Hey, Billy.

“Look at this shit! Got some pyramids, a rando, my lucky red hat: life’s good.”

You look happy.

“Gotta tell ya, though: these Mayans couldn’t build for shit. Half these suckers don’t even have roofs.”

They’re ruins, Billy. They didn’t look like that a thousand years ago.

“We don’t know that.”

You think they built them that way? Crumbling?

“The fuck do I know? I’m not a Mayan. Shit, I’m not even a Mexican. You should ask Garcia.”

Garcia’s not Mexican, either.

“Sure he was. Is. Whatever. Mexican as shit.”

No he isn’t. Wasn’t. Whatever.

“I’m pretty sure Garcia was Mexican. If he wasn’t, then why’d we pick him up for band practice outside the Home Depot?”

Jesus, Billy.

“How many kids he have?”

Please stop talking.

“A Mexican amount! What is it: seven, eight? There’s Tricky.”




“Gypsy Danger.”

That’s a giant robot.

“Good kids. Love those kids, but they’re Mexican. You should see ’em get over a wall.”

We’re done.

“We haven’t even talked about skank!”

Your racism and lies have ruined the skank. Are you happy?

“A little.”