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In This Issue

• A Modest Proposal for Iraq
• An Indie-Rocker Falls Into the Gap
• Beware of People Selling Stuff, Except Us
• Women Need to be Vulnerable and Easy Again
• Marriage is the Perfect Career
• All The Cool Kids Are Doing It...
• Girl Sells Soul to Pour Investment Bankers' Coffee
• Wendy's Sells the Fuck Out: Lame With Mayo
• I Used to Listen to Jesus Christ, Before He Went Mainstream
• The Singing Senators: Behind the "Music"
• In Gateway, I Designed a 3-D Noose
• Barnard Woman Tries to Use, Not Give, Head
• Mexico: Taco Bell Without Plumbing
• Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200
• Wacky Fun Whitey Gets a Date
• Colombia Spectador
• Columbia Bookstore's Introduces New "Ghetto-fab" Line of Clothing

Ethan Heitner

I was born in a small shack surrounded by burros, feces, and panchos. I was raised on a healthy diet of tortillas and tequila. I owned a pet chihuaha, and yes, he could talk. As you have probably already guessed, I'm Mexican.

I know what you're thinking: "Shouldn't she be passed out drunk on Tequila, snoring loudly, with a sombrero covering her face and her hand down her pants, lazily fondling her genitals? And since when did Mexicans learn how to write?" First of all, dearest friend, I hasten to note that I am actually only half Mexican. Secondly, I have taken drastic measures to de-Mexicanize myself. I have worked to become a better person, and hopefully to endear myself to Jesus (not that "hey-soos" guy) . The American Jesus hates dirty Mexicans.

I arrived in the United States as a toddler, exhausted from the long, treacherous journey across the border. By the end of my voyage, my inferior baby sandals were all but obliterated, as they were manufactured with inferior Mexican leather, and assembled by inferior Mexican laborers, inferiorly. This would be the last time I would settle for the inferior. In America, I would be able to build a life for myself that a shitty country like Mexico could never provide. What I did not plan on was the terrible persecution I would face as a person who appeared to have a slight tan.

Being half Mexican is hard. In addition to the smell, the lice, the unsightly moustache, the even more unsightly brown skin, and the inability to resist Taco Bell, there's the constant oppression by The Man. As a half Mexican, I find myself constantly facing a firestorm of hate, visible in the eyes of every single clean, white person that passes me in the street.

So, you ask, what is a half-Mexican to do? The answer is as simple as it is easy: sell out my dirty, lazy Mexican heritage for those shiny, sparkly, white American dreams. By completing a series of simple cleansing and purifying procedures, I would be ready to rock.

Following my afternoon siesta, my transformation from shifty-eyed beaner to superior Aryan was the goal at hand. I threw out my "Speedy Gonzalez" video collection. I burned a small Mexican pueblo to the ground. I tortured my chihuaha by dangling chalupa's in front of it . I sold my pet donkey, Senor Smiles, to the glue factory.

After all that was said and done, it was time for Operation: Bathe. I showered, joined the army, bought a pair of sleek and sophisticated slacks from the Gap, and purposely infected myself with that crazy Michael Jackson skin whitening "disease" by having sex with Jacko himself (who is, between you and me, a HELLCAT in the sack). I topped it all off by purchasing the one item that declared my patriotism and sealed my fate as an American: a baseball hat with an American flag triumphantly emblazoned across the front. Glorious.

After undergoing this baptism, I walked down the street to buy my "These Colors Don't Run" bumper stickers to celebrate a job well done. As I strolled down Broadway, feeling fulfilled and humming "Proud to be an American," a woman stopped me and asked if I was Kathie Lee Gifford. That was the proudest moment of my life. Mission accomplished.

To be fair, I actually am completely wasted right now, and there is definitely a little hand-down-the-pants action going on. And in truth, I am illiterate; my roommate typed this article for me. But on the outside, thanks in part to my efforts, and the encouragement of my new friends at the Klan, I'm as American as the sweet-faced Dick Cheney. In the end, though, I guess the old saying is true: you can take the girl out scummy rat-infested sewer, but you can't take the scummy rat-infested sewer out of the girl.