Thursday, February 28, 2008

Benedict Kills Again


Pope Benedict: How long before he has the entire Jedi order killed by his clone army and yells "Power!!! Unlimited POWER!!!"?



His Unholy Majesty and his Exorcism Squad lackeys have struck again, this time quietly bringing to an end the life of one of the high priests of the secular American religion of Conservatism, William F. Buckley, the author of (among numerous other works) God and Man at Yale, and the founder of the National Review, a conservative periodical.


Left: William F. Buckley. Obviously he would've preferred "Right: William F. Buckley", but now he's dead so tough titty.



How did Buckley die? Did he die of despair at the prospect of a President named Barack? Was the spending profligacy of the Bush Administration too heavy a blow to his conservatism? Did Chris and Snoop lure him into a vacant? No, none of the above. The modus operandi of Benedict's ecclesiastical enforcers was once again in evidence: the victim, in his early 80's, was found dead at his home, of "natural causes."

When will our leaders stand up and take notice of the sacramental scourge that is Benedict? In the past year he has had his dastardly Exorcism Squads send Jerry Falwell, Buckley, the top Senegalese Muslim guy, the Greek archbishop guy, the King of the Mormons, and the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi to that big Unitarian Sunday Brunch in the sky.

Meanwhile, Satan, the putative target of the Exorcism Squads, still roams free, as evidenced by this footage captured by Hollywood:


As of today, we are spending billions of dollars a month fighting the supposed threat of Islamofascism. But what about the very real threat of Pope Benedict's Papambenedictumofascism? How will those who aim to lead our nation propose to deal with this most existential of threats? All the health care mandates in the world aren't going to fix this one, Hillary! What good was being right on Iraq going to do if you're wrong on Benedict, Obama? How exactly is making the Bush tax cuts permanent going to address the evil that emanates from the Vatican like the stench of campaign finance improprieties, John McCain? Is Mike Huckabee, a purported expert in miracles, our only hope of escaping the thousand-year rule of Beelzedict XVI? The candidates need to stop running from this important issue. The American people demand a change to our policy of papal appeasement!

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Those New York Kids Are Blunt

The Hacienda has received the following exclusive communiqué from Brother Astoria:

"So our Nursing Home had this event on Valentine's Day where children made cards for the [mostly older] veterans who live there.

I wonder how these 2 cards made it through. Maybe someone figured that the vets would enjoy the brutal honesty."



Gotta wonder about the center 'flower's' resemblance to a shovel.


From the Straight Talk Express school of Valentine card-writing

Monday, February 25, 2008

I Am Ravaging Argentina


Left: I don't know this lady, and I don't know her junkie sons.


You can imagine how surprised I was to open up the New York Times website the other day only to find out that I am currently in the process of horrendously devastating the lives of poor Argentinians and Brazilians. Paco , says the Grey Lady, has "destroyed thousands of lives in Argentina and caused a cycle of drug-induced street violence never seen before in [Argentina]."

Much like John McCain , I was shocked and appalled that a liberal rag such as the Times would, in contravention of all journalistic ethical standards and practices, launch such a vicious torrent of yellow journalism my way, relying exclusively on hearsay, innuendo, and unreliable, drug-addicted, foreign sources. Not only that, but the Times seems to have made absolutely no effort to contact me for my side of the story. Now, therefore, I must defend myself against these vicious libels directed at me by that most Communist of rags. This assassination of my sterling, unimpeachable character shall not stand, I tell you.

As you well know, dear reader, Don Paco is a Puerto Rican gentleman of leisure. That much is easily verifiable from the "About Me" section of this very blog, which the Times "reporters" who put together this story obviously neglected to properly inspect. According to the Times, paco is "a highly addictive, smokable cocaine residue" that is "even more toxic than crack cocaine because it is made mostly of solvents and chemicals like kerosene, with just a dab of cocaine." The "paco problem" in Argentina and Brazil stems from the fact that the market has been flooded with this cheap substance, which apparently provides a short, intense high, and is extremely addictive. If the Times is to be believed, paco has an iron grip on the drug trade in Argentine shantytowns such as Ciudad Oculta.

Now, anyone who has ever met me knows that I am not made of cocaine and solvents. Neither do I contain any kerosene. I am not, so far as I can tell, smokable. Though I am cheap, I am certainly not addictive. You need only check the hit counter on this website to see just how not addictive I am. So far as I can tell, no one has ever sold all their possessions and stolen from their relatives in order to continuously smoke me. I may not be a scientist, but I know that I am not constantly being smoked. And Argentine slums? I never go there. Ask Doña Paquita, who knows a thing or two about Argentine slums--Doña Paquita having a slightly different formulation of what constitutes an enjoyable tourism experience--how big my presence is in those parts of the world.

I have to say, I am tired of being targeted by the Times for its libelous jeremiads against me. New York Times, you have impugned my honor for the last time. I am now forced to take drastic measures. Since the Times has made its fraudulent persecution of my spotless reputation a matter of shameful public record, I have but one choice:

I hereby challenge New York Times Public Editor Clark Hoyt to a duel.


Left: Hey Clark Hoyt, you've got bigger problems than Judy Miller and Jayson Blair now, you reprobate.


Sir, I shall be at the Heights of Weehawken , New Jersey, at dawn on July 11, along with my second. It shall be pistols at ten paces, and if you do not show, I shall know you for the coward that you are, and your "newspaper" for the fish-wrapper of ignominy that Rush Limbaugh and his ilk hold it to be.

Also, know that if you do not show, I will DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE! I'LL DRINK IT UP!

You have been warned.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Keith Van Horn: Today's Hero of the Unemployed


Above: This guy has the same job as Keith Van Horn.


Generally, you have to work hard every day to be a valuable member of our society. Some, however, are able to advance the causes of liberty and justice from their lowly perches among the ranks of the unemployed. Those are our Heroes of the Unemployed, and today, their king is white hoopster Keith Van Horn.


Keith Van Horn is a professional basketball player. After a lengthy and undistinguished career of not playing all that greatly and many a “one of these things is not like the other” moments, Keith called it quits in the spring of 2006. Few in the basketball world mourned his basketball passing.

But it appears that fortune favors the Van Horny. This week, because of the arcane salary rules covering NBA trades, Keith Van Horn was paid $4.3 for having once had a basketball career.

Here’s what happened. The Dallas Mavericks wanted to acquire point guard Jason Kidd from the New Jersey Nets. The problem is that in the NBA, when you make a trade, the salaries have to even out on both sides, and Jason Kidd makes a lot of money playing basketball because he is very good at basketball. So the Mavericks offered the Nets a bunch of guys in exchange for Kidd, but the salaries still didn’t even out. So what did the Mavericks do? They called up unemployed Keith Van Horn, who was not making any money playing basketball because he is not that good at basketball, signed him to a $4.3 million contract, and threw him into the trade. Now the Keithotron will spend the remaining 2 months of the season “getting into game shape,” will probably not play a single game, and will be paid approximately $75,439 a day for doing it. The man essentially just became $4.3 million dollars richer simply for existing. Which is awesome.


Left: Keith Van Horn's career in one picture.


The Keitholizer took a few days to agree to this sweetheart deal, according to his agent, because of all his “other responsibilities,” which I believe is absolutely impossible. So in honor of Keith Van Horn clearly being the luckiest white basketball player ever to grace the hardcourt, here is my dramatization of how the phone call where his agent called him to tell him about this sweet deal really played out, and how Keith Van Horn became today’s Hero of the Unemployed:

Sometime last week:

The phone rings at Der Keithhaus, the Van Horn McMansion.

Keith Van Horn: Yeeeello ello ello.

Keith Van Horn’s Agent David Falk: Keith?

Keith: Keith?

Falk: Keith?

Keith: Keith, yo.

Falk: Keith, are you high again?

Keith: KEITH! KEITH VAN HORN! HORN VAN KEITH!

Falk: Keith you really need to cut back—

Keith: A THRIVEN HONK! It’s a mammogram for my name!

Falk: You mean an anagram?

Keith: No dude that’s in Iraq.

Falk: What?

Keith: HA, NTH INVOKER!

Falk: Listen buddy, I know it’s been a while—

Keith: Davey did you ever play that NBA Jam arcade game? It was awesome, you always had to play the Mavericks first, and they were really bad that year, and you could only use two guys, and one of them was Mike Iouzzolino, and every time he scored Marv Albert would yell “IOUZZOLINO!” That game was the shit, Davey. Wanna toke?

Falk: I’m on a plane, Keith. We’re talking on the phone.

Keith: Oh yeah that’s right! Man the future is awesome. KEITH!

Falk: Be quiet for a sec, Keith. I’ve got great news for you.

Keith: They've resegregated the league?

Falk: No, even better. You remember how when you retired a couple of years back, but we didn’t actually file the retirement papers with the NBA?

Keith: Uh, no.

Falk: Well, we didn’t. That was kind of my bad.

Keith: Naw man it’s all good.

Falk: Well it turns out it was a good thing that we didn’t sign those papers. The Mavs are trying to get Jason Kidd from the Nets, but the money wasn’t working out, but then they realized that they still own your basketball rights, so they want to sign you and then trade you to New Jersey—

Keith: No Davey No! Not New Jersey again!

Falk: But Keith, here’s the thing: they want to pay you $4.3 million, and you don't even have to play.

Keith: What?

Falk: Dude, you don’t have to play. All you have to do is work out for a few months, go to practice.

Keith: And I get four million dollars?

Falk: $4.3.

Keith: And I don’t have to play?

Falk: That’s right.

Keith: And I get four million dollars?

Falk: $4.3.

Keith: Dave is this legal? They won’t make me testify in the Congress or nothing right?

Falk: Totally aboveboard, my great white hope.

Keith: Do I have to blow someone?

Falk: You don’t have to. Might be a nice gesture though.

Keith: Dude, accept the offer. Right now.

Falk: I think we should make them wait, so it’s not too ugly-seeming.

Keith: Dude are you crazy? Say yes right now, man.

Falk: I think we should say you have other responsibilities, and that your personal integrity—

Keith: SAY YES RIGHT NOW!

Falk: Okay. But you know I get 5% of that money, right? Because I’m your agent.

Keith: You know David, insofar as it’s pretty fucked up that I’m going to make millions of dollars for, as far as I can tell, absolutely nothing at all, I’m loath to begrudge you a share of my dubious windfall. I know we haven't talked in a while, what with me no longer being a player and thus strictly speaking no longer in need of your services as an agent, but this was nice. You keep finding me teams that want to pay me millions to not play and I will substantially increase your commission.

Falk: Man, you sober up quick.

Keith: I’m Keith Van Horn, bro.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Lightning Strikes Jesus Statue


Man, that can't be good.



Rio de Janeiro, Brazil--On Sunday, God made it pretty clear what he thinks of what his subordinate Pope Benedict XVI has been up to with his Exorcism Squads when he rained down His mighty bolts of lightning on the statue of Christ the Redeemer atop Mt. Corcovado in Rio de Janeiro.

God, a regular reader of this and all other words ever written or to be written, from now until the end of time, has found out via this blog and His own omniscience that Benedict has been using his Exorcism Squads to off the canonical competition and not for beasting Lucifer , he whose name is Legion.

This morning, God's spokesman, the Metatron, rang forth a mighty host of silver trumpets and announced that "Hearken ye mortals, that the hour is nigh upon thee to slough off the deceptions of the false prophet of the Almighty Lord's holy Word, and embrace rather that which has been set down for you in the Book He had all those apostles ghostwrite for thy benefit. Do not make us send Gabriel and Michael down to smite thee.

"God also said to tell you that you guys are this close to losing your free will privileges," added the Metatron.

The prospect of a regime of straight predestination is a grim prospect, says one Vatican insider. "Do you realize how obnoxious those Calvinists are going to be if that goes down? We'll never hear the end of it."

The Metatron then addressed Benedict directly, warning him that if He had to send down another antipope to set up shop in Avignon and clean this mess up, He was going to be "one vengeful Alpha and Omega."

The Metatron added that God specifically also wanted it relayed to people that His son Jesus did have sex with Mary Magdalene, as well as many other women, because He "wasn't no damn punk."

"God out," concluded Metatron.

The statue of Christ was unharmed by the lightning, because, just like most Brazilian public works, it is made of recycled thongs, butt implants, and happiness.

Author's Note: The composition of this article began last night, but was interrupted by a mysterious power outage on the Hacienda's street. Crumbling Puerto Rican infrastructure or Vatican shenanigans? You be the judge.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Det. Jimmy McNulty Loves the New FISA Law


Who likes the unfettered ability to listen in on phone conversations? Jimmy McNulty does, that's who.



Baltimore, MD -- Detective Jimmy McNulty of the Baltimore Police Department's Homicide unit was glad to hear today that the US Senate caved in to the White House on warrantless wiretapping powers, pointing out that the probable cause requirements of the warrant-securing process had hindered many of his investigations.

"When we had to come down off the wire on Marlo Stansfield, that essentially killed our investigation," said Det. McNulty. "Now we're going to be able to catch that mope, and we won't even have to deal with recalcitrant phone companies being reluctant to help us go up on wires because now they have immunity from prosecution for helping us."

"Now I can stop making up serial killers in order to get attention," added McNulty. "I still can't believe I did that. That seems neither gritty nor realistic. I really sort of jumped the shark there."

When asked whether he was afraid that his superiors might discipline him for coming out so publicly on a contentions civil liberties issue, McNulty was dismissive.

"Fuck the bosses, Bunk. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to work for a real police department," said the Detective.

He then rambled on for several hours about how individuals are invariably crushed by heartless institutions, and bemoaned the decline of the American city.

Fellow Baltimore Detective Lester Freamon declined to comment for this article, but he did look up from his work on a miniature Louis Catorze armoire replica and give the writer a knowing look over the frames of his bifocals.

Baltimore politicians also supported the Senate's FISA bill.

"Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit, partner, you know that if it's about national security, then Clay's right there with you on it," said Maryland state Senator Clay Davis. "I carry the water for that machine, you hear?"

This story was originally meant to delve into the more Dickensian aspects of this issue, but those plans were scrapped due to buyouts and a rejection of the "do more with less" ethos of the day.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

I Like Not Getting Stabbed


As I was eating my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats this morning, I was flipping through today's copy of the San Juan Star and came across a short item about an incident which took place in Cayey over the weekend. Apparently a man entered a business establishment there, and for reasons never specified, became belligerent. He started an argument with another customer, and then stabbed the other customer five times, which presumably garnered him the win in the argument, even if it placed him at a severe disadvantage in his upcoming "don't send me to jail" argument with the local authorities.

This item inspired me to be thankful for the small blessing that my life is generally free of stabbing-engendering arguments. I am a peaceful person, and insofar as I take part in any arguments at all, they tend to be civilized. Bladed weapons rarely if ever make an appearance.

Here is a normal Don Paco argument:

Don Paco: Ooh, Bill Maher is on Larry King. Sweet. Shit, commercial.

Doña Paquita: Ok, quick, turn it to TLC. Channel 98.

Don Paco: Ok.

Doña Paquita: Ooh, it's the show about the sextuplets! Ohmigod, look at that woman's belly. That is disgusting. After she gave birth her belly looked like an 80 year old man's ass.

Don Paco: That sure is a lot of Filipino babies right there.

Doña Paquita: Ooh, and the show about midgets is up next. NO! I shouldn't say midgets, it's offensive. Little people, that is the preferred nomenclature.

Don Paco: But Bill Maher...

Doña Paquita: YOU SEE BILL MAHER EVERYDAY! We're watching the Filipino babies! Ooh, that little one has glasses!

Don Paco: Fucking TLC...

Doña Paquita: What was that?

Don Paco: No, nothing, "TLC, wee-hee!", that's what I was saying. Love that TLC.


But what if I was somehow prone to getting into arguments that ended in stabbing? I imagine it would look something like this:

Don Paco: Ooh, Bill Maher is on Larry King. Sweet. Shit, commercial.

Doña Paquita: Ok, quick, turn it to TLC. Channel 98.

Don Paco: Ok.

Doña Paquita: Ooh, it's the show about the sextuplets! Ohmigod, look at that woman's belly. She looks like she's about to give birth to the US Olympic team. Sigourney Weaver should put on her robot suit and yell "Get away from her, you bitch!" at her.

Don Paco: Man is that preternaturally distended belly gross.

Doña Paquita: Don't be so insensitive! That poor woman. And don't you dare change that back to Larry King.

Don Paco: But Bill Maher...

Doña Paquita: Bitch I cut you!

Don Paco: What? What are you doing with that knife?

Doña Paquita: We're watching this, and then we're watching "What Not To Wear", you hear me, asshole?

Don Paco: But what about-- OWW! You stabbed me! Ohmigod stop stabbing me! AAAAH!

Doña Paquita: Yeah, you gonna watch what now? That's what I thought. Look at you, lying there on that floor, bleeding, ACTIN' A BITCH!

Don Paco: I can't see any light. So cold, I'm so cold...


What Not To Wear, or multiple stab wounds? The former, most definitely. Here's to several more decades of stab-free living.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Beasting of the Week: Don Paco


Le Tigre, the Mark of the Beasting


The Hacienda--For months I have been waging a war of attrition with a mobile phone provider named Claro, and Claro is defeating me. I am straight up getting beasted.


Left: The Claro logo. Like a swastika, but wordier.


For a few months now, I have been in charge of the finances here at the Hacienda, which are complex and time-consuming. A particular point of needless complexity was our telephone situation: at some point, there were something in the neighborhood of 10 phones or phone lines billed to the Hacienda, with roughly 5 different companies doing the billing. Ever a fan of streamlining, I took it upon myself to hack through that thicket and pare away all needless or superfluous phones. The phone line we used to get DSL through, no longer in use after we got a cable modem months ago: gone. The phone line dedicated to the fax machine we've never had: gone. Mysterious cel phone not belonging to anyone: gone. And then there were the Claro phones.

Claro, previously Verizon, is currently the the mobile phone arm of Puerto Rico Telephone (PRT), previously a government-run monopoly that was acrimoniously privatized in the 1990's. PRT is now owned by América Móvil, the biggest telecom company in Latin America. Verizon became Claro when América Móvil bought PRT. Apparently, Claro has spent the last few months making changes to its customer service apparatus so that it will soon be poised to challenge the customer service execrability of Sprint, the Worldwide Leader of Suck.

Two cel phones needed canceling. One of them was my younger brother's old cel phone. The purpose and ownership of the second cel phone remains a mystery to me. They are billed on the same invoice. Neither has been in use since September, which is when my war with Claro began.

That month, I sent in a check for what I thought would be our last bill to the folks at Claro. I called their customer service line, and, after wending my way through their thicket of an automated menu system for close to an hour, got a hold of what passes for a human at Claro, and cancelled the phones. No problem, they said. Just pay that bill and we won't send you any more. Your phones are disconnected, they said.

October rolled around, and with it a new Claro bill. I spent another afternoon fighting their automated menu assassin, and finally, by calling Claro headquarters (really just the PRT "switchboard" or "circle of hell"), spoke to another "person" that proved of little use. I spoke to that person's "manager" (manager being in quotes as I have a strong suspicion that the manager was just the same guy faking a deeper voice, and perhaps wearing a false mustache), and was informed that the previous cancellation had not gone through, as Claro doesn't allow for over-the-phone cancellations. Actually, you do, I answered--you just let me do it last month. After insinuating that had made up the whole cancellation episode, "manager" explained that to cancel the phones, I would have to write a letter to Claro informing them of why I was canceling the phones, and mail it to them, after which a prorated final bill would arrive, which, after payment thereof, would mark the end of our loveless sham of a relationship.

I wrote the [fucking] letter and sent it in. I was very polite in my wording, in the end opting not to include my line about what a shame it is that corporations have no mothers for one to go shit on the grave of. No final bill ever came. I should have known.

Yesterday we got a letter from a collection agency in Carolina claiming that we owe Claro $242. After I scraped all of my brain and cranial matter from the walls and reassembled it into something that may one day again look like my old head, I began preparing myself to once again do battle with the Claro monster. Last night, I watched the Wayans Brothers masterpiece White Chicks in order to build up my resistance to idiocy and things that are offensive. I also insisted that everyone at the Hacienda call me Sisyphus and spent the evening pushing a large rock up the stairs, only to let it roll down again.

Today, around four, I picked up the phone and dialed Claro's customer service number. My old nemesis the Polite Bilingual Machine picked up. It asked me which language I would like to not be able to speak to a person in. I chose Spanish. It read me, en español, a menu of things I did not want to speak about, and at no point did it mention the option of talking to a Polite Bilingual Humanoid. Eventually, it cornered me into pressing 3 to "ask a question" about my account. Once there, it asked me for the last 4 digits of the accountholder's Social Security number for verification purposes. I entered it.

"That number does not match the number in our records. Please try again."

I entered it again.

"That number does not match the number in our records. Please try again."

I checked my notes. I entered the number again.

"That number does not match the number in our records. Please try again."

It didn't offer me to go back to the main menu. It didn't offer to let me speak to a representative. I hit zero.

"That is not a valid option. Please try again."

I hit all the other numbers.

"That is not a valid option. Please try again."

"Damn you, Polite Bilingual Machine, damn you straight to hell," I yelled, my face as red as Bill Clinton's when he contemplates the fact that young people like Barack Obama more than him now.

I hung up, and dialed the number again. I figured I'd try my luck in English, but the PBM backed me into the same corner again, only with a Nuyorican accent this time. Checkmated! Foiled!

Chastened by the thrashing dealt me by the machine, I hung up and called information, looking for a number, any other number, to somehow reach Claro, which I figure there should be one or two of, given that it's about the largest mobile phone provider on the island. The best the operator could give me was the switchboard at PRT.

I called. A new machine informed me that the PRT's switchboard hours were 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. I looked at my watch: 5:15 p.m. I had spent almost an hour wrestling with Claro's machine, which cleverly ran out the clock on me. Claro had defeated me once again.

The score so far:
Claro: 3
Don Paco: BEASTED

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Benedict's Exorcism Squads Strike Again


One by one, Benedict smites down his holy rivals.



The Hague, Netherlands--Pope Benedict XVI's lethal Exorcism Squads have struck again, this time felling Hindu mystic and former guru to the Beatles Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.


Left: If this guy looked this rough all the way back in 1967 and still lived for 40 more years, who's to say he wasn't going to outlast Benedict's reign of theological terror?


The Exorcism Squad responsible kept to its somewhat predictable MO: the Maharishi's death has been attributed to "natural causes, his age." The Maharishi was a hale and hearty 91 years of age (approximately; he had one of those El Duque-type ages) until he was cut down in the prime of his transcendental life by Benedict's sacerdotal slayers?

The Maharishi's death ties this case in with a host of other unsolved deaths. Look at the picture below:



THREE OF THE FIVE MEN PICTURED ARE NOW DEAD.

Consider: The Maharishi, a spiritual guru.
Consider: George Harrison: once wrote a song the chorus of which was "Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna"
Consider: John Lennon proclaimed the Beatles to be "bigger than Jesus."

What's next? Will Paul McCartney be eliminated for proclaiming his allegiance to vegetarianism? Will Ringo Starr be punished for touring with his All-Starr Band? Will Sir George Martin be found dead of "natural causes" because of his haughty knightship? Are we going to find out that Benedict thought that Biggie was getting too B.I.G. for his britches? That Tupac's name was too pagan to tolerate? That Elvis was taken out because he dared call himself The King when the only King is Jesus? How long has Benedict been pulling the strings, and what will it take for the media to take notice of his canonical killing spree?

I worry that even such strongholds as the Hacienda, which is like the Puerto Rican Rivendell, can not long resist the dark might of Benedict's evil. Pray for me, fellow sinners.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The BBC Can't Get Enough Boricua Ass


In the UK, they know that the best booty comes from the tropics.


Everybody loves a beautiful butt, and the BBC, the state-run British media service, is no exception. And, in the best British tradition of understated good taste and what the French would call joie de derriere, the BBC has chosen to showcase the prodigious talents of the ass of my own dear brother.

A little background: a few years back, one of my younger brothers, fed up with the ceaseless pretensions and affectations of college life at a certain well-known northeastern institution of higher education, decided to do a semester abroad in Scotland, where the men wore skirts and would cleave you in half with a broadsword if you mentioned it. After college, having grown fond of fog and the near-total absence of sunlight and skin pigmentation, he decided to move back, and he is currently studying medieval archeology at one of that semi-autonomous nation's fine institutions of higher learning, where he and his colleagues piece together information about Vikings and early British Christianity by sifting through ancient garbage piles and toilets, and, because of a vibrant pub culture, severe vitamin D deficiencies, and thermal underwear, have a grand old time doing it.

My brother loves Scotland, and Scotland loves him. Or at least his narrow, Boricua ass, as evidenced by the fact that they feature it in their premier news service as often as they can without tipping their bootophilic hand.


Above: Dry British humor, picturing an ass as a way to showcase the beauty of Colonsay.

The picture above was featured on the BBC website early last year, and apparently the British people just did not get their fill of my brother's pert Puerto Rican posterior, because just today, they found some weak pretext to run another picture prominently featuring the convexities of my kin's culo:



Why weak pretext, you ask? Obviously this is an ass worth showcasing. But here is the explanation in my brother's own words:

The funny part is that the article is about an early medieval palace,
or as they put it, "wooden castle", while the picture is of me and
another PhD student digging at a Neolithic site last summer. To be
fair, there is supposedly a lost medieval palace nearby, but we sure
have no clue where it is and thus aren't digging it up. So it was
extra hilarious when the Daily Record published a version of this
article with the headline PALACE FOUND!

Clearly the following, or some variant thereof, is what is happening at the BBC's highest-level editorial meetings:

BBC Executive Director Lord Alfred of Highmoreshire, Third Earl of Broughamcastershire: I say, it has been months since we ran a picture of that Latin boy's bottom. The Queen herself called to complain! Where are we on this?

BBC Assistant Editor "Cockney" Billy Stottle: Don't you worry your pretty little 'ead there, Lord 'ihmoreshire, sir, they've bloody dug up the 'ome of the first King 'o Scotland! 'istoric, it is!

Lord Alfred: I say, there, Stottle, do we have art on this?

Cockney Billy
: By the bells of St. Mary's, we 'aven't any, sir. But we do 'ave some older pics of 'is arse from a dig last summer, innit?

Lord Alfred: Bloody good show, Stottle, bloody good show! Run it post haste!


I want to extend a congratulations to my younger brother's ass, now a full-blown British celebrity. May the sun of your ass never set on the British Empire!