United States Acquires Mexico at Swap Meet

merica added a new addition this Fourth of July when it officially signed the papers declaring Mexico part of the United States.

"This is a glorious day for all Americans," said President Bush, for possibly the billionth time. "We have added a beautiful section of land to America's backyard, as well as taking out the 36^th 'surprise Axis of Evil' country. As soon as we finished with Nepal, we were going to fix things up there. That will certainly save us some time."

The purchase of Mexico happened quickly last week when it suddenly became available. Mexico, believed once owned by Spain until it won its independence on Sept. 16, 1821, was actually owned by an American named Merle Switzer. Switzer (1763-1817) was a traveling spice salesman who operated the route between Spain and Mexico. On one of his excursions, he apparently took the papers from Mexico from King Ferdinand VII to settle an outstanding debt; it was believed Ferdinand loved his oregano to excess.

According to Switzer descendent Orville A. Switzer, after Merle retired, "He meant to get down and check the place out thoroughly, as well as inform them he was the new landlord, but just never got around to it. He did have bad knees."

The elder Switzer passed away, he left his property including the Mexico ownership papers to his heir, who then passed it on to his heir. All were oblivious as to the nature of the documents, which were in Spanish, and were only kept because of the clever "Bless This Mess" hand-stenciled message Merle Switzer had written on the back. The frame family heirloom eventually came to Orville A. Switzer, who thought it was time to upgrade to a professional wooden plaque declaring the mess blessed. But when he extracted the document from the frame, Orville, who learned partial Spanish from his daughter's boyfriend, Miguel, deciphered the importance of the document. He then took it to a swap meet.

"I figured, 'Hey, this is Mexico. Everybody knows where it is and it's already pretty much self-maintaining. I ought to be able to get a couple bucks out of it. But I knew they'd screw me over if I took it to a pawn shop, so I asked my friend Arnold to sell it for me at his belt buckle table at Florida's Biggest Swap Meet."

Jeb Bush, governor of Florida and a regular attendee of his state's Biggest Swap Meet, spotted the documents while browsing the belt buckles, asked Arnold Plegg about them, and immediately called his brother on the cell phone. Within a few short hours, with a plea to hold the documents rather than sell them before the president could arrive, George Bush had showed up at the swap meet and paid the $78 out of his emergency presidential expense account.

Once the papers were signed over on July 4, 2002, the president quickly told the American people of their new acquisition in a televised speech that interrupted Court-TV's "Red, White and NYPD Blue" Marathon.

Details were sketchy at the time of press, but emergency sessions of Congress had been called to speculate on the value of Mexico, whether it was possible to re-sell the documents for a higher price, or use the land for some other purpose. When reminded Mexico already had a large population, the president insisted that they'd be taken care of, though he didn't specify if he meant that in the motherly or mafia fashion.

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OH MY GOD SNOW

In the world of show business, things go from boring to frenetic overnight. This also applies to my life as of recent. One minute I'm volunteering at soup kitchens just to get out of the house, then my phone is ringing with work and so on. Which is great, the soup kitchen thing wasn't what I thought anyway—you believe people volunteer to serve the soup? They tried to tell me they already had more than enough people to eat it all.

But the work, the work! It's true what the Fixx said, one thing leads to another. I get a call from Vic-O Smith-Smith, one of the convention geeks who kept trying to get me to read his script last year. I told him I would, then when he asked me what I thought of it, I told him I thought it had its moments—he totally fell for it. Anyway, Vic-O asked me if I'd be in his movie if he ever got the money to do it, and I said sure, thinking no one would give this chunk money. Well, I was right, but it turns out he got hit by a Brinks truck and sued for big-time bucks. Vic-O called last week, as I said, and said the part was mine if I wanted it.

I played it cool and told him I would do it, only on the condition he gave me money for the role. It paid off, 'cause he offered me even better than money—a percentage of the movie! Usually that spells disaster, just ask anybody who's ever financed a bomb movie for percentages, or internet investors. This one's a sure-fire hit, though, because it's a sci-fi movie. Sci-fi movies are like oil spouting up through your bathtub. Money city.

The gig is all set, though. I'll be playing Clemenstra Raygun, the star of the movie, and it ought to be kick-ass. It will take about two weeks of shooting and then a long post-production time while all the special effects are computer-generated. It's a low-budget movie, but Vic-O says he can CGI all the effects with a special movie-making program known as Photoshop. The movie is about… okay, I still haven't read the script or anything. I'm putting money down it will involve me in some sexy space outfit shooting a laser and riding around in a rocketship. Something like LSD but it costs less and helps move my career along in inches.

I didn't even tell you the best part yet! Vic-O, he's a good friend with another guy, and this guy (whose name I didn't bother to write down) is publishing a comic book. I know, nerd city, but check this out: It's a comic about a super-freak sexy heroine, and guess who they wanted to play her on the covers? Victoria Principal. But of course she wants ridiculous money and has a busy schedule doing make-up commercials or whatever. Her loss, my gain. I'm going to be Metallichick!

Not much involved as far as the covers go or anything, they basically have me stop by the "studio" in his mom's house ever couple months and take a couple of promotional photos and some shots for the cover. Then people see a real chick on the front of the book and want to buy the book, then get home and get pissed to see it's all drawings inside. Maybe they recognize me from TV or the Brady Bunch reunion special where I told everybody I was Cindy, who knows, but people buy the book and I get money to come back and do more. It keeps me busy, that's what's important. That and the money.

I didn't even mention the big stuff, that I'm off to a sci-fi convention next week. I was planning on going back to sign autographs at the Orgasma table anyway, but the guy whose name I can't remember also wants me to do some promotion for the Metallichick book. I might even help Vic-O promote the new movie. It's feast or famine, as the old saying goes, and I'm going to gorge myself while the gorging's good.

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I am royally bummed, good people. I can say that without fear of contradiction. For one, because anyone can verify how true it is, and two, because I'm simply not afraid of contradictions anymore. The therapy is working. I can't control when someone else disagrees, so I just have to let it go and move on with my life.

But back to business—my bummed nature. It's nothing too severe, but I'm quite disappointed that I've exhausted my supply of Haitian cigarettes. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I had no idea they would go so fast. It seems no sooner had I stepped off the plane than I completely emptied my little baggy full. What a shame.

I should explain myself, since I haven't informed you of my wonderful find yet. On vacation in Haiti with the Mrs., my Mrs., just in case you wondered, I discovered the one high-quality product they make in Haiti: cigarettes. If you think you've smoked wonderful, mind-blowing tobacco before, good people, you haven't smoked anything like Haitian tobacco. It makes your mind come alive with possibilities, and suddenly everything becomes funnier and more important than it previously had been. Now that's good tobacco.

In truth, I had intended to do more on my honeymoon—parasail, scuba dive, leave the hotel in some fashion, but I had to let Mrs. Finger run off by herself, because I so enjoyed sitting in my room, smoking Haitian tobacco and watching cartoons on television. It is that good, my friends. You can bet I packed a healthy supply of handrolled—they're all handrolled down there—cigarettes before I came back to the States.

I worried about having trouble with them on the plane, if you know what I mean—smoking's prohibited. Well, of course, I knew it would be difficult to resist the fine, fresh flavor of Haitian tobacco for the entire plane ride, so I taped all my cigarettes under my armpits before departing for home. The customs official gave me an odd look when he searched me, and I was worried he might jostle them loose and, well, I'd start smoking all 635 of them right away, right there in the airport. Ha! What a sight that would have been. But he didn't even touch them, really. So I got back to our fine country with all my cigarettes intact.

But, alas, they're all gone now. I've never been much of a smoker, really, even though I like to try new things and I always do what people on TV do. These are good, though, I smelled them at a party the first night I was in the country and knew I had to try them. Still, as I said, they're gone now. I finished the last one two days ago and have been, how you might say, "jonesing" for a new one ever since. I've tried regular cigarettes in their stead, but none of them have that smooth, uplifting feeling of real Haitian tobacco.

I'm not saying I'm desperate or anything, but I have taken to driving around bad neighborhoods, looking for Haitians who can hook me up, give me just a little "fix"—since I do feel like I need a tune-up that only satisfying Haitian tobacco can give me. When I see a Haitian, I roll down the window and yell, "Smoke, smoke!" I hope I'm not underestimating their language skills, they may even speak English, but how am I to know that? I'm just anxious to get my hands on some of their nifty cigarettes, and don't have time for lengthy conversation.

Lee says he knows a fellow in some sort of "joint" that knows a guy who can get me Haitian tobacco. Not that I don't believe him, but I worry he's holding out on me, in some fashion. I told him I have the money, or I will by the time I get my next paycheck, or I get paid for the TV that I sold to the neighbor. Right now I need just a little taste—the taste of fine Haitian tobacco.

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