMIC? At the same time, we do expect that the epidemic, we mean PANDEMIC, will play into those snorting for stronger and crueler immigration laws (complete with a big-assed wall to keep the swiney beaners on their side of the Rio) and an asinine plan to gut whatever is left of the American public health system, because, hey, the government should just get out of the way and let free market biology kill all the poor folk, anyway!
Lovely… and now to all with those sentiments, go die on a spit.
The Centers for Disease Control and the World Health Organization have said that the best way to avoid contracting the disease is to not shake hands, kiss, or to engage in any carnal activity with pigs, the piglike creatures of Dr. Moreau’s Island, or anyone with a predilection for swine love.
In other words, you are being advised to avoid contact with folks who might recently have passed through the decadent doorway of Café No Sé, where over consumption has oft-times led to odd, though highly entertaining, inter-species couplings. On the downside, this means that our conchinita pibil is from dubious sources at best. On the upside, we’re pretty sure that a bottle of Ilegal Mezcal is worth its weight in Tamiflu doses. And the buzz is better, too.
Further, it is advised that if you do join us down at the bar, you should wear a surgeon’s mask to avoid airborne contagion, and as an extra precaution, you might want to consider strapping duct tape over your private parts, both fore and aft, as several of the No Sé bartenders have recently been jettisoned by their girlfriends and have been behaving indiscriminately and without gender bias. “We take all comers,” one of them recently, and lamely, joked.
Special warning, if one of them asks you to depart for the night to engage in the “double hogbacked growler,” your answer should be a firm “NO” unless he has bought you several shots, and you’ve had all of yours.
As if trouble with swine is not enough, you will find in this issue the theme of man vs. animal further explored in blood-poisoning depth by none other than The Surly Bartender, who gives us an interesting argument on why cats SUCK! And Kevin Petrie, the man behind our mezcal bar, who brings us the culinary secrets for cooking Squab de la Calle. Buen Provecho!
Lastly, on a serious note… Oink, cough, cough, cough, oink, arrrrrrrgggghhhhh…
Your Dearly Departed Editors
JPR and MJT