Viva Los Frijoles de la Tequila Roja!

All right. Anyone reading this who has not read yesterday’s plea for topics for a creative writing attempt, do so and make a suggestion. Get crazy. String together random nouns and adjectives if that’s what it takes. Call it improv writing. You give me any ideas whatsoever and I will try to craft a story or monologue or something out of them. I’ve got my own ideas, but I just thought it would be more fun and challenging if I had to use those of my audience. Noelle’s suggestion about the ramen noodle diatribe is on the right track, and I may yet do it, but I was hoping for a little more guidance. Make me stretch.

That said, I will go ahead and use Chris’s suggestion: If you could lead a revolution in any country right now, which one would it be and why? You'll be expected to include details such as the name of your revolutionary organization, how you would begin the effort in earnest and whom you would select as your second in command.

Per the advice of Chris and in the interest of keeping my name out of the files of the FBI (for now), I will not attempt an overthrow of the US government. Besides, it’s a little too obvious. Anyone who knows me is already aware that I’m just itching to turn not only our system of government but our entire way of life on its ear. We’ll save that for real life. Nay, for this assignment (and thank you, Chris), I will stay close to home and fix what ails our neighbors to the south, the should-be-great nation of Mexico, a country rich with not only vibrant culture, but also vast natural and human resources.

Let me start by once again mangling my favorite quote from the immigration debate, (horribly paraphrased) by way of Edward Abbey. I apologize to his spirit for never getting this right: We should meet every campesino at the border with a pistol, a rifle, a case of ammunition, and turn him around and send him home. He’ll know what to do.

In other words, viva la revolucion! The reason we have an immigration debate in this country as it relates to Mexico is because their country actually sucks worse than ours, so they want out. Naturally. So I’m going to take it over. Under the as yet to be designed glorious flag of Los Frijoles de la Tequila Roja, I, along with Sammy Hagar, the Red Rocker himself and my trusty first lieutenant, will scour the construction sites and restaurant kitchens of America in search of any and all sturdy, motivated and patriotic hombres with a desire to bring the former glory of the Aztecs to their homeland once again. We will build a secret training complex in Montana (because it won’t look suspicious there), where Sammy and I will not only stockpile various weapons but mold our motley crew of once-unskilled and undocumented workers into fierce warriors. It’ll be like Al Qaeda except without the sand and turbans and any deflowering of virgins will strictly be limited to this life only.

Once fully prepared and equipped for the difficult road ahead, we will mount up (horses are just so much more manly than cars) and thunder, like the Mongols over the steppes of central Asia, down the I-25 corridor across Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico to El Paso and the mighty Rio Grande, picking up converts to our cause along the way. Sammy will meet us there because he likes to drive (55). The good people of Ciudad Juarez at first won’t know what to make of the waves of mounted Mexicans pouring across the river. Soon they will know, though, that a new day has dawned for Mexico and Los Frijoles de la Tequila Roja will grow stronger still.

Down through Chihuahua and Monterey and Guadalajara our makeshift people’s army will march. Sammy will lift their spirits with song and case after case of Cabo Wabo Tequila (you were wondering why I made him my second in command). We will clean the cities and towns of corrupt politicians and install school teachers at the heads of local government because who else can you trust? By the time we get to Mexico City our army will be ten million strong and the altitude will not affect us because of our intense training in Montana. By now, though, all the corrupt bureaucrats, drug lords and American business executives will have abandoned the city and fled to the malarial jungles of Belize, where they will fall prey to the bloodthirsty ghosts of Mayan priests.

Our triumphant march into El Estadio Azteca, where a packed house will shower us with chicklets and praise, will likely be our last moment of glory. Because I have no plan to actually run the country after my successful coup, and I shy away from responsibility anyway, I will install Sammy Hagar as the new presidente. For a few weeks, he will host the largest, most rockin’ tequila-fueled party the world has ever known as the Mexicans rejoice in what they believe will be their salvation. After the festivities have abated and everyone has gone to confession, though, Sammy will become the sex-crazed, megalomaniacal despot he’s always had the potential to be and Mexico will be the worse for it. Oh well. At least I tried.

I got more out of that idea than I thought I would. You’re still reading?