I Can’t Remember what Arizona used to be Called Before it was Called Arizona?

Was it…hmmmmm…..Oh wait, I know! It was called MEXICO. I cannot for the life of me figure out what these xenophobic red neck assholes think gives them the right to tell Mexicans they can’t come back into their historic land and clean their toilets. Please tell us, Monsignor Patriot, if your skin is currently the color of burnt siena, your hair is long, black and shiny, is your name Flies with Eagles, are you currently whiskey drunk, and do you wear dream catcher earrings your grandmother fashioned from coyote teeth and spider webs? If the answer is no to all these questions then guess what? Your ancestors arrived here the same fucking way these people are now arriving: Packed like sardines into some unpleasant means of transport across dangerous natural features to work long hours at menial jobs and be ridiculed and despised by dumb shits like you. They wanted a few days a year to honor their local traditions and festivals and be left the fuck alone so they could get black-out drunk and fuck like rabbits. And that is all these Mexicans want, so take your These Colors Don’t Run flags back to your house and blow your miserable fucking head off…no one will miss you.

These fucktards never want to consider for one second, or they are too stupid to wrap their meager brains around the concept of trying, how it is they are living in the desert southwest and how that area came to currently be known as the U.S.A. I’m not going to delve into the full shadowy history of how this came to be, but lets just say the most benign word I can think of is “Squatting”. More accurate terms would be Aggression, Rape, Pillage, Theft and Murder. It was the equivalent of you sending your alcoholic brother-in-law into a restaurant you coveted every day until eventually someone got so offended by his bawdy behavior that they kicked his ass and threw him out. Only then you went back into the restaurant and beat and murdered everyone and then crossed out the name of the proprietor on the deed and signed yours next to it. And when one of the people you beat up and threw out of the restaurant comes back in 20 years and tries to mop the jiz off your bathroom floor, you tell him, “Fuck you Beaner, this here’s Mare-eh-kuh!”. And why are you trying to live in a desert anyway? I’m sick of spending money to get shit from places that can sustain growth of shit to you so that you can hang out and be not-so-bright in a place that can’t sustain the growth of shit.

While you’re at it Arizona, pass legislation that requires yourselves and your wanna-be Valley Kids to go work as fry cooks, janitors, landscapers and roofers. You sure as shit aren’t going to do those jobs of your own volition.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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One Response to I Can’t Remember what Arizona used to be Called Before it was Called Arizona?

  1. Nick says:


    I bet you're one of them people who thinks we came from monkeys too, what with yer fancy book-learnin and all.

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