CultureFest: Eat, Drink, and Learn...But Watch Out For Flying Burritos, Brutha

This past Saturday, the Annual CultureFest was held in Bagwine, aka Springfield, Ohio.

It is a day when unique groups of people in our lovely city come together and listen to different types of bands, chow down on ethnic foods, and celebrate the distinct and divergent patches upon the quilt of humanity.

I truly enjoy it, especially the food and drink. This year was no exception. The children were laughing…the bands were playing, people were dancing…and the food vendors were once again top notch.

The Jamaicans were jerking their chickens. The Greeks were putting their special sauce into everyone’s gyro. There were offerings of German metts, Polish pierogies, and Italian calzones.

This year, a favorite local watering hole, Murphy’s Irish Pub set up a booth and were selling their locally renown, Famine Burger.

Yes, the Famine Burger, folks…It’s a hearty sandwich made with boiled potatoes, sheep shit, and anger, served between two pieces of month old Irish Soda Bread. Yum-O’!!

There was a bit of a hiccup in the joy and jocularity of the event, however.

The dim bulb for the city who was in charge of deciding which food vendor set up where, put Loco Pablo’s Taquiera, next to Hot Rod Lincoln’s Down Home BBQ.

In case you were unaware, as the person in charge obviously was, Mexicans and Blacks don’t get along much of the time. They mix together about as well as oil and water, or in this case…Pig Fat and Jheri Curl Moisturizer.

I don’t know who started what or what was said by whom, but violence erupted between the cooks of those two establishments.

Fortunately, the altercation was no more than a glorified food fight. There were tacos, ham hocks, refried beans, and pulled pork flying everywhere.

After this International incident I spoke with my buddy and owner of the BBQ joint, Leon D. Lincoln, or as he’s know around here, LDL Cholester-Hell, and asked him what happened.
He said…

"I don’t fuckin’ know Matt-Man. One second I’m telling’ Hank to sauce the chickens, and then BAM!!

All I know is that gettin’ hit upside da head by an overstuffed burrito hurts like a muthafuckah. I hadn’t been hurt like that since the day my mama smacked me in da nuts with a red hot fireplace poker."

I found LDL’s burrito story surprising. Not so much by the amount of pain that a burrito can inflict, but I just never thought black people had fireplaces. I guess I learned something at the Culture Fest. Anyhoo…

After the ruckus, um…deruckified…There was a commotion over at the Albanian food tent. Seems those Aegean assholes were cooking up their Rakia Brandy when their 55 gallon drum of propylene glycol fell over and spilled.

Quickly, the Springfield PD and County Haz-Mat professionals responded and sealed off the vaporous contamination by putting up impervious, yellow caution tape.

People being the curious lot that they are, tried to get through the plastic barrier, but that is when our beloved Mayor, Mayor Copeland stepped in.

Mayor Copeland…or as I call him, Dr. Zaius...While donning his I Heart Springfield T-Shirt, held up his hand and with his bellowing voice and simian features, repelled the interlopers by proclaiming…

"You mustn’t go into the Forbidden Zone!!"

The crowd obeyed, went back to drinking, and a Polka band broke into a rousing rendition of The Pennsylvania Polka.

And that’s the way it was at this year’s CultureFest…I can hardly wait until next year.

Cheers!!

Cinco de Mayo: For Me, It's Just Like Thanksgiving

Today is a day of Mexican celebration, and one that all Americans should be thankful for as well.

What does Cinco de Mayo commemorate, you ask?

Well, let me give you a history lesson and ‘splain it to you.

In 1862, Napoleon III, Emperor of France, sent troops to Mexico to install a puppet government.

This army of well supplied French soldiers had planned on attacking Mexico City. It was not to be.

When word of this plan spread, a gang of 43 young Mexicans decided to take on the French army.

This gang had been formed after the evil Gadsden Purchase of 1853.

These brave gang members were known as the, Fuck Franklin Piercers.

Packed like um...well, Mexicans, into their horse-drawn hoopty with tricked out wooden wheels...

The 43 brave FFP-ers headed to meet the French at the city of Puebla.

Armed only with unbridled courage, switchblades, and mariachi music, these 19th Century gang members defeated the heavily armed, and meticulously uniformed European pussies mighty French army…

That's the way it was...May 5, 1862.

I am glad those guys thwarted the French, because had they not, things today would be much worse here in the States.

For instance, all of the illegal aliens swimming across the Rio Grande to come here, would be French!!

Can you imagine having your lawn and garden kept up by a half dozen French guys? Oh, dear God…

They would be complaining about the heat, the pay, and the crooked mow lines on the fescue. And God forbid if you offer them tap water to drink…

They would demand Perrier!!

And just think…

The French illegals working here as hotel maids would have hairy armpits.

Do you want your bed made up and towels changed by a chick with hairy armpits?

I didn’t think so.

There would also be no Mexican fast food chains.

Instead, Main Street U.S.A. would be littered with fast-food eateries called, Crepe-Eaux Belle.

Am I going to go to a place like that when I’m stinkin' drunk at 2 A.M., and order the Pollo Puff Pastry Supreme with currants and bleu cheese...?

Je ne le fuckin' pense pas!!

Just think…If one of these border crossing French aliens stopped me to ask for directions, my entire response would be different.

Instead of the fluid, lilting sounding reply, “No Habla Espanol.” I would have to say...

“I don’t speak Frog, you pretentious French bastard.”

Hell, even history would be forever altered.

Instead of being known for his brazen, anti-hero exploits, Pancho Villa would be known for his over powering serve as he won the 1912 French Open on the clay courts of the Stade Roland Garros.

So Sad…

So on this Cinco de Mayo, take time out to hug an illegal Mexican and thank them for not being French.

Just make sure to wear a pig flu mask and keep one hand on your wallet when doing so.

Cheers!!

Oh, and just for shits and giggles...From my Sharpie to your computer screen, a classic Inky and Lola cartoon...

African-American Like Me

An open letter to "people of color", and in fact, to ALL people:

I don’t talk much about race.

I grew up going to school with African-Americans, Mexican-Americans, Asian-Americans, and white kids…

I had a great time, but there is something missing; can you guess what it is?

I, the Matt-Man, do not have a hyphen next to my group.

This issue has come to the forefront.

Since we are in an embattled Presidential election that involves a “Half-Black, Half-White, Half-Sure of What He Wants to Do…um…Black Man”, I felt the need to discuss this.

Schmoop and I were talking yesterday, and we agree…This label of “African-American” is silly.

Okay, certain folks went from being called, slave, to negro, to colored, to Afro-American, to Black, to African-American…

What the fuck do you people want to be called? What do you call yourselves?

I know, there are plenty of people with white guilt who are more than happy to say, that some of their best friends are, “African-Americans”, but c’mon, in silent social circles, what do you call yourselves?

I myself, use the term, “black”. You know why? Because you are!! Okay maybe not black, black. But I’m not white, white.

I’m more of a whiter shade of pale, while at the same time, Schmoop is nearly an alabaster color. And there are many more shades of whiteness that abound.

Yes, I know you may be brown, tan, sienna, whatever, but can’t we all just say “black“? Can’t we all just say, “white”?

Or better yet, can't we just say, "She's Lisa; he' s Greg." Without any color or ethnicity reference?

It makes life easier.

Philosophically, I am not a big, “life is black and life is white” person, but in this case, it makes sense.

Yes, we all use labels when it comes to ethnic pride, such as German-Americans, Italian-Americans, and in my case, Irish-Americans.

Our groups, however, harbor two distinct differences between us and many “African-Americans”.

First of all, we white folk, typically only refer to ourselves that way during an annual parade or a drunken festival once a year that benefits pedophile Priests and/or folks who want the trains to run on time.

Secondly, we do not claim an entire continent. I, for one, have NEVER called myself a European-American.

Claim all of Africa as your heritage, and you run the risk of being called, “uppity”.

I guess what I am saying is that Americans, of all races, creeds, and ethnicities have become uber-sensitive. It’s time to stop it.

If you want to be proud of your ethnicity, have at it. Be proud. I am of mine…

But please, you can be black, white, Oriental, Mexican, whatever…I just want you to be you.

Lose the labels…lose the assumptions…lose the stereotypes…just be you.

Cheers!!