Whooooo! Where my girls at? WHOOOOO!
It’s Cinco De Mayo, bitch! The Mexican Fourth of July! As a white girl that loves to get crunk on some Mexican shit, let me tell you that this is mi favoritata holiday of the year.
Mexican Fourth of July is a celebration of Mexico gaining its independence from the Native Americans that ruled the country for thousands of years. It’s kind of a racist story that people don’t want to confront. Mainly because we’re trained to see Native Americans as simple victims of professional sports, while ignoring their history as the totalitarian ruling class of the new world for the better part of history. In fact, until Europeans came to America, Native Americans did not even recognize or attempt to learn anything about any cultures other than their own. Luckily the Mexicans put a stop to that, and invented drinking and having a good ass time. That’s what we celebrate on Cinco De Mayo – having a good ass time and telling the Native Americans to shove it.
As I write this, I’ve already gotten la festivatadas started – Four Loko style. By that, of course, I mean that I have been drinking since nine in the morning. Four Loko is my favorite god damn drink because it fucks you up but it doesn’t put you to sleep. It’s got caffeine in it, which is important if you are trying to party while drinking instead of using alcohol to bring about a siesta – the official nap of Mexico.
Four Loko is deeply ingrained in Mexican culture. The name itself means Four Crazy, and it’s a tip of the sombrero to the four founding Padres De Mexico – Jorge Lavaston, Tomas Jefeson, Juan Adamos, and Bean Franklin. For centuries, Mexican revolutionaries and statesmen would drink Four Loko and celebrate Cinco De Mayo the way we do today. Every sip from the 24 ounce can is like taking a little vacation to Tijuana, buying illegal prescription drugs, and waking up in a bathtub with one of your organs missing.
But, to reduce Cinco De Mayo to nothing more than a drinking holiday would be problematic and racist. It’s about a lot more than Four Loko and lemon lime beer salt. It’s about a lot more than just partying and having a good time. It’s also about dressing up and getting into the spirit to commemorate all the brave Mexican soldiers that dared to think outside the bun.
That’s why I’ve got my poncho on. No – not a rain poncho. I mean a real ass, authentic Mexican poncho. The woolly kind that you get your first year in college when you learn about marijuana and good music for chill people. The kind that smells like the best parties you’ve ever been to. The kind with stains on it that you can’t remember. Is it vomit? Is it taco filling? Who knows? You wear it every Cinco De Mayo and every year you black out and wake up with another new mystery stain. The missing history of each Cinco De Mayo due to your alcoholism is a symbolic recognition of the nature of the holiday itself. Just like you don’t know where you were the night before, you’re also not exactly sure what Cinco De Mayo really is. I mean, I think it’s Mexican Fourth of July, but who knows really? Who has time to know when we’re too busy getting YOLO?
And on that note of dismissive ambiguity, I raise my novelty margarita glass, flash my large breasts, and make off into the night in search of beads and penis.