Mexican Funny Quotes

Not to alarm you or anything, but I think you just made a deal with a Mexican gang." I've read Simone Elkeles books. I know how this whole garage as a front thing works.

Martinez and Johanssen floated down the hall toward Docking Port A. “So,” he said, “who would you have eaten first?” She glared at him. “’Cause I think I’d be tastiest,” he continued, flexing his arm. “Look at that. Good solid muscle there.” “You’re not funny.” “I’m free-range, you know. Corn-fed.” She shook her head and accelerated down the hall. “Come on! I thought you liked Mexican!” “Not listening,” she called back.

Actually this is really funny - one time she accidentally forgot to leave a note and I had no idea she had even moved. I was living in the house with a beautiful Mexican family for three months before I realized they weren't my cousins visiting from out of town. They were so nice. They called me "Quien es, quien es," which I thought was a beautiful name.

So I’ll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?” she intoned. “I doubt that’s valid.

For about four years, I’ve been telling people I hate sour cream. One time I sent back nachos because they had sour cream on them. I started saying this because a friend I admire hates sour cream. I told him I hated it too so we could have a funny thing in common.

Why, I've seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadn't written a novel, Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow- minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label of any section.

It's funny how in the United States I'm too fat, and in Mexico I'm too skinny.

The next morning I told Mom I couldn't go to school again. She asked what was wrong. I told her, “The same thing that’s always wrong.” “You’re sick?” “I'm sad.” “About Dad?” “About everything.” She sat down on the bed next to me, even though I knew she was in a hurry. “What's everything?” I started counting on my fingers: “The meat and dairy products in our refrigerator, fistfights, car accidents, Larry–” “Who's Larry?” “The homeless guy in front of the Museum of Natural History who always says ‘I promise it’s for food’ after he asks for money.” She turned around and I zipped her dress while I kept counting. “How you don’t know who Larry is, even though you probably see him all the time, how Buckminster just sleeps and eats and goes to the bathroom and has no ‘raison d’etre’, the short ugly guy with no neck who takes tickets at the IMAX theater, how the sun is going to explode one day, how every birthday I always get at least one thing I already have, poor people who get fat because they eat junk food because it’s cheaper…” That was when I ran out of fingers, but my list was just getting started, and I wanted it to be long, because I knew she wouldn't leave while I was still going. “…domesticated animals, how I have a domesticated animal, nightmares, Microsoft Windows, old people who sit around all day because no one remembers to spend time with them and they’re embarrassed to ask people to spend time with them, secrets, dial phones, how Chinese waitresses smile even when there’s nothing funny or happy, and also how Chinese people own Mexican restaurants but Mexican people never own Chinese restaurants, mirrors, tape decks, my unpopularity in school, Grandma’s coupons, storage facilities, people who don’t know what the Internet is, bad handwriting, beautiful songs, how there won’t be humans in fifty years–” “Who said there won't be humans in fifty years?” I asked her, “Are you an optimist or a pessimist?” She looked at her watch and said, “I'm optimistic.” “Then I have some bed news for you, because humans are going to destroy each other as soon as it becomes easy enough to, which will be very soon.” “Why do beautiful songs make you sad?” “Because they aren't true.” “Never?” “Nothing is beautiful and true.

New Rule: Since Glenn Beck is clearly onto us, liberals must launch our plan for socialist domination immediately. Listen closely, comrades, I've received word from General Soros and our partners in the UN--Operation Streisand is a go. Markos Moulitsas, you and your Daily Kos-controlled army of gay Mexican day laborers will join with Michael Moore's Prius tank division north of Branson, where you will seize the guns of everyone who doesn't blame America first, forcing them into the FEMA concentration camps. That's where ACORN and I will re-educate them as atheists and declare victory in the war on Christmas.

Forget bringing the troops home from Iraq. We need to get the troops home from World War II. Can anybody tell me why, in 2009, we still have more than sixty thousand troops in Germany and thirty thousand in Japan? At some point, these people are going to have to learn to rape themselves. Our soldiers have been in Germany so long they now wear shorts with black socks. You know that crazy soldier hiding in the cave on Iwo Jima who doesn’t know the war is over? That’s us. Bush and Cheney used to love to keep Americans all sphinctered-up on the notion that terrorists might follow us home. But actually, we’re the people who go to your home and then never leave. Here’s the facts: The Republic of America has more than five hundred thousand military personnel deployed on more than seven hundred bases, with troops in one hundred fifty countries—we’re like McDonald’s with tanks—including thirty-seven European countries—because you never know when Portugal might invade Euro Disney. And this doesn’t even count our secret torture prisons, which are all over the place, but you never really see them until someone brings you there—kinda like IHOP. Of course, Americans would never stand for this in reverse—we can barely stand letting Mexicans in to do the landscaping. Can you imagine if there were twenty thousand armed Guatemalans on a base in San Ber-nardino right now? Lou Dobbs would become a suicide bomber. And why? How did this country get stuck with an empire? I’m not saying we’re Rome. Rome had good infrastructure. But we are an empire, and the reason is because once America lands in a country, there is no exit strategy. We’re like cellulite, herpes, and Irish relatives: We are not going anywhere. We love you long time!

So shoot.” “I don’t know how to say this.” “I haven’t got all day, you know.” “I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.

The next morning I told Mom I couldn’t go to school again. She asked what was wrong. I told her, “The same thing that’s always wrong.” “You’re sick?” “I’m sad.” “About Dad?” “About everything.” She sat down on the bed next to me, even though I knew she was in a hurry. “What’s everything?” I started counting on my fingers: “The meat and dairy products in our refrigerator, fistfights, car accidents, Larry—” “Who’s Larry?” “The homeless guy in front of the Museum of Natural History who always says ‘I promise it’s for food’ after he asks for money.” She turned around and I zipped her dress while I kept counting. “How you don’t know who Larry is, even though you probably see him all the time, how Buckminster just sleeps and eats and goes to the bathroom and has no raison d’être, the short ugly guy with no neck who takes tickets at the IMAX theater, how the sun is going to explode one day, how every birthday I always get at least one thing I already have, poor people who get fat because they eat junk food because it’s cheaper . . . ” That was when I ran out of fingers, but my list was just getting started, and I wanted it to be long, because I knew she wouldn’t leave while I was still going. “ . . . domesticated animals, how I have a domesticated animal, nightmares, Microsoft Windows, old people who sit around all day because no one remembers to spend time with them and they’re embarrassed to ask people to spend time with them, secrets, dial phones, how Chinese waitresses smile even when there’s nothing funny or happy, and also how Chinese people own Mexican restaurants but Mexican people never own Chinese restaurants, mirrors, tape decks, my unpopularity at school, Grandma’s coupons, storage facilities, people who don’t know what the Internet is, bad handwriting, beautiful songs, how there won’t be humans in fifty years—

I think ethnic jokes are hilarious, all sorts of ethnic jokes. White, black, Mexican, midget. Maybe midgets are not an ethnicity, but they sure are funny.

Your momma still doing that?” “Yes. She thinks I need a man to ‘see to my needs.’ Every time she says it, an angel loses its wings and I know Baby Jesus cries.” He smirked. “Your momma wants to make sure you get laid.” “I don’t know where to start with her. She makes no sense, trying to set me up all the time. She raised me to believe everyone is an axe murderer.” “Is this about that Layorona lady? The one your brother told me wanders around looking for her kids?” “It’s pronounced La Llorona, and yes. She is the ghost of a woman in white, searching for her children, because she murdered them. Fear of strangers is second only to fear of La Llorona when you're a Mexican kid.” Hank’s grin was pained, like a wincing grin. “Your momma is funny.” “It’s not funny. It’s terrifying. We all grew up knowing who she was and being told we must listen or La Llorona will find you. I'm still not sure if the lesson is listen to your parents or La Llorona will find you and kill you, or listen to your Mexican mother because she might go crazy and kill you. Oh sure, she'll spend eternity crying and searching for you, but she will kill you.” “Maybe if you’d listen to her, you’d find a good man.” I scoffed and snorted, shaking my head. “No. She just enjoys flinging random men in my direction.

i think people asked me to do things both tonight and last night but i was like 'i have plans...' i feel like i see people constantly but i also feel something like extreme loneliness at the same time people seem to like me, they tell me i'm funny and act disappointed when i don't attend events

Well, Ramón, I must tell you the irony of this entire situation." A smug smile graced Linda's face. "When your father first tried my tacos, do you know what he liked about them?" "He just told me he tried fish tacos during spring break, and that he met a beautiful señorita on the beach. He never said that they were your tacos." She shook her head. "Well, ask him again. And if he still lies, bring him to me---let him lie to my face. Yes, they were my tacos. I had a stand on the beach, and he ordered two tacos and a beer." He'd told Ramón this part of the story many times; he'd just never said that she had been the one to make the tacos. Then again, he had also left out the part about how he had stolen her recipe, if that was true. "He loved the fresh fish." Linda laughed. "No, that was not it at all. Yes, he did love the fish, and he had never had a fish taco. But he loved the fresh salsa. He loved the spicy batter. He loved the handmade tortillas. It's funny to me, because you have absolutely none of those elements left today in your tacos." Linda's words struck Ramón deep in his chest. She was right. Ramón had heard the story so many times. And Papá had always talked about how fresh and delicious all the ingredients were, including the handmade tortillas. Ramón looked at her. "I know. He told me the same thing." Linda placed her hand on Ramón's arm. "Ironic, isn't it? He used to tell me a story about a girlfriend he had in college who had made him an awful taco with canned tomatoes, American cheese, and iceberg lettuce. That her taco was so awful, that he could never marry her. And now, that is exactly the type of taco that you serve in your restaurant." Wow. She was absolutely right. The full reason that Papá had started Taco King was to bring authentic Mexican food to the college kids at San Diego. Somewhere along the line---due to business advisers who'd suggested cutting costs and replacing fresh tomatoes with canned, crumbled queso fresco with American cheese, and handmade tortillas with mass-produced hard shells---Papá had abandoned his vision.

them. Now farming became industry, and the owners followed Rome, although they did not know it. They imported slaves, although they did not call them slaves: Chinese, Japanese, Mexicans, Filipinos. They live on rice and beans, the business men said. They don’t need much. They wouldn’t know what to do with good wages. Why, look how they live. Why, look what they eat. And if they get funny—deport them. And all the time the farms grew larger and the owners fewer. And there were pitifully few farmers on the land any more. And the imported serfs were beaten and frightened and starved until some went home again, and some grew fierce and were killed or driven from the country. And the farms grew larger and the owners fewer. And the crops changed. Fruit trees took the place of grain fields, and vegetables to feed the world spread out on the bottoms: lettuce, cauliflower, artichokes, potatoes—stoop crops. A man may stand to use a scythe, a plow, a pitchfork; but he must crawl like a bug between the rows of lettuce, he must bend his back and pull his long bag between the cotton rows, he must go on his knees like a penitent across a cauliflower patch. And it came about that owners no longer worked on their farms. They farmed on paper; and they forgot the land, the smell, the feel of it, and remembered only that they owned it, remembered only what they gained and lost by it. And some of the farms grew so large that one man could not even conceive of them any more, so large that it took batteries of bookkeepers to keep track of interest and gain and loss; chemists to test the soil, to replenish; straw bosses to see that the stooping men were moving along the rows as swiftly as the material of their bodies could stand. Then such a farmer really became a storekeeper, and kept a store. He paid the men, and sold them food, and took the money back. And after a while he did not pay the men at all, and saved bookkeeping. These farms gave food on credit. A man might work and feed himself; and when the work was done, he might find that he owed money to the company. And the owners not only did not work the farms any more, many of them had never seen the farms they owned.

I should be surprised you’re calling me. But I’m not,” she says. “How was practice?” “Not great. Darlene isn’t a great captain, and Ms. Small knows it. You shouldn’t quit.” “I’m not. I’m just taking a break for a little while. But I didn’t call to talk about poms. Listen, I wanted you to know I broke up with Colin today.” “And you’re telling me because…” That’s a good question, one I normally wouldn’t have answered. “I wanted to talk with someone about it, and I know I have friends who I can call, but I kinda wanted to go to someone who wouldn’t gossip about it. My friends have big mouths.” Sierra is the one person I’m closest to, but I lied to her about Alex. And her boyfriend, Doug, is best friends with Colin. “How do you know I won’t blab?” Isabel asks. “I don’t. But you didn’t tell me stuff about Alex when I asked, so I figure you’re good at keeping secrets.” “I am. So shoot.” “I don’t know how to say this.” “I haven’t got all day, you know.” “I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.” “No! I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that the more we talk, the more I see you as a totally different person than I thought you were. I guess I can understand why Alex likes you.

I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.” “No! I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that the more we talk, the more I see you as a totally different person than I thought you were. I guess I can understand why Alex likes you.” “Thanks, I think. Remember when I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen between me and Alex?” “Yeah. Just so I get my timetable straight, that was before you kissed him. Right?” She chuckles, then says, “I’m just kidding, Brittany. If you like him, girl, go for it. But be careful, because even if I think he likes you more than he’ll admit, you should keep your guard up.” “I won’t stop it if something happens between me and Alex, but don’t worry. I always have my guard up.” “Me, too. Well, except for the night you slept at my house. I kinda fooled around with Paco. I can’t tell my friends ’cause they’d give me shit.” “Do you like him?” “I don’t know. I never thought about him that way before, but being with him was kinda nice. How was the kiss with Alex?” “Nice,” I say, thinking about how sensual it was. “Actually, Isabel, it was more than nice. It was fucking incredible.” Isabel starts laughing, and I laugh right along with her this time.

The joke I liked best was the one about some Mexican policemen who made a hippopotamus confess it was a rabbit. It wasn’t a Liberian pygmy hippopotamus, just a normal hippopotamus. The joke was about a competition between the policemen in the FBI from the country of the United States, the KGB from the country of Russia, and the Mexican police, to see who would be the first to find a pink rabbit in the forest. In the end the Mexican policemen turned up with a hippopotamus painted pink saying: “I’m a rabbit, I’m a rabbit.” This was funny, but it was also a little bit true. That’s why I liked this joke so much: because it wasn’t really a joke. Everyone knows pink rabbits don’t really exist.

In honor of the new-guy-cooks rule, I made breakfast for the crew on C shift. A Mexican egg skillet, my specialty. I was on probation—the probie. Even though I was five years into the job, I was only five shifts into this station. That meant I was the last one to sit down to eat and the first one to get up and do dishes. I was practically a servant. They had me cleaning toilets and changing sheets. All the grunt work. Sloan and Kristen opted to help me, and Brandon took pity on me, so they all stood in the kitchen wiping counters and scraping food off plates while I washed the dishes and Shawn and Javier played cribbage at the table. Kristen had glared all through the meal, but only when she didn’t think anyone was watching. It was kind of funny, actually. I kept ribbing her. From what I gathered through my prodding, she’d told everyone the shirt was her boyfriend’s. I wasn’t going to say anything. Brandon didn’t need to have the thunder stolen from his new truck by learning it had already been defiled, but I was drawing untold amounts of enjoyment from giving Kristen shit. And she didn’t take any of it lying down either. She matched me tit for tat. “So, Josh, you drive the fire truck, huh?” Kristen asked casually, wiping down the stove. “I do.” I smiled. “Are you any good at it? No problems stopping that thing when you need to?” She cocked her head. “Nope. As long as someone doesn’t slam on the brakes in front of me, I’m good.” Glare. Smirk. Repeat. And Sloan and Brandon were oblivious. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. Sloan handed me the cutting board to wash. “You’ll be walking Kristen down the aisle at the wedding.” She smiled at her friend. “She’s my maid of honor.” “I hope you walk better than you drive,” Kristen mumbled under her breath.

The ibex ran off with her neighbor, after five days, to do some environmental and social reform campaigning in the Mexican mountains hoping to see some casaba melons, as well as houses for sheep, and informed the penguin he would do well.