Out in the streets, the fighting has begun.

“Aay, Rosita, come queek, down at the cantina they’re beating up alla these emo pendejos.”

Last night, over a pitcher of sangria, my good friend, Hairy Ahmed, told me that hordes of Mexican hard-rock lovers were out in the streets, looking for “emo kids” to beat up. Considering the unhealthy number of emo rockers crawling out of every fucking woodpile, it’s not surprising that quite a few of their fans got a whuppin’ down at the cantina.

In another life, I would’ve probably joined this bunch of marauders. But we’re nearing middle age now. We aren’t up for gang-bangs any longer (though I’d love it if one of these shits came in front of my car. Carmageddon anyone?). Let these kids be. After all, bad taste isn’t exactly a felony.

I wonder if Speedy Gonzales would’ve considered this a fun weekend outing?

On second thoughts, would someone be interested in ganging up with me and beating up Yanni lovers?

(For more dirt on the Mexican wave, proceed here and then here.)

On an unrelated note, old war movies have some truly catchy dialogues. A Bridge Too Far, for example:

“Hancock. I've got lunatics laughing at me from the woods. My original plan has been scuppered now that the jeeps haven't arrived. My communications are completely broken down. Do you really believe any of that can be helped by a cup of tea?”

“Couldn't hurt, sir.”

And:

“You know, Harry; I always wanted to ask you but didn't because I knew you so very much wanted me to; but why do you always carry that umbrella?”

“Bad memory. Never could remember the password. Knew no Jerry would carry one. Had to prove I was an Englishman, you see.”

And, of course:

“How the hell do they expect us to keep schedule on a road like this?”

“You don't know the worst. This bit we're on now?”

“Yes?”

“It's the wide part.”

Ah, crap. Back to people fighting over unpaid severance benefits.