Hola! Remember me? Six years ago, I washed up on your shores, a gift from God to my media whore of an uncle, who paraded me around Little Havana like a neutered show dog.
Following my return to Cuba and a touching reunion with my father, I met with Fidel Castro, who, though he hides it well, is crazier than a shithouse rat. Convinced that everything he saw and read about the United States was engineered to deceive him, he pumped me dry for intelligence.
I love him and all, but Fidel's pretty insecure. We have a saying that's whispered in the schoolyard, "Trying to run a Communist government is like trying to convince someone to fuck a dead horse every night for 40 years: After a while the jig is up."
I guess I should tell you a thing or two about what it's like to live in Cuba for you to understand what this means.
Life on la isla is not all bad. Since I'm a bit of a celebrity, mi papa always has a job, no matter how badly he fucks up. Last month, the son of a famous salsa dancer got drunk on his lunch break and beheaded an autistic teenager with the forklift he operates. The next day, he was back on the forklift and the retarded kid's parents were in jail. Castro told me the same goes for me and mi familia. Pretty cool, right?
But then there are the shitty jobs that no one wants to do. This is where Cuba could learn something from America. In your country, my uncle wakes up every Monday and faces the following prospects:
A) Go to his shitty job in the mailroom of an advertising agency where everyone calls him Paco even though his name is Jim.
B) Starve to death.
So he goes to work and does his thankless butt-fuck of a job.
In Cuba, it's different. Mister Juan, the jizz mopper at the porno theatre knows he's getting a check from Castro each month. With Communism, there is no sink or swim, so everyone just sort of floats along. Mister Juan doesn't care about the conditions at the porno theatre. I once lost both shoes and a sock just walking to get some popcorn.
And the hookers! Don't even get me started on the hookers! They're just as stuck up as the putas at mi escuela. They know they've got three squares coming every day, so why are they going to fuck little Elian?
On la isla, everything is volunteer work because no one has to do anything. I know you Americans think volunteer work is just swell. It makes you feel better about yourself when you and your church group are handing out sandwiches to the homeless. But when that homeless guy with vomit flakes in his mustache needs to get his rocks off, I don't see any hands shooting up. Blowing a homeless guy would make you want to kill yourself.
Well, the truth is, most jobs make you want to kill yourself. That's why you're not going to do them if the surprise behind door number two isn't starvation.
I guess what I'm saying is that there are pros and cons to living in a Communist country. If you want to find a hooker who will let you slap her around a little bit, good luck. But if you do find one, at least you won't have to blow a homeless guy to pay for it.
Let us pitch you a sitcom ...
Some people in entertainment don't even bother trying to come up with fresh ideas.
These stories are so weird we're not even sure Hollywood would touch them.