When I was still working at the Cullen Rapp with my friend Jim, we’d make it top priority to run screaming out of the office at 5 PM sharp and into the nearest watering hole—that is, except on those days when he had to go home and view an all-important Mexican wrestling match on pay-per-view. This has always struck me as amusing since Jim, a nice white boy of Irish descent from Connecticut, should be so enamored with this theatrically violent world of mortal combat from another country. This would be akin to me being obsessed with the practice of endocannibalism of the Carib tribe of the Lesser Antilles.

To further enhance my education of Mexican wrestling, Jim would sometimes bring his cherished collection of Lucha Libre masks to work. We’d put them on during lulls at the office and speak to each other in the kind of Spanish accumulated from years of reading Subway ads on the prevention of venereal diseases. This activity was designed to make the long work day pass a little faster and I thank him for that.

I am grateful to Jim for adding this sport into my repertoire of things to exploit artistically. So here they are, Los Lucha Libre, dedicated to one Jim Donhaue.

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Consiga una prueba de Clamidia—es fácil y si lo tienes es tratable.

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