Cover Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

I know. hehehe That tiny cat is adorable. Ha. I think we both can agree that cat’s tiny spine cannot support the weight of a human person, nor does it possess the strength needed to transport critical and consumer goods between the couch and coffee table.  Stupid cat.  It’s expendable.  I can plant something in his desk; make it seem like he’s been stealing.  Fire him on a Friday.

See?  This is the sort of critical thinking your company needs.

I’m great.  I know that this position just opened up, and I’m perfect for it.  When you hire me let us consider getting rid of some dead weight, yeah?  I’m like an overworked porn star.  I can pretty much fill any position, even better ones you’ve never thought of.

OK, honestly, I am a college graduate, currently getting my MA, bilingual, hate homeless people, ridiculously loyal, promiscuous, if need be, and needing a challenge.  Don’t allow the influx of overly qualified and well-groomed Southern Californians into our fair city dissuade you from making the right decision.  Not to sound like a protectionist, but as a protectionist, why can’t we just look out for the Texans for a lil while, yeah?  While this whole thing blows over.  That riff-raff moving east is good for nothing anyway.  You’ve seen what they’ve done to their own state.

Anyway, good talk.  Hire me.


D. Garcia

PS: I’ll bring tacos every day.  I’m serious.

Latino Heat Out. Who is your Favorite?

For Jim. USA. A-OK.


Hulk Hogan got punched in the face by Ric Flair [who I effing love! WHOO!] the other day at some fake-ass press conference.  I wasn’t really interested, and the fake blood didn’t do much except give me hope that Hogan’s face was actually marred.

Professional wrestling is falling off.  I’ve noticed there hasn’t been much buzz about the “sport”.  Unless you call Escape to Witch Mountain wrestling-related buzz.  Was “The Rock” really that important?  Did the name change to WWE kill the WWF?  I wasn’t a conoisseur, but I miss the WWF.

Weren’t people more comfortable knowing that most rednecks/teenagers would be indoors on Monday nights?  Football takes care of most mouth breathers itself, but wrestling was an added comfort blanket to do your grocery shopping on Monday nights or to take a nice walk without the fear of being harassed by people wearing cammo or those who still listen to ICP.


When asked what professional wrestler you would be, who would you choose?

Most people will naturally assume that I’m going to pick Eddie Guerrero.  Not for racist reasons, people know I’m a sucker for mullets from south of the border.  But, Eddie Guerrero’s character was too “vato” for me sometimes.  I’m not a Chicano.  I can’t relate to someone who’s supposed to like Impalas and say “carnal” in a non-ironic way.  Also, Eddie got big outside of the optimum age in which someone falls in love with the WWF, 6 – 12.  Oddly enough, he got huge during the Era of Latin Fever circa 1999-2002. That era was great.  Latinos could do no wrong.  They pumped out dance hits and were free to cross the border.  Not anymore.  I miss you, Ricky.

I grew up watching Sting, Golddust (looks like Eminem on ecstasy), The Ultimate Warrior, etc.  I liked the Undertaker a lot. :D

In fact, I always identified with the unlikeliest guy, Hacksaw Jim Duggan.  He was the guy who finished people off with his 2 x 4.  He held the American flag HIGH AND PROUD! HE WAS THE FUCKING MAN!  You knew his “thumbs-up” and salute meant something.

Not only was he an agent in the ueber-American machismo which ruled entertainment in the 1980s and 1990s, he was everything Ronald Reagan and Herbert Hoover wanted wrapped in one neat bearded package.  He was the rugged individualist that could build a house in two days alone.  He loved his country, kicked ass, “hiyo”-ed like a hammerhead, hated immigrants and probably voted Republican.

I always saw Hacksaw as the manifestation of wrestling’s audience.  I could see some schmo from West Virginia getting into the ring and acting exactly the same.  He allowed us into the arena of people like Brett “The Hitman” Hart, who was so “mod” that he wore “Jubilee” style sun glasses throughout his career.  He wrangled with Randy Savage –“Macho Man”!  But, Jim was just Jim.  He was some lovable lug, with a beer belly and a penchant for carpentry and carpentry material.

I was like Jim growing up.  I loved the United States so much .  My parents hadn’t broken me in, yet.  I loved carpentry.  I feel I’m naturally slated for that.  And, I loved underdogs.  I felt like one.  He was one.  He never really won anything.  But, he was always in the mix.

It was nice to see some out-of-shape guy go to work on people who clearly cared too much about their bodies.  He was All-American.  I wanted to be All-American.  He was essentially, Jim Duggan the Cable Guy starring in Delta Farce.  Much like Larry the Cable Guy, Jim wasn’t so over the top to begin with.  He was run of the mill guy within some lame-o tag team, but he, and the WWF, quickly realized that he needed to do more.  He needed to get himself out there and push for the minds of people who just loved America and hated muscles.

In a sense, I miss the WWE.  I don’t ever catch it.  I might see a re-run in Spanish on Telelmundo, but I never actively seek it out.  Football and soccer have overtaken my spectator sports life.  It seems like MMA is taking its market share recently.  It’s so brutal.  You can’t help but watch.  The one thing that the WWE will always have over UFC or WEC is that these guys have personality.  They have pizazz.  They have the acting bug, but also have the faces and bodies of henchmen.  They are fun to listen and watch.  Listen to Kimbo Slice speak and tell me you’re not terrified that he might be in your city soon.  Listen to Triple H speak and you might want to sit down and have a beer with him.  As menacing as he might try to seem, he’s just putting on an act.  He’s wearing a suit.  Shit, he can’t be serious.

I just wrote a post about fucking wresting…

I can’t be serious,



I use stereotypes because they're funny... "Hey, welcome to West Campus! Here's your red cup! Wanna talk about who's dad owns the biggest dealership!? Rad."
I use stereotypes because they're funny... "Hey, welcome to West Campus! Here's your red cup! Wanna talk about who's dad owns the biggest dealership!? Rad."

My earliest experience with competition occurred in school.  In second grade, I remember all the kids racing to the farthest line of trees that surrounded the grounds of Sutton Elementary.  I remember coming in fourth one day.   I know that’s hard to believe… I thought that was pretty bad ass, but I felt like I could do better. I never did.

My parents always pushed me academically.  Wait, let me correct that.  My parents always threatened me to do well academically.  I was always afraid something awful would happen if I didn’t get good grades.  An ass-whoopin’ is a really great motivational tool.  I’ll never be convinced otherwise.

The elementary school I first went to tried to force me into the bilingual class because I spoke Spanish at home.  Little did they know, my English was just as good as my Spanish.  Amazed by this English-speaking Mexican (I’m Salvadorian), they put me, the noble savage, in the Gifted and Talented class.  My parents never let me forget this.  They kind of felt insulted by the school’s stubborn attitude toward putting me in a G&T classroom.  It took a lot of convincing.  So, for years, my parents would always ask me two questions concerning school:

“How are you doing in school?” AND “How are you doing in school compared to the white kids?”

Funnily enough, they never bothered asking about the Asian kids because they recognized I had no chance.  I always thought it was odd that my parents asked me how I did in school compared to white kids.  My parents were well aware of my class’s demographic composition.  From what I can remember, I was the only power-beaner in there, and there was only one black kid too.  I guess they wanted to make sure I was alright with my situation. This being the case, my classes from Pre-K-12 were nearly entirely white.  Anyone who went to school with me can attest to that.

I’ve never hated white people.  I just needed to be better or just as good as them to appease my parents in a strange, confusing and roundabout way and therefore, make myself feel at ease.

I know to anyone who isn’t a minority, this sounds crazy, but it’s a problem most ethnic-minorities face, regardless of what society we’re talking about.  When you’re the only one of your “kind” around, you feel like you’re under a microscope.  Even if that isn’t always the case, you can’t help but feel marginalized.  Some people can’t handle that sort of pressure, and it affects them adversely through life.  I punch that sort of pressure in the fucking face.

My entire scholarly career was a competition against an invisible foe.  There were no villains.  There were no Shooter McGavins.   There was only me, and this impossible obstacle I had to overcome, and that was my race.

In high school, it stopped being about race and my need to be the best just included everyone.  I was the worst.  I always tried to one-up and have the last word.  It affected me socially because I couldn’t just shut the fuck up and listen to anyone.

In college, I quickly found out that no one cared.  College is an exceptionally self-centered time.  Except for a majority of prep school kids, nothing you did really mattered to people as long as you got your shit done and you weren’t a douche.  That sort of freedom finally allowed me to relax, and take my identity into consideration more that I had ever done.  And now, I don’t feel like there’s some force I’m fighting against anymore.  I don’t feel like there’s an opposition, but merely circumstances and obstacles that we communally face.  That’s pretty rad.

However, there is always something that brings back that interpersonal competitive fire.  Someone says or does something that makes you say, “Alright, fuck face.  If you want to make this happen, we can make this happen, but I can’t promise that your feelings won’t get hurt, and you ass won’t be sore.” Examples of competition-inducing actions are:

Competition is healthy.  I’m still very competitive, but only with myself and the goals that I have set for my life.  I feel that so many of us live in this world where everyone is trying to be the hippest, strongest, holiest or smartest for the wrong reasons.  We’ll never be happy unless we understand that we shouldn’t do these things because of what people will think about us.  We should do things because we care enough about ourselves to do meaningful shit with our lives.

South Austin seems to be crawling with these sort of people.  It’s hard to not fall into a, and I quote, “dick-measuring contest” with people.  I’m trying to be strong because I know, no matter who wins a little spat over who’s cooler, both parties are still assholes.

I’m just stating the obvious,


PS: Britt and I started a soccer blog. It’s about the EPL. So, all you guys who think that La Liga or heaven forbid, Serie A is better, just ignore the link below or in the Blog Roll.

Thanks for reading! I love you all.

Phase Three: Profit

"Alright, I'm going to give you the option to vote which one of you gets thrown away. I'm not going to lie to you Tiger Sock, it doesn't look good for you"
"Alright, I'm going to give you the option to vote which one of you gets thrown away. I'm not going to lie to you Tiger Sock, it doesn't look good for you"

This afternoon, I walked into my kitchen an noticed that my half-full bag of sandwich bread was missing.  Luckily, I found it in the refrigerator.  I know that some people do that on purpose (But, really, who?). I felt so stupid.

I made sandwiches this morning, and my mouth-breathing ass left it in there.  I hate how something stupid, like misplacing something inane like a loaf of bread or a child, can make you feel.

When I do laundry, there always seems to be a lonely sock.  I always feel bad for it.  He essentially lost his date to the Dago’s Dresser Drawer Dance.  Sometimes, we can avoid the entire lonely sock situation. I’ll get super lucky and just lose two socks from two different pairs that look similar enough that I can pair them up.  Instead of going stag, the socks can keep each other company during a difficult time, like when two friends go to prom together.  However, you do feel for the socks that are out there all alone in the cold and rain.  What could be going on with them? WHY HAVE THEY GONE?!

It doesn’t just stop at socks.  I’ve misplaced guitars, amps and other semi-important things.  However, these situations do provide us with moments to redeem ourselves. Who knows, maybe you’ll find something awesome when you are looking for your copy of NFL Football ’95 Starring Joe Montana for Sega Genesis.  Perhaps, you’ll find your VHS copy of Wild Things, en Español.  Kevin Bacon is ten times the actor in dubbed over Spanish.  Maybe that late-1990s era Darth Vader Replica Lightsaber will come in handy for your Jedi Training or for when you throw a Star Wars/Eyes Wide Shut-themed party. Maybe some day someone will give a shit that you have a signed Warped Tour ticket from the lead singer/pianist of Something Corporate.

Whatever the case may be, I think, like a lot of people I’m sure, I just find excuses to beat myself up about something.  I’m reminded daily of how self-confidence is a luxury, and the smallest things can make you realize how down on yourself you can really get for the dumbest reasons.  It’s the “Oh, gosh, can I get anything right?” feeling, that I get all the time.  It’s important to just step back and realize, in any situation, that you’re the shit and if anyone tells you any different, you have to verbally or physically bitch slap them ’cause you’re a fucking winner.

Now go find my socks,


PS: Sorry, if this post is really weird and sucky. I feel kind of awful, and sick. I made a commitment to post once a week, at least, and goddammit, I’m doing it. Thanks for reading, y’all.


Que putas estas haciendo? Estoy tratando dormir. "Hey, what the fuck are you doing? I'm sleeping here."
Baby Dago only knew Spanish: Que putas estas haciendo? Estoy tratando de dormir.

In 3rd grade I told some kid who was upset about a soccer game during recess to, and I quote, “Stop being a bitch.”  I begged him not to tell the teacher.  As I had accurately predicted, this kid was the penultimate “bitch” and told the teacher.  I thought we were friends.  I guess that bond was broken the second I called him out on his bitchiness.  I’m not bitter.

I couldn’t help it though.  At this point of my life, the parents were in the middle of a divorce, and I was feeling the psychological effects of that–lashing out verbally and physically.  It wasn’t a good place.  Also, my cousin Tony, who my best friends know very well, was charged with taking care of me during this tumultuous period.  Tony was a high-school dropout from Chicago (No worries. He grew up to be a model citizen, and has become my favorite family member).  He grew up around gangs and was a pretty tough kid, from what I can remember.  He would drive my single-digit-aged butt around Sharpstown while we listened to Tupac and Biggie.  I picked up a lot from songs such as “Me and My Bitch”, “C.R.E.A.M.” and other classic gangster rap songs of the time.  One of my fondest memories from childhood was watching BET with Tony.  Cypress Hill’s “Insane in the Membrane” was my favorite video.  It was Tony’s too, probably because they were Latinos.  Who knows? Weren’t they beefing with Ice Cube at that time? Off track…

Like most people, I didn’t learn to curse from television or movies.  My mother was the source of my familiarity and comfort with the magical vulgarity of life.  I actually can’t recall a recent conversation with my mother that didn’t involve one of us swearing at someone or something.  She blames it on growing up with seven brothers.  I blame it on her being a bit of a cray-cray.

My favorite mom-ism is her patented hijo de setenta putas which means “son of seventy whores”.  I always tried to throw that one back at my mom with logic, but as I quickly learned, you can’t use such tactics against women, especially Virgos.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to shake the specter of generations of vulgar language in my family.  I can’t go a day without saying a few “fucks”, throwing in a couple of “shits” and maybe topping it off with a “twat” or two.

For a while, I tried to cut back, but I find it really hard to do so.  Swearing just feels right.  One of the few advantages of the English language is the beauty and ease one can relay their dissatisfaction with a professionally strewn tapestry of harsh words.  Sometimes there is no other recourse but to lay into something or someone.  And sometimes, people need to hear how much of a “douchefag” they’re being.

I have the utmost respect for people who do not curse, and double the props for keeping it clean around me (Will, I’m talking to you).

If you can find a better substitute for the word “fuck”, I want to hear it.  I honestly don’t think there’s a better feeling word in our language (double entendre?).

I get some complaints from people about my facebook statuses, tweets and wall postings.  Unfortunately, I’m incredibly comfortable with the way I speak, and if it makes someone uncomfortable, I respect that.  There’s nothing worse than a cockmonger who doesn’t know how to shut his vulgar, sodding mouth.



PS: Send your complaints to me via personal message on facebook or twitter. :)