DEAR SARAH JESSICA PARKER, FUCK YOU!

Something inexplicable happened to the youth of the late 90's.....We were all graduating from college....ready to embark on bohemian journeys to New York with a somber tone set in mind thanks to RENT. Dreams of East Village life. Coffee shops. Used book stores. Angst. Slumming it. Sleeping with whoever to be cast in an Off Off Broadway show. We were armed to be invincible.....and then....this fucking little show about 4 bitches who have everything on a quest for love and shoes seeped into the mind of every early twentysomething. Suddenly, we were left heartbroken with our gypsy dreams and were now hopelessly in love with the notion of NY real estate and Zagat rated restaurants. Rather than fantasizing about running into a french film maker named Guinevere or an Argentinian guitarist named Alessandro in a pee smelling bar and sleeping with them both....we started manifesting 50 yr. old emotionally unavailable powersuits who don't call back. We started buying magazines....looking for sample sales. Eating out every night and talking about babies. Marriage seemed romantic. All topics of conversation became about everything that was wrong with the sex we had last night.
But then the worst thing of all happened. We turned 30....and our dreams came true...but only the unglam parts. We have no steady relationships, sometimes we have lots of sex....that is mostly unsatisfactory. 30 has turned to 34 and we are now embarking next year on a new age bracket, yet most of my friends are single, depressed, and can still only afford Converse.
Is there any hope? Well, if the recent movie is a crystal ball, then all we have to look forward to at 40 is being left at the altar way too super-old or having our loved one commit adultery....oooh, OR sitting on our fire escape eating chips while watching the younger next door neighbors doing it.
So dear 30something ladies...and some gents...if you wore an oversized fuckin flower on your chest please find it now and burn it. The Hamptons are fucking boring....save your "waiter" money and get on a plane to Rio or Bali or Greece this summer...or anywhere else that doesn't have wasps in sarongs crawling about. Stop caring wether or not "How Into You" he is and do things (and people) that make you happy. Keep shopping at The Gap...it always pulls through for you.
....and SJP.....I know you are not entirely to blame, but....we don't believe you anymore. Grape seed and avacado seed oil are doing nothing to prevent your cigarette stained face. Nobody wears tutus in NY and most of us think your husband is possibly gay.
Although we loved you in Footloose and Hocus Pocus, we can not look past Did You Hear About the Morgans? or Garnier Fructisse. Please stop making S.A.T.C. movies because they are starting to look like "The Golden Girls: The Early Years." Be the cute character actress we've always loved.
....and P.S....Downey got sober and I'm sure would take you back. Yeah, yeah, he's married. Madonna had dinner with Sean Penn recently. Somethin to be said for the second time around. Get on it!

PRINCE COMPLEX

....no, not his purple highness...I'm not running around with a skinny moustache and my curls done up like a bunch of grapes cascading down one side of my face. I'm refering to the type of complex that is usually reserved for Jewish and Italian American girls with big noses and fat-walleted daddies....Some white trash girls have it too...you've seen them with their too tight t-shirts hugging their muffin tops...the word "princess" in pink under a bedazzled tiara....but dear friends, princesses do not acquire their garb from a mart called Wal.

 It was recently brought to my attention by my pal, Meredith, that I....think...I'm a prince. I'm like a J.A.P....but Cuban...I'm a C.A.P.
These are her reasons:
A. When a bill comes, I throw a bunch of money on the table so as not to be bothered by the commoner task of figuring out the bill.
B. I see cabs as the MAIN form of transportation in NYC.
C. When we enter the cab I stay silent and wait for whoever I'm riding with to inform the horseman of the direction to my kingdom.

Upon closer inspection, I realize she is right. When I first moved away to college, two weeks went by and I had no clean underwear. I remember calling my mother to ask her why my laundry wasn't done. I get dizzy and faint when entering any discount store because it makes me feel poor...which I am, but don't wanna FEEL it, hence the complex. I once got in a fight with a fellow hispanic at my job because they found out I was paid higher....I was thrown a, "You think you're better than me?"...to which I replied,"I don't think I'm better, I know I am."

Is this a problem? I don't think so... I'm just a guy who wants to pay more for his friends, likes getting home quicker, misses his mommy, likes quality goods, and gets confrontational when attacked....and if I were to have a kingdom someday...it would be my pleasure for all of you to benefit from it...as long we all understand I will start saying things like...

SILENCE!!!

LEAVE US!

and...GUARDS!!!!

....I think this is an adequate arrangement...agreed? Now... LEAVE ME.

RICE AND BEANS EVERY DAY MAKE CUBAN BOYS FAT

Dear Hispanic people of the universe,

If you fry up plantains and then encircle them on a mound of rice dressed heavily with oily beans that are just the side dish to heaving, smoking plate of crunchy, juicy pig parts...THEN...it should come as no surprise to you when little Ernesto, or Graciela, or Nelson (if you are P.R.) have some dulce de leche colored puddin squeezin out the top of their husky sized jeans.

When I was a child, I was not the smallest kid on the playground. There were bigger kids than me....but they were clearly meant to be obese. You know the type, they were so fat they looked Asian....It looked really painful for them to...walk. Then there was me.....not meant for future gastric bypass...

But....

If it were socially acceptable to hook up an iv drip of whole milk to my arm all day long, my mother would've done it. If it were possible to fry it...even better.

By high school, I shed the pudge because popularity became more important than stuffing my hole with guava and cream cheese.

My sister-cousin, Mayte, was force fed because she looked "too e-skinnie", which in white people terms would be "average". They succeeded because by the age of 10 when she was dressed in her latin people fluffy blue and white dress for my high school graduation...it looked like I was posing next to a wedding cake for a Greek family.

I remember watching Saturday morning cartoons once and realizing for the first time that I might be hispanifat. It was one of those commercials that informed kids on how to be better children....like the smoking is bad one.....or the reading is good one.....but this one showed a fat cartoon kid eating junk food and watching TV. He looked really tired and just like me but less fro-ey. The kid then turned off the tv...started eating fruit, he sat at a table and drew, he jumped rope, he sailed a toy boat, he rode his bicycle, and then he became skinny. I was only 10 or 11 but I knew it. I knew the inner Kirstie Alley in me had to do something....

So.....

I sat at my kitchen table, started drawing, and ate five bananas.

The moral of the story is....my dear Goya lovin peeps........If you're not gonna eat it...there's no need to fatten up the pig.

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The Wilson Phillips Poo

People always ask me why my blog is called Pooped! Well, there are two reasons. One is to get peep's attention and the other is that we all have really mortifying tales involving the very substance that God enabled us to birth from our bums....and so...I've only managed to post one poop story(see Poop Story #1)....but,I have many.....my friends have many....and here is a new one.
How embarrassing.
I've never told anyone this one because its a lil too recent....but, this past summer I went to a movie with a friend...I believe we then engaged in Applebee's which I now know to be the culprit. Applebee's sliders = embarrassment.
Anyway, afterwards I began my ten minute walk home from the theater and I believe it was around minute 7 that it came a knockin.
There was clenching.
Teeth were gritting.
The pace was picked up.
For a second...maybe two....I felt like I had thought it away...you've tried it...I focused on the trees...on the ghetto children playing basketball...OK the feelings gone... this is good....keep going...ok.....that car is blue....that one is silver.....someone did not curb their dog....oh no....
and it came back.
A light jog ensued.
Sweat happened.
The thought that I might cry by the end of the day crossed my mind.
It began to knock harder...like a policeman warning before busting the door open.
5 minutes to home.
My ipod!!! yes...music, sweet music would help me forget. I whipped out my nano...which was old and would sometimes freeze...I hit shuffle....and....this is humiliating...but....Wilson Phillip's Release Me came on.
NOOOOOOO!
Why not just change the song, you ask. IT FROZE!!!
Now, running was happening.
It possessed my ipod and was now singing to me.
"Come on baby, come on baby,you knew it was time to just let go..."
1 minutes left.
"cuz we wanna be free-e-ee, but somehow its just not that eas-e-e-ee"
Front door, fumbling keys.
"I'm trying to make you see-e-ee"
three flights of stairs, apt door, jeans unbuttoned, 6 steps to bathroom.
"That baby you've just got to...."
Ass descending to seat.
"RELEASE ME"
NOOOOOOO! Ass does not make it to seat. Instead, ass shoots explosive round at seat and then....THEN sits on it.
At this and many other moments in my life failure wins again.
The moral of the story.... 1. At least I didn't poop in my pants. 2. I've gotten a new ipod. 3. Wilson Phillips is not on it....and if I ever get the urge to put them on there again, I've vowed to only download that song where they hold on for one more day.