I hate cilantro. So much
in fact that I just got out of jail last month for burning down a
cilantro farm in the small Mexican town of Tierra del Fuego. Well I
didn't actually burn it down, but when I was accosted by the Mexican
Federalis I was holding a lit match, which was deemed to be enough
damning evidence on its own.
At first, I did what any respectable American would do, I started pleading and begging. When that didn't work, I offered them the contents of my pockets with hope that in return they would let me go free. The head federali, Hector, laughed at me and said, "You stupeeed gringo... we get to keep the money anyways! HA!" This was when I heard an audible gulp coming from my throat, because I realized at that moment I was going to spend the rest of my life in a small Mexican jail being someones bitch, or "Perra", as I would soon discover.
As it would turn out, Mexican jail really wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, seeing how much I love to eat Mexican food. The downside: everyone constantly had really bad gas, especially the cook Miguel Conterroshky, a half Jewish, half mexican male who never married, but loved his refried beans.
Fortunately for me, cilantro is thought of in Mexico as a novelty food found unfit for prisoners -- a luxury so-to-speak, so rarely did they serve it with the huevos rancheros, unless it was some kind of National Mexican Holiday. In fact, my first Cinco de Mayo in prison, I silently cursed Miguel when I saw they had loaded my carne asada with cilantro. Why would he do that? He knows I HATE it.
When I moved it to the side of my plate, I happened to be sitting across from the prison bully/rapist/movie projectionist, Muchacho Guerrero, who was ogling my cilantro with lusting eyes. As I moved it with my wooden fork, I checked his face for feedback... yep, his eyes were glued to my cilantro. I said, "Hey mister Muchacho Guerrero, would you like to have my cilantro?" He replied, "Si senior Perra, and eeen return you can marry my seeeester, Maria Muchacha Guerrera, AND I promeeese not to sneak up on you in the shower if you drop the soap."
"Muchas Gracias, Mister Muchacho Guerrero!" I exclaimed.
I didn't actually end up marrying Maria Muchacha Guerrera, but the next several years in prison were quite lovely, except they don't give you margaritas or any kind of Mexican beer.
At first, I did what any respectable American would do, I started pleading and begging. When that didn't work, I offered them the contents of my pockets with hope that in return they would let me go free. The head federali, Hector, laughed at me and said, "You stupeeed gringo... we get to keep the money anyways! HA!" This was when I heard an audible gulp coming from my throat, because I realized at that moment I was going to spend the rest of my life in a small Mexican jail being someones bitch, or "Perra", as I would soon discover.
As it would turn out, Mexican jail really wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, seeing how much I love to eat Mexican food. The downside: everyone constantly had really bad gas, especially the cook Miguel Conterroshky, a half Jewish, half mexican male who never married, but loved his refried beans.
Fortunately for me, cilantro is thought of in Mexico as a novelty food found unfit for prisoners -- a luxury so-to-speak, so rarely did they serve it with the huevos rancheros, unless it was some kind of National Mexican Holiday. In fact, my first Cinco de Mayo in prison, I silently cursed Miguel when I saw they had loaded my carne asada with cilantro. Why would he do that? He knows I HATE it.
When I moved it to the side of my plate, I happened to be sitting across from the prison bully/rapist/movie projectionist, Muchacho Guerrero, who was ogling my cilantro with lusting eyes. As I moved it with my wooden fork, I checked his face for feedback... yep, his eyes were glued to my cilantro. I said, "Hey mister Muchacho Guerrero, would you like to have my cilantro?" He replied, "Si senior Perra, and eeen return you can marry my seeeester, Maria Muchacha Guerrera, AND I promeeese not to sneak up on you in the shower if you drop the soap."
"Muchas Gracias, Mister Muchacho Guerrero!" I exclaimed.
I didn't actually end up marrying Maria Muchacha Guerrera, but the next several years in prison were quite lovely, except they don't give you margaritas or any kind of Mexican beer.
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