Las Pulgas de Nica Living and their envy
It was brought to my attention that a few of “las pulgas,” the type you flick off your arm after they draw blood and step on, have been busily searching for every post I make outside of their cesspool of a forum. And a certain blog was brought to my attention.
Since I no longer read the comments of the membership at Nica Living because most of the members there seem to have a pathology, I wasn't aware that they were still reeling from my comments there, from over a week ago. Felt good though to know that Kelly Ann Thomas is still seething with envy over my book deal, and realizing that her little off-the-wall Nicaraguan book nook and scribbles in "a private journal" is her magnum opus in her life. I'm sure as she serves coffee and pens her frustrations into that diary, that she's probably hating life. (And while normally that would make me pity her, for some reason it brings a smile to my face as I sit here, comfortable in the U.S.). This poor, bitter woman never had what it takes or the discipline to even PEN a book (much less publish one with a mid-list publisher), and now realizes that her claim to fame will be serving coffee in a book cafe nobody of merit will ever visit or care about in a Socialist country where the little girls are exploited by her pals as "teen brides" in daddy daughter fetishes.
And that my poor friend, Juanno (who I now call "el Borracho") is still in a whirlwind over me? Even more humorous! I keep thinking of a song by Mala Fe when I think of him, only the words are changed from "la vaca" to "borracho, borracho, borracho." Here's the song for your enjoyment, Juanno. I KNOW you are reading this. Now sing along, gringo....
And I see poor el borracho imagining himself as Mala Fe, wishing he were surrounded by some pretty Latinas, who call him a “nica.” I visualize him as the town's crying drunk fallen in a filthy corner, reeling from a few bottles of Flor de Cana the night before, and wondering what ever happened to his life. Then, mustering up every ounce of courage to announce "I won't have ONE MORE drink, by God!" and marching into the streets of SJDS on a new mission to save everyone from themselves, getting inches from their faces and telling them "it's the alcohol, you idiot!. It's the alcohol!" Is that why his blood pressure elevates and he desperately needs a trip to Costa Rica to recover? Is that why he posts photos of vehicles all over SJDS, as if he's envious and too darned broke to get one of his own instead of photographing everyone else's? Is that why he stresses over people shipping containers to a socialist country where the furnishings are as bleak as they come, and where electronics are priced to a point that 13 inch televisions with cathode ray tubes are still the norm? Buddy, go over to El Gato Negro and have Kelly schlep you up a cup of “black gold” and chill, babydoll. Even YOU don’t deserve that much misery.
But the one who really amuses me is Phil Hughes and his "daddy/daughter" relationships posted all over the internet as if he's broadcasting to every old fart who ever had a fetish involving a fresh young Latin thing while in his eighties. That poor horse-faced fool, who had to go to Nicaragua to find a woman poor and desperate enough to give him the time of day and then broadcast his fetish all over the internet with photos proving his manhood is still intact, even if his jowls are more lined than a rope and his hairline has receded to a point where only bristles are left. And what a delight for him that there are the impoverished young Latin teens of the world to exploit and dangle money for, as he pays off Sandinistas to keep his site and other businesses, spending his inherited money like it's too hot to hold until he has nothing left.
You know, with Nica Living I don't even need to create fiction, because the realities of that Peyton Place is MUCH more dramatic than any fiction an author could create. On one hand you have a woman who probably was rejected from her social circles, married to an oil man who comes to Nicaragua to build a coffee and book "empire" that she can never expand, because nobody cares. Then you have an ex "law enforcement" guy, who killed most of his brain cells with booze, and now hates everyone and everything that he blames destroyed his life. He too moves to a socialist country to try to be the big fish in a small pond with his limited intellect, but desperately needs to change his cultural identity to that of "nica." Then, you have the infamous "editor" who inherites his mother's money and moves to a socialist country to spread capitalism everywhere he goes as he spits socialist rhetoric for the Sandinistas and pays them for protection. THIS is good stuff! Throw in a few other malcontents who most likely moved to Nicaragua in search of some memories of fading youth, seeking the young princesses of poverty and you have quite a book! Did I miss anyone here? Well, there are a few others but really, they have fairly unremarkable presences, so why bore the crowd?
Keep watching, my followers. I’m really going to blow your socks right out of the water, soon! I will soon have some interesting material to add to our case. And Kelly dear, take a drink of Flor de Cana for this one, because it’s going to bring the little green meanies surging into that iced sangre of yours. And it may change you from the pescada fria that you are into something that will make your hubby stop looking at the little girls of San Juan del Sur and think wifey is one hot mama!
Toodles, my adoring fans!