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Friday, May 9, 2003   |    Fiction
Cinco de Flag

Nueve de Mayo

by Nick Jezarian

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gathering here today. I have been your councilman for a good three weeks now since that unfortunate day when Councilman Peters lost, in dramatic fashion I might add, the bet that he couldn’t drink a gallon of milk in under a minute. Got milk? I think he’s had his fill. As he recovers and receives his state-ordered psychological evaluation, I have done my best to fill in where he left off.

We have extended the oft overlooked holiday of Cinco de Mayo—that’s the fifth of May for all you non-bilinguals out there—to three weeks’ duration, and I’m happy to say I’m still quite sauced. A great injustice has been handed to me however on many occasions during these festive three weeks. While they certainly didn’t do much to kill my councilman buzz, it did piss me off. ‘Language not becoming of a councilman’? Well, miss, I might retort by saying that ass you have isn’t becoming of an elephant, let alone a woman. But of course, I won’t retort that way because I have a greater responsibility: I’m a councilman and a Gemini and I’m fucking sloshed.

Woo hoo. San Dimas high-school football rules! YAY!

Ahem, now on numerous occasions this week I ordered Coronas, occasionally a Dos Equis, once or twice tequila, unfortunately, a few hookers, and many, many chili dogs with extra kraut. Amidst this ordering, all my Coronas came with the traditional Mexican lime, a tradition I understand that extends all the way back to the days of Mexicali and perhaps even further to the Incan empire. Well, those limes I got were enormous. Huge I say. What am I to do? I tried to force them down the bottle neck and it sprayed lime pulp all over the place, got in my incessant paper cuts. Limes need to be regulated. I never thought it would come to this but the bartenders have gotten out of control. It used to be that a lime could serve seven, maybe eight coronas. On Cinco de Mayo, the motherfuckin’ Corona holy day, I got a wedge. No, I say, not on my watch. Not in Rancho Cucamonga. Limes need to be regulated.

So I’m proud to announce new legislation that will bring severe punishment to a bartender who serves a lime that cannot easily pass through the bottleneck of a delicious corona as easy as shit through a goose. Denizens of Rancho Cucamonga, join me. Join the Save the Limes campaign.



Bartender, another round, on the double. Oh, and a rubber-band sandwich. And make it snappy.

Nick Jezarian is clearly a superbly built creation resulting from the union of man, woman, and crustacean. Nick's crustacean heritage contributes to his being mostly belligerent, constantly angry, yet always amused. Considering Nick's criminal spelling and grammar habits, the fact that he is part of the Y.P.R. brain trust doesn't say much about the site. Josh and Geoff have driven Nick's writing to new levels as he sends his Guff to the staff in an elaborate binary code that can only be deciphered by the light of pixie dust. Nick is Y.P.R.'s resident hip-hop expert, as he owns three CDs and once stabbed 50 Cent. Nick's favorite word is "word."