CUIDADO: PISO MOJADO
the commune's Omar Bricks addresses multiculturalism and personal responsibility in America today 

Tuesday, Dec. 05, 2000
On a recent trip to the little man’s room I came across a sign on the floor. It featured a stick man breakdancing on a yellow background above text which read as follows: “Cuidado: Piso Mojado”. That’s right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that’s Spanish for “Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor”. And that got me thinking, and I thought this: “Goddammit, how come everything’s got to be in Spanish?” Quickly after that my thought changed to “Wait a minute, who’s pissing on the floor?” but then after a moment of confusion it switched back to the Spanish thing. And I think I may be on to something here.

Since when do we as Ameyhicans have to bow to the whims of the Spanish-speaking minority? Personally I’m tired of it, and I think it’s time I made a stand. The next time I pull up to the Taco Bell drive thru, you won’t hear me ordering a “Burrito Supreme, Nachos and a Chalupacabra”, I’m going to proudly demand a “Big-Assed Bean Sheath, Some Chips with Shit on Them, and One of Them Scary Fuckers From the X-Files”. That’s my right as an American. And they’d better not underfold it so the bottom blows out on my bean-sheath, either.

I was feeling rather proud of this resolution as I tried to decipher a pornographic limerick scratched into the bathroom stall (Anybody who knows the one about Swedes and weenies, email me at deeznuts@thecommune.com), when suddenly my thoughts began to change again. Once more, they drifted to the Cuidado sign, like closeted gays to a Ricky Martin concert. And as I pondered the sign’s message, it occurred to me that this little sign says a lot about America today. How many times in a day does someone, in effect, tell you to Look Out, because they just pissed on your floor? Today I counted 87.

Now keep in mind, gentle reader, that I’m not talking about literal pissing here. And that non-literal pissing wasn’t necessarily done on your literal floor, either. I’m talking about the constant letdowns of everyday life, the times when those who we count on fail us miserably and just shrug it off because it’s become expected. Every time the Concorde slams into a baby farm outside of Paris or that kid at Wendy’s gives you Iced Tea when you specifically asked for Lowenbrau, it’s Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Any time a cop pulls you over because he thought you were black and makes you late to the six o’clock showing of “Charlie’s Angels”, Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Whether it’s an alligator getting loose at the zoo and eating a clown or the Democrats barfing up Dukakis as their candidate in '88, it’s all Cuidado: Piso Mojado.

Well I’m here to tell you one thing: that Omar Bricks’ floor was not made for pissing. You can piss your own floor all the live-long day, and you won’t see me trying to stop you. I believe it’s even covered under the religious practices protection laws in some Southwestern states. But my floor is a strict no-pissing zone, and anyone who forgets that is liable to get a mop-handle up his ass with very little warning. Figuratively speaking, of course.

I implore you to take a similar stand. The next time you’re on hold waiting to talk to a customer service representative, and have just listened to 32 straight minutes of Christmas carols on the classical guitar, only to have the system disconnect you just as you reach the head of the phone queue, don’t just shrug and head for the mop. Demand accountability. Maybe you should send that company a package of unstable C4 blanketed in roofing nails. Will that get you more prompt service on the customer support line? Probably not, since the service reps will most likely have been reduced to hamburger and strewn over a quarter-mile of real estate immediately following the explosion. But someone, somewhere will take notice. Maybe the next pizza you order won’t come in the box upside-down. Maybe those daycare kids will stop chanting “Stinky Butt! Stinky Butt!” when you walk by. Or maybe the mailman will stop crumpling your mail into a ball before he stuffs it into your mailbox. You’ll never know until you try.