Abuelito wrote many an ode to the delights of the Mexican afternoon, ladies, but as he shriveled, his storytelling took a Sisyphean turn.

In the grooved footsteps of the ruler doomed to roll the same giant, calcified wad of gum up a hill forever, my grandfather drooled the exact same story.

—Les voy a platicar de me amigo, Juan Rulfo…—

-I’m going to tell you about my friend, Juan Rulfo…-

—Les voy a platicar de me amigo, Juan Rulfo…—

-I’m going to tell you about my friend, Juan Rulfo…-

—Les voy a platicar de mi amigo, Juan Rulfo…—

Let me guess.

Abuelito’s home slice, Juan Rulfo fathered a bastard genre of Latin-American writing, Mexican Spookaliciousness.

Mexican spookalicious covergirl.

Mexican Spookaliciousness’ seminal work happens to be Ruflo’s freaky ass magnum opus, Pedro Páramo.

In a güey, Abuelito is one of the inhabitants of Pedro Páramo’s landscape.

This is so because early on, Abuelito and Rulfo were seminally together.

Since neither of them took the final step of becoming priests, I guess Maury could say, “Juan, Ricardo, you are…not the fathers.”

From 1932 to 1934, Abuelito and Rulfo rubbed cassocks as classmates, attending the same Jalisciense seminary. These functionally literate scrubs spent seminal moments together, learning how to fry the egg of the Spanish language in the same classrooms, discovering at what temperature to make it harden, how to dress it in salt and chile, make it weep with onion.


These seminal cooking classes became Abuelito’s favorite geriatric subject.

Abuelito made his twilight living writing and lecturing about Rulfo’s life, which is paradox, given that Pedro Páramo is not so much a novel as it is a dreamlike substance, a series of words and moans illustrating the phantasmagoric, and unascertainable, nature of human memory.

“Come back once you’ve washed your hands, and then I’ll read your palm, cochina.”

Don’t tell them, but Pedro Páramo is narrated by ghosts who don’t know what they are.

If you’d like, right now, you may go check your reflection.

Be sure to get near the glass and exhale.

Rulfo enjoyed photography more than writing. He took this picture of a fence. It is haunting in the way that emo college kid’s photography class assignments are. (Not very).

People paying to listen to Abuelito lecture got what they asked for.

Abuelito, though, infected unwilling listeners with sisphylis by proxy. At his kitchen table, you got Rulfoed whether you wanted to or not.

It was sort of like getting literarily roofied.

Help! She’s been Roolfied!

Is this something that happens as we age, that we slide into the grooves of comfortable stories? Do we learn to enjoy pushing the same wad of hardened ridiculousness uphill?

When Abuelita could still chew, she would chew the same piece of gum again and again and again and again and again…She saved the wad on her headboard till it faded to a bonelike color. She continued to chew it till it cracked and released marrow.

In the streets of Guadalajara, Dad pushes his rock uphill, repeating himself, playing the part of a cautionary pterodidactyl.

“Don’t stand so close to moving busses! One that was missing its side mirrors came careening towards your uncle as he stuck his neck out from the curb. The speeding spindles acted as a guillotine and…!”

Dad’s constant nagging that I am trying to emulate French royalty frustrates me so much that I wish somebody with a machete would just queen me.

Jealous. I’ll bet you don’t have to listen to your dad tell the same decapitation jokes all day. Or did you?

To cut open a Sleepy Hollow vein, the following are Dismembers Only Club moments that I shared with my pteradidactyl…

I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!

The Hand of God? Try the crisper.

He took the last supper seriously.

Must’ve been a bus.



  1. AHHHHHHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHHAHH! F*****G Brilliant! And scary tambien! Full Figured Jesus, Rulfo’s masterpiece, dismemberment, Abuelita’s chicle! FRIALDADES!
    Do you think mayonesa is a kosher alternative to raw egg for the spiritual cleanse? Fish is concerned about Salmonella.

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