DEAR MEXICAN: I am a mutt. My father’s father was an illegal immigrant from Mexico. My mother’s father was an illegal immigrant from Ireland. I get what-the-fuck stares when I walk into Taqueria Zamora on Bristol for a chorizo-and-egg burrito. I get WTF stares when I inform pendejo gabachos why I don’t appreciate their beaner jokes.
BY GUSTAVO ARELLANO Dear Mexican: I’m thinking of moving to Mexico. I’m a first-generation mexicano. Speaking with my parents about moving, they’re absolutely against it, insisting that it’s violent and that I should be proud of being an American. I’m not looking to lose my American-ness, but just want to add some more mexicano to…
A shop in Santa Cruz, Calif., opened in September selling ice cream infused with extract of marijuana.
In October, Greece’s largest health insurance provider announced, in a letter to a diabetes foundation, that it would no longer pay for the special footwear that diabetics need for reducing pain but suggested it would pay instead for amputation, which is less expensive.
Dear Mexican: I’ve been hired to find out why some clothes are not being returned to patients at a nursing home in Newport Beach, Calif., even though these clothes are marked.
So, I’m a mustached guy who looks like Freddy Prinze Sr., but I have a skin tone that makes me look like Freddy Prinze Jr. So, if I go to the Southern border states, will police check me for my papers because I look like Freddy Prinze Sr.?
It’s pegasi versus unicorns.