Pagan Greetings Chicas

I just finished writing my December Letter. Notice that I don't use the word 'Christmas' and especially not 'Nocha Buena' which is a goddamned Miami Cuban Nazi notion. This way Dad's friend, Saul Landau, won't think I'm going Bush on him. The more pagan 'December' is much much better!

Anyway, since I wanted to MAKE SURE you read it, I went through the trouble of copying it from my regular web site that nobody reads and pasting it to this blog and that piece of shit on myspace, just to be sure it's right in front of you. So eat this, mi'jas!

First things first: I've banked another six figures, bitches. Just so you know. Not a high six figures, because if it was, I'd tell you how high, but six figures is six figures. Got it? SIX figures! Besides, I don't want Mister Biggs to know too much about my new six figures, because in my last press release where I called him a liar, I said I didn't have any money, tee hee! His complaining seems to have gotten my last book yanked from the shelves at Borders, and it's plummetted to 93,000 on Amazon, but guess what. I've got another six figures! The Reina Dirty always comes out on top!

One more time: six figures. It just happens to coincide with the number of girls in my Dirty Chicas book. Don't you think it's kinda psychic? Six. Always six. My latest garbage has been pulped and I am back on the Dirty Chica bandwagon again, because like Madonna, I am a one-note songster, and I only write about one thing: ME! Why settle for less than Number One?

So now I'm making the Dirty Girls movie without that goddamned Jennifer Lopez and that Spiderwoman producer, those bitches I fawned over and bragged about a few years ago.

I got back at that cunt Lopez by writing a whole book about her. Man I can't believe I tried to suck up to her afterwards with that "I'm Jill Sanchez" bullshit. It's probably the most groveling I have done since I penned that "take-me-back, it was the hormones" note to my former bosses at the L.A. Times. But I've grown up now and realize I don't need La Lopez at all. Wee! I am free! Today, I'm giving you the straight poop: Lopez doesn't know what the fuck she is doing.

And man, am I shakin' it. Lopez has nothing on me. I walked into the gym at the Elephant Butte YMCA the other day and starting shaking my ass so hard the the stationary bike wasn't so stationary anymore. Some people started looking at me. They are just racists, that resent strong women who happen to be Latinas. They're racists for looking at me funny even though I am white. It must be because I am Latina. It couldn't be anything else.

All I ever do is draw racists. Like moths to a fucking flame. I got those racists to really stare when I started hurling curse words and screaming obscenities at them. After all, I am happy to inform you white rubes out there, that cursing is a Latin custom that I am entitled to and you are not. Don't you know that it's my cultural heritage to hurl cuss words and shake an entire room? Don't you realize that ALL Latinas do this?

Sidebar: whites are so stiff and passionless, regular Ward and June Cleavers, that they wouldn't know how to do it unless an authentic Latina like me showed them (except ass sex, I still don't like ass sex that much. A little is OK but not so hard coño!).

Anyway, it's not just good news for me. My political mentor, Bill Richardson, today professed his deep friendship and familiarity with two of my heroes, Hugo Chavez and Daniel Ortega. Check out the money-quote, chicas: here. I just can't wait for our next meeting when I'll use my Latina powers, shaking the governor's office to the foundation with my size-16 hips, knocking that size-six secretary over the racist wooden staircase hand-rail, rattling the chandeliers above him, and enticing him with my humongous sex appeal to say the same about Uncle Che and Uncle Fidel. It's only a matter of time, girls. But don't you dare call me a hot piquante peppa, mi'jas. That would be stereotyping, bitches.

My lawyer's in Vegas spending part of my new six figures and I'm going shopping. I have to buy my gifted Hal 9000 kid some damned thing and he doesn't like the creepy toys I choose for him. And dammit. Gotta go, it's time for my maple pecan scone.

Caridad, mi'jas,
Not Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez