I'll have a side of McMortgage Fraud with that house

I moved out here to Tempe to start a new life near a real city, you know with a Starbucks on every corner, and I bought a half-million dollar house in a great subdivision.


I put a couple of bucks down and signed up for an Adjustable Rate Mortgage (ARM). Now I know why they call it an ARM, it's like getting fisted up to the elbow without any lube when the teaser rate ends and the prime rate starts going up. Now my house is worth half of what I paid.

Anyway, I'm tired of this dump and this city and have decided to leave the bank holding the bag. I mean whose fault is it that they lent me $490k without checking whether I had any regular income? It sure as hell ain't my fault. I mean they took my down payment gladly. Where's MY MONEY?

I was talking this over with an acquaintance the other day and I mentioned my down payment money and she told me "well actually the lender didn't take the down payment. They gave it to the seller along with the rest of the purchase price for the home. The lender is the one that allowed your transaction to happen in the first place. You're committing mortgage fraud." I couldn't believe the fascist shit that this bitch was trying to sell me. Can you fucking believe that? What the fuck does she know, economics degree, phooey!

Look this is going to be my revenge on all those greedy capitalist fuckers in corporate America. So I'm calling the Mayflower movers and taking off with all my shit in the middle of the night like the Baltimore Fucking Colts. Daddy has my room waiting for me back in Elephant Butte. I just have to make him move the bust of Karl Marx to the garage.

I probably shouldn't be writing this on the blog, I mean maybe this can be used as evidence of premeditated fraud. That's O.K. I can always delete it later.

Uncle Fidel!!!!!!

Girls, isn't he dreamy? I posted one of the young pictures so you can appreciate him to the maximum. Virile. Youthful. Mansize. So masculine and hairy, like my Usnavys and every bit the man I wish I could attract instead of the spineless jellyfish I always end up with, hairless types. So regardless of what the oppressive Miami Cuban party line is, and all the polite thought I must put out, in reality, I like that young, virile Fidel, not the old crumbly one, my Fidel, Fidelitos, adoritos, Doritos. Ummmm. My Uncle Fidel and now that he's resigned from dictatorship of Cuba, maybe he's available?

Fidel, Fidel, Fidel...

Obama Is Racist!

Girls,

Bill Richardson got together with dad and asked me to infiltrate the one presidential campaign keen on re-establishing ties with my Uncle Fidel and offering Bill the vp slot. For me, that was a fucking no-brainer, because nobody's more malleable, more naive, nor bigger clay in my hands than Barack Hussein Obama. I figure I can browbeat him into giving Bill the slot, but as for Fidel, the work does itself. That's because Barry already wants to drink coca tea with the bearded hero of revolution right in the White House. (If it happens, I get the Oval Office love seat, not only because I'm looking for love but because I get two seats the better to park my fat ass.) It's a task that does itself.

But nothing is a simple as that. Why, bitches? Because of all the racism. Obama's people wouldn't give my people the time of day! I called them and called them, offerig up my magnificent credentials as the one true voice of Latinidad who could fer sure deliver up the Latina dirty chica vote better than even Bill can. And what do you think they said to that? Take a slot on the phone bank!

That's right, here, I, the Reina Dirty, the most influential Latina of all time according to Time magazine, the New York Times bestselling author, the sought-after lecture-tour speaker and self-nominated nominee for the Pulitzer Prize, was rejected by the Obama campaign for special guest star appearances at Obama rallies, which is what was in this whole caper for me. They told me my services of this kind wouldn't be needed but I was welcome to push a broom. Can you believe these fuckers?

It's racism! Racism. Think it was a coincidence, girls, that Oprah Winfrey, that fat hog, is Obama's best campaigner? I think there's a link between the Obama connection and Oprah and me being shut out from the Obama campaign. There has to be, it's a real conspiracy because we all know that Oprah hates Latinos because she didn't have the time of day for my masterpiece on J-Lo.

Racist, girls, racist! You think they know how to google? You think they read my famous resignation letter calling my Obama-voting liberal bosses genocidal maniac racists? If they did, they'd take my side!

You think they heard about my screeching match with that frightful Scottissuedale real estate woman whose racism I called her on? If they did, they'd take me in a minute because I am the open-minded portrait of class.

You think it was them reading my Usnavys blog advertised on my site, describing how black women are piggishlyy fat and vulgar and put big cadillacs up on their sites and obsess about nothing but sex same as the hip hop music says and love public hair in their teeth? Of course not, blacks love to be portrayed that way! Especially when sensitive whites (like moi) do it!

You think it was all my charges against Oprah being racist for not advertising my book? Of course not, those were to help Oprah become sensitive with Latinos and the Obama campaign would be amazingly graced to have me doing the same with them.

What's wrong with these people! Bill Richardson isn't going to let me in his office and my dad is going to kill me and Uncle Fidel is going to kick my ass next time he sees me. Girls, it's not right. Obama should be embracing me as his running mate and he's not!

I'm going to expose this, writing my 1291st op-ed to the Los Angeles Times and New York Time about it! This time, it's gonna make print!

smooches (except to Patrick),
Not Alisa

Yes!! Yes!! Yes!!! A New Hand To Bite!

Girls,

I can't believe how stupid the mainstream establishment media are. I'm getting a new column or blog, with either Yahoo! or a major media outlet. Count on me to go for the the more prestigious media one, I can demogogue more as a "deep" thinker (I told you I was "deep" didn't I?) ... or maybe I'll just go for the bloggy one that pays more so I can spend more on Starbucks trips at the mall. Hmmmm. It's so dificil, mi'jas. What do you say I do? Te quieres? Everyone wants a these days firebrand whose outbursts will bring them traffic. That's why I'm so popular with content providers. But don't you dare call me 'piquante' or a hot peppa, bitches. That's racist. As a matter of fact, I'm much more like microwave radiation than actual warmth. Kind of like my meals.

Which brings us to the Latinidad issue. Girls, do you know how great this is? Fucking stupid white men, who haven't even looked at my color of skin, have picked me to be the staff negro, only Mexican. That's right, they all Latinas are Mexicans and I'm the one whose risen up and said I'd never clean anyone's toilet. Can you see how I can profit off their stupidity? I, The Reina Dirty, will now be the voz of Latinidad right there in the goddamn rightwing Miami-Cuban infiltrated American media! And my Starbucks and Lexus tastes here in Scottissuedale are going to be fobbed off as Latinidad. Tough luck for those Guadalupe-worshipping Mexicans as representational, I'm their representation now! The media bigshots will have their Latino box checked off with me and I'll be their spokesman. It's kind of fun doing jobs Mexicans won't do, no? I like the idea of speaking for Mexicans, telling their pro-Castro story to mainstream America, explaining that most are Wiccans, have my morals, and announcing that they will only vote for the most Chavista of presidential candidates. I bet I even get some cheap Citgo heating oil out of it.

Here's the best part, though. Now that I will be a bigname columnist and sought by all, I'll write about Latina matters and scream and yell when the topic of the day is something else. I'll screech about Latinidad being ignored by goddamn racists in the media. Then, when I DO write about Latinidad, I'll holler even louder about being confined to "this ghetto." You see? I get it both ways.

I can't wait to bite the hand that feeds me, these idiots should have known better. Since I'm now getting it both ways, I'll bite both hands.

Venceremos, with a mailed fist,
Not Alisa

I Love You Phillip Michaels, Will You Review My Movie?

Girls,

I love Elephant Butte movie critic Phillip Michaels more than I love cold, salt pork (you know what I mean, bitches) in the summer - which is to say, I besito him like loco. He's a brilliant, spectacular, sexy, attractive, intelligent, super-guapo, high-performance (though I can't say that for sure), gorgeous, film-star of a man whom I used to work with till he moved to a new paper in Elephant Butte. I didn't know him well enough to lambaste him in my famous resignation letter, mainly because he didn't have the time of day for me and usually scurried into the next room whenever I unleashed my loud tantrums, missing their historic significance. But that's why I think he can be of fucking use to me right now.

Phillip Michaels, hmmm, I remember Googling him when I was bored at my desk and didn't have anyone to fight with on those off days. I Googled him when I wasn't spatting with the copy desk over some goddamn coffee pot on a desk that gave me (perfectly understandable) morning sickness and itchy hives and the rightwing plot that was really behind it.

And I remember sort of straining to listen to Phillip interview celebrities on the phone. He was so sensitive, so New Age, such a guy. His sheer intelligence. Did I tell you he was intelligent? On top of that, he was also so sweet, so kind, as I vaguely recall. A malleable man, to my advantage.... but I'll get to that in a moment.

Very thoughtful, compassionate - an evolved man in a world of goddamn Miami Cuban Nazis. Now at his new paper, Phillip continues to be one of the most intelligent, most informed voices in all journalism, aware, as few are anymore, of the master science, sociology, and the Jon Carry nuances of American culture.

That brings us to the real reason I'm flattering the fuck. He gave me an idea from his new review of the film "Latin Thugs In Love." Where most other reviewers are saying simpleton things about this record-breaking masterpiece, like, "It's a movie for Hispanics because it's full of Mexican thugs," I want to point out that Phillips nails the more subtle truths: It's a multi-ethnic film and never mind that Latinos are one ethnicity united by common cultural, linguistic and religious traits, yet many nationalities, let's just say it's multi-ethnic anyway. And it represents the "real" Los Angeles instead of the plastic-boobs J-Lo part of LA I frequented, (oops, sorry, J-Lo, been trying to suck up to you too!) This new movie, Phillip said, was down there with Mi Gente, so that makes it more 'authentic.' With the people. Down and dirty. And I am the Dirty Queen.

You continue to impress me, Senor Michaels. Besos. And now that I've flattered the shit out of you and softened you up, you nonentity who never gave me the time of day when we worked together, I'd like to take the opportunity to tell you about my new movie, 'Dirty Chicas' which I'm going to need good reviews for because it's dropping like a stone otherwise.

(Girls, it helps to flatter these fuckheads before I need them so I can get what I want.)

What say, Phillip? You gonna write something good about my film in the name of Latinidad or do I have to prooffer to you one of my fucking tantrums you weaseled out of right under my nose back when we worked in the same building? Out with it!

amado,
Not Alisa

Noam Chomsky ... You'll Never Guess Who Else Likes Him

Girls,

When I was a little girl, I used to sit on daddy's lap before bedtime and instead of having to listen to insipid fucking rightwing Miami Cuban propaganda, like The Three Bears, my dad read me the Collected Writings Of Noam Chomsky each night. It's how I got smart.

Smart enough for Chicana cholas to want to torment me, that's for fucking sure.

Well you wouldn't believe who else reads Chomsky and feels the same way I do about George fucking Bush - Osama Bin Laden!

Girls, isn't it time we rethought Osama Bin Laden? I know it's not something the hoi polloi would understand, but might he not be ... misunderstood? I mean, he reads Chomsky, my childhood manqué, the man who would have given us a Better World had the rightwingers not been so fucking evil. It must mean something. It has to be good. As you know, 9/11 was all a plot by Bush and the rightwing Cuban Nazis, I saw it on ScrewLooseChange myself. It all goes to show that Bin Laden is really a misunderstood higher being above us all.

Sort of like myself, I'm always being misunderstood. All I can say is let's keep an open mind about him. Hear that? Open minded! As in fucking Open-Minded Writers. Bin Laden does read Chomsky. He might even like my books too!

Thoughtfully,
Not Alisa

Rage Against The Spellcheck Machine

Girls,

I have a relationship with the spellcheck machine on my computer. I commune with it, because I can't get anyone else to talk to me. Of course, there is my jellyfish babydaddy, who speaks on command for me, but that doesn't count. So I must argue with my spellcheck and as in any conversation with me, I win, because it eventually all boils down to fucking racism. Spellcheck machines are created by white males and that's proof they are motivated by racism and have no sensitivity to the cultural value of the many Spanish words I insert (ooh, sexy!!) into my novels.

Just take a look at what the spellcheck did when I ran my latest oeuvre through spellcheck with its many Spanish words. Mira how racist and insensitive and incompetent it showed itself to be against my Chica culture. For every Spanish word I wrote, it gave me an outrageous suggestion. Here's what happened:

My Spanish word - The spellcheck's racist, insensitive suggestion

fuck - fake
shit - shag
dickhead - ditchwater
cum - communist
asshole - ashcan of history
cunt - coño
piss - miss
snatch - sandwich
penis - perverse
teakettle - tearoom trade
spooge - spittle
porn - proud
pork - pride
labia - lesbian
gspot - glitz
threesome - tiresome
hooker - yo mama
swingers - god you're vulgar, how long do you expect a spellchecker to put up with this toilet talk?

You see? It talks to me! The goddamn racist spellcheck has a demonstrated hostility toward Spanish and Latina culture! These results are proof. This is persecution! This violates my freedom of speech! I'm going to launch a class action lawsuit to force all of those charming Spanish words I use all the time into the English language dictionaries, mi'jas. And after that, spellcheck will have no choice. I will have won. Spellcheck will even have to acknowledge that I, The Reina Dirty, introduced these common Latina table talk words into the racist culture. (Take that, Cindysleysis!) And everyone damn well better change to my specifications as I fucking define it. Or else.

La Lucha Continua, chicas,
Not Alisa

My Heroic Revolutionary Uncle Saulito Speaks Out

Girls,

As a little girl, I always wanted to be just like my dad's dear old friend, Saul Landow. You remember him, don't you? The one who extended to me his comradely greetings when I was in Alameda, California on my book tour? I fucking love him. He taught me how to play Marxist Monopoly right under the family Christmas tree (which some years had a little Che on top instead of a red star) back when I was a nina. He taught me the wonders of all that free health care in Cuba. And unlike me, he could actually speak Spanish. I think it was because he had a communal, or maybe I should say, communist, relationship with Uncle Fidel. Now that's a great man.

Nowadays, he's been helping Hugo Chavez over in Venezuela with his job on the board of Telesur, the Marxist CNN set up in the name of the people to counter all the goddamn racist Miami Cuban Nazi control of the mass media. But this brother has never forgotten his roots.

Today, my dad's comrade who played Leninist frisbee with me as a kid and taught me how to fight class warfare, has written something warm and wonderful about the Cuban Five for the magazine my dad likes to write for and to which I can only aspire, Counterpunch. See?

First he started off his opus with toilet talk, appropos of nothing, but something I always enjoy. Too bad he didn't bring up penises, but I made do with the real carne of the issue, the unfair inability of Cuban spies to buy their way out of U.S. justice. It's just plain wrong. Justice is for sale here, fuckers, and only being big and important and capitalist is what gets you off. That's why I stand up for the little people. But the Bush administration continues to persecute mi gente, the revolutionary Cuban spies (who dance so well!) and who are only coming to America to do good, for its own good!

Uncle Saulito writes that the only reason the US would arrest such paragons of social justice is its bitter vengeance that Uncle Castro hasn't been defeated:

Since Washington had failed to punish Cuba adequately for its near half century of disobedience, the opportunity presented by the Cuban Five fell like a serendipitous apple onto the vengeful ground of the national security elite, the group that wages war and regularly infringes on citizens' rights in order to "protect" the public.

See? It's all a government plot. And they're angry that Cuba has humiliated America, nothing more. That's why they won't let Uncle Fidel's agents spy on those goddamn Miami Cuban Nazis in peace! (In self defense, of course.) That's what it's about, girls. My Saul has the whole story and he tells it for me so my publisher won't scream at me.

Comradely greetings,

Not Alisa

I Thought Of It First

Girls,

I've been busy, so don't bug me, coño, for not writing. Now I'm writing, is that enough for you?

Something that really put the fly in my sprout and carrot salad wrap is this new TV series Cane. Don't get me wrong. I'm really happy Cindysleysis Citre, or whatever her name is got the contract for the TV series about a wealthy Cuban family. Really I am. (How much do you think she made off her contract?) I mean, really, I am. Glad, (sniff) Us Latinas gots to stick together, you capiche?

But it was really my idea. I was the first to ever come up with the idea of a wealthy Latino family as a story idea. It's never been thought of before. Latino drama has always been a Marxist affair of peasants and toilet cleaning Mexicans and Liberation theology has it not? My dad has made sure it's stayed that way, he's a pioneer. My only contribution to all this Marxist interpretive outlook has been the addition of vulgarity. Because I'm with the people, bitches.

When I presented my historic rich-Latino idea to my Hollywood film producers, describing it in full, all they could say was "can you make it more ghetto?" Can you believe that? Racist bastards! I have no idea why they were racist around me and not racist around her, but that's the way this goes. And trust me girls, they have no idea what they are doing, them and their deer parks wasting water in the Valley, the fucking morons!

It wasn't enough that I tried to educate them that they were idiots! They rejected my idea because I presented richness in the realest way, the way I know it (write what you know, right?) which is to say the world of designer jean labels, J-Lo downloads, bottle blond hair, super-skinny figures, jigolos, families that never form, white little dogs with diamond studded collars, tattoos, expensive gold dental grilles, nights discoing, unlimited credit card limits, free sex and everything else I read out of the Perez, 'scuse me, I meant Paris, Hilton biography. Isn't that authentically rich?

But noooo, they took one look at what I put in front of them, and wanted it ghettoed up. Not because all these great ideas of mine are what was needed but because they are racist. They wouldn't know rich if they saw it! Girls, I know what rich is.

Now this bitch comes along, with her mahogany panelling, her panama hats, her balconies, her mojitos, her guayaberas, her family values around the dinner table (it's so patriarchal!), her love of capitalist (retch) enterprises, her fucking tradition .... and that's supposed to be more emblematic of rich than my J-Lo diamonds and bling? (Besos, J-Lo! I didn't really mean the mean shit I said about you earlier! Besos!)

Who, really, is richer and more important? My rich or Cidre's rich? Her rich remind me of something infinitely more horrible than anything I can name, those goddam Miami Cubans! If that's rich, I don't want anyone to know. Rich is the J-Lo lifestyle, not those Miami Nazis! Now it's all coming together for me. This racist, fascist Hollywood establishment is just plain in league with the goddamn Miami fascist Cubans! It's a plot. And all of those directors I badmouthed were really as rightwing as these Cane Miami Cubans are. Claro, girls, claro.

That Cidre money for that TV series should be mine because the idea was mine! My J-Lo tack is the real thing, not those class enemies I hate so much I want to puke over! Uncle Fidel always had his purposes, as my daddy once told me, probably down at the Taco Bell at the strip mall after his spat with my Irish-American poet mamacita. We knew so much more than la Cidre did. Bitch.

Besos,
Not Alisa