According to the Arizona Republic, John Valdez, democratic candidate for the Arizona State House, is actually Hispanic immigrant Juan Valdez. I guess that means John could be a big liar.

Nothing wrong with that of course, some of my best friends are liars. In fact, I had one doing my lawn until he was swept up by the authorities. But why assume the worst? Here’s a man who left behind his beloved burro and thriving coffee business to chase the American Dream.

Juan says he changed his name because he’s fully assimilated into America. One of his opponents, Representative Chad, says it’s because Juan is hiding a dark criminal past. The smoking gun? Nine years back Juan got well and truly pissed and fired a pistol into the air.

Dubious ethnicity, lying, liquor and firearms … I think Chad may owe the man an apology. Clearly Juan has assimilated. You can’t get any more American than that.

On the net - Azcentral

The news has been grim of late: GM asleep at the wheel, American corporations lured away like cheap whores, the dollar down on it’s knees, ass in the air, Americans reeling from the hellish drain of high fuel prices, and there’s nary a hybrid on the lot.

If only someone had seen this coming. There are whispers Barack Obama and his followers will slaughter a Hummer with the name “Bush” painted on its side, then dip their fists in motor oil and scream “death to Republicans.” It doesn’t matter if this is just the idle talk of stoned liberals. People say Barack Obama’s Muslim and black. So he’s surely capable of something like this.

I knew a dark-skinned Muslim once, a rich Iranian named Majid. This was back in the winter of ‘77, and we were working at Beacon Hill Gulf. Majid had some BS story about how America’s buddy the Shah of Iran and his torture squad (SAVAK) had marked him for death. Like Obama, he was a big talker, but not much of a Muslim. There was no mention of virgins, sweater bombs, or Mohammad. All Majid talked about was pussy and beer.

He was dating Elsie, a skinny stripper from the Combat Zone, and like any good Muslim, Majid didn’t want her getting naked for strangers while he was off banging someone else. He got her a job at BHG and she ended up working the night shift with me. At about 3 am we’d throw up a sign that said “No Gas”, lock the doors, smoke up a fat blunt, and fuck.

Outside the streets were filled with dirty ice and snow. Inside, paradise. “Majid gets crazy jealous,” she said after soaking the managers desk with cum. Apparently petroleum’s more explosive then dynamite. And you know how Muslims can get. It was a potentially lethal combo. Elsie seemed genuinely afraid. I think the fear turned her on. I was 18, and a coward. But I was banging my first stripper. Orgasms were more important than death.

Not that sex on the job was unusual at BHG. Most nights a whore or stripper would offer me a blow job for a tank of gas. Not surprising really, OPEC had limited world oil production, gas was expensive, I was unbelievably handsome, and President Jimmy Carter had just bitch slapped America with a very un-American plan:

“… It (the energy crisis) is a problem that we will not solve in the next few years, and it is likely to get progressively worse through the rest of century … I’m asking you for your good and for your nation’s security to take no unnecessary trips, to use carpools or public transportation whenever you can, to park your car one extra day per week, to obey the speed limit, and to set your thermostats to save fuel …”

Carter then lowered his own thermostat, installed solar panels in the White House and took to wearing a sweater ala Mr Rogers. He wanted government to set the tone. He needed us to understand how important it was to ween ourselves off foreign oil. That was 31 years ago. At the time people thought Carter was a big pussy. In history’s rear view mirror Jimmy Carter’s a fucking visionary.

You know the rest of it. Majid returned to Iran after the Shah fled to Panama. Elise disappeared. I went mad from the syphilis. Reagan and the Republicans followed Mr Peanut with their government-needs-to-get-out-of-the-way ethos. Conservation? Fuck conservation. Take off that sweater, turn up the heat, drive fast, buy a Hummer, start a few wars. Ronnie, Republicans and big business knew what America needed: talk tough, spend baby spend, and let the market sort it all out.

And so it has.

It happens in America. One day you’re a hardworking Asian. The next a lazy Mexican. Nimol, a Cambodian immigrant, spent 22 days in detention.

“Jail was scary,” Nimol told L.A. Beat. “I was feeling afraid I was going to be sent back to my country.”

I’m on record as being against deporting Asian women. Put them to work in brothels. Then after five years, or whenever they start to look played, they can have their precious green cards. But deportation?

Hey, we’re not savages over here.

The American government’s received some criticism for rounding up and deporting illegal aliens. But I think its tolerable as long as the feds are absolutely sure the immigrant’s Mexican, and not an Asian hottie.

Really, who hasn’t wanted to deport a Mexican? I know I have. After getting a scorched colon over at Taco Bell yesterday I wanted to deport everyone in the damn restaurant.

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Dengue Fever - Check out the clip below. Interesting music. Nimol sings vintage pop in Khmer and English. While Khmer purists will probably whine that the Vietnam war era sounds of Sinn Sisamouth (rumored to have died in a Khmer Rouge labor camp) have been bastardized, we say fuck ‘em. Just be happy any of Cambodia’s music survived Pol Pot.

You might remember Kemo the Blaxican from Delinquent Habits. Back in the day the group laid down a sick track called “Tres Delinquentes,” an eye-popping bong hit of old school mariachi and dark hip-hop.

Then Kemo, who calls himself Blaxican because he’s black and Mexican, took his bilingual act solo, releasing an album called “Simple Plan. The shit’s tight. As if Funk, Samba, Jazz, Salsa and Soul were all rolled into one big-ass joint.

Two songs really stand out, “La Receta” (sidebar), and “Nobody Likes” (below), which features the sexy and soulful Monica Ortiz. Grab the headphones give Kemo a taste after the leap …

On the net: Kemo the Blaxican

Don’t be intimidated by the title. This device is deceptively easy to use. Even for Americans. It’s designed to mimic the knowing palm of an Asian concubine. You just slip it into your pants and have at it. You won’t even need to put down your Beefeater and tonic.

You have to admire the English. They’re so cultured and refined. So effete, they even refuse to go down on their women. It’s said they employ Frenchmen for that.

Vote for Cojito at Humor-Blogs.com

On the net - Find class and sweet relief over on Ebay.

David of Hippie Goddess writes: “Each woman that we photograph brings her own surprises to a shoot and I continually find myself in awe of the inspiration … “

Contrary to what ol’ Dave would have you believe, there really isn’t all that much inspiration at Hippie Goddess. Sure, these hippie goddesses are attractive, in a Kodiak bear meets Angelina Jolie kind of way. But their naked flailing brings to mind a bad jazzercise class.

You know, I dated a hippie chick back in the day. She kept going on about how eating meat was somehow bad for the planet, and then she smoked up all my Thai stick. It was grim.

Try dating a Latina. They’re way better. My current girlfriend shaved her pussy before our first date. She won’t go near my stash. And she’d strangle a cow if I told her I was feeling a bit peckish.

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On the net - Hippie Goddess

“It’s been 110 degrees for 3 days straight,” the van-man says.

That would be perfect if I was in town to cure meat.

“Take me to the bone yard my good man - and step on it.”

He shoots me a confused look.

“We only go to Sun City,” he says.

“Close enough. But hurry man. I have delicate skin.”

My van-man’s a retiree from the Midwest. A nice enough guy. But it doesn’t take me long to realize he’s got issues.

“These damn Mexican immigrants,” he says, shaking his big red head at the pickup full of Latinos on our left. “They’ve ruined the economy. But thank god for Sheriff Joe. He’s not giving them to the government for deportation. He’s rounding them up and throwing them in jail.”

Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the son of immigrants, is known to some as America’s toughest sheriff, and to others as a liar, bully, and megalomaniac. According to the local paper Sheriff Joe has been raiding local businesses, and pulling over anyone that looks a bit too swarthy. It’s an illegal practice. But …

“We don’t mind,” the van-man says, his gold flag pin glimmering under the city lights. “As long as we get rid of these damn illegals.”

It’s perhaps one of Arizona’s greatest mysteries. Midwesterners move here, hire Mexican gardeners, painters, cleaning ladies, food servers, mechanics etc., and then begin whining about Mexicans slipping over the border. You have to wonder why they’re too cheap to pay for white help. And why they think anyone but a desperate immigrant would be willing to change their dirty diapers.

I can see the van-man’s milky eyes watching me in the rear view mirror. He seems dangerously excited. As if someone pulled off his hood on the way to a rally. I need to get out of here before I punch him in the back of the head. I tell him I need a drink.

“No stops,” he says.

“Were you expecting a tip?” I say.

We stop. When I get back, I drain a Corona, burp, and tell him that even if I believed immigrants damage the economy, George Bush and the republican party have done much more damage.

“Billions upon billions wasted,” I say. “Perhaps we should round up Republicans and throw them in jail.”

Then I hold out an olive branch.

“Let’s stop for Mexican. My treat.”

I could really go for a burrito about now. I haven’t eaten since I left Panama. But I figure the irony is too much for him. He declines. It’s about 11pm when we finally roll into the bone yard. Immediately, I crack open another beer. Cold beer is the only thing when you’re dealing with old people.

I left Panama only 12 hrs ago and already I miss the rain, the food, my girl, and the legal poker. Here I mostly play poker online or watch it on TV. Honestly, I’m afraid to go out. If sadist Sheriff Joe doesn’t bust you, the heat doesn’t kill you, or you aren’t torn apart by rabid coyotes, then you’ll go broke filling the tank with gas.

About a 6 pack later I dial up the TV to find Gus Hansen matched up against JJ Liu, Beth Shak, Erica Schoenberg, Vanessa Rousso, and Clonie Gowen. Most of these sexy ladies play at my site Full Tilt Poker. The cool thing about Full Tilt is they give you a killer $600 sign-up bonus and let you play against some of the hottest women of poker.

My favorite poker babe is Liz Lieu. She’s from Vietnam. You ever notice how no one complains about all these sexy Asian immigrants damaging our economy?

I must warn you. There are other, less reputable sites, claiming that Jennifer “Jennicide” Leigh is the hottest poker babe out there. She’s the chubby Aryan in the gallery below.

Forget about her. Full Tilt Poker has Lynette Chan, Erica Schoenberg, Clonie Gowen, Amanda “Mandy B” Baker and they’re one of the few trusted sites with the stones to remain open to Americans.

Good poker, hot girls, and cold beer, that’s how my trip ends. Now if I could just find someone to make me a god damn burrito.

You can check out the sexy women of poker here.

Or play against Cojito at Full Tilt Poker here

After all, we’d split the atom and put a man on the Moon. Surely developing a pair of $1 glasses to peer through women’s clothing was not beyond our grasp. I remember how excited I was when they arrived. How I made sure not to look at my mom as I ran out into the street.

Thanks to X-ray Specs girls would remain a mystery awhile longer. Oh, I tried to make them work. I tried so hard that I ended up with a migraine and double vision. And I learned an important lesson that day: adults are lying cunts.

Since then I’ve been married, divorced, had several live in girl friends, hookers, strippers, downloaded a couple of billion JPGs of free internet porn, and developed a drinking problem. In other words, I’ve matured. Still, when I see someone new, I wonder.

Today I found a site for people like me. It takes regular women, the kind you might meet at the liquor store, or standing in line to buy lottery tickets, and it let’s you strip them naked with the click of a mouse. Another click and they turn around so you can check out their backsides.

OK, this site doesn’t have the same potential to crush child-like innocence as the X-rays specs. But at least it doesn’t give you a headache.

On the net - The Ladies Lineup