I apologize, first of all, for my pathetic Caveman Spanish. In order to satisfy the central conceit of today's post, I was forced to resort to an online Spanish Dictionary, and those fuckers don't translate phrases... leaving your correspondent to assemble his title word by tortuous word.
I was watching the Superior Bowl, like any good American, and I found Prince's half-time histrionics somewhat unsatisfying (If he'd done "Kiss" as a duet with Tom Jones, perhaps things would have been different). I flipped desultorily through the channels, seeking a distraction from the pummeling my beloved Bears were being handed. In fairly short order, my heathen prayers were answered.
Telemundo was showing the Spanish Language Broadcast of RAW.
I perked up, as Vince berated Jonathan Coachman en Espanol. A bunch of money fell on the crowd, while the Spanish Language Doppelgangers of JR and the King (clad, in my mind's eye, in matching bumblebee costumes) shrieked and bellowed. And then, a tag match started. A tag match that, in light of the international flavor I was currently savoring, seemed fraught with significance. Super Crazy and Carlito were battling Kenny Dykstra and the hated Chris Masters.
Man, I thought, I HATE those fucking crackers. As Masters and Dykstra isolated Super Crazy, I began making deals with a distant, uncaring God. Lord, I don't ask for much... but if you help Crazy and Carlito beat these stupid crackers... I don't care if the Bears lose. I felt a shudder run through me. What had I done? I had betrayed my team, but it mattered little. THIS struggle was more important. This fake fight between living cartoon characters, with its staged violence and predetermined outcome, mattered FAR MORE to me than some bullshit Super Bowl.
A ray of heavenly light pierced the window of my front room. A cool breeze swept my fevered brow. Super Crazy and Carlito began to lucha the living balls out of their stupid cracker opponents. When Carlito nailed the backcracker (in Spanish? The announcers called it los backcracker) on Chris Masters, I stood up and cheered. My poor girlfriend landed on the floor with a thud (she'd been asleep with her head on my lap). Dazed, she looked up and asked me what happened.
"I think I just got religion," I said.