We had lunch together one time.

PanchoVilla

A joke? Sure. How about Pancho Villa? It
goes like this: One day I was riding along
a dusty trail in Mexico, when out of
nowhere Pancho Villa and his band of thieves
rode up brandishing their six shooters. “Vato!”
Pancho yelled, and I nodded. “What’s up?” “Pull down
your pants and take a shit.” I asked the man to
repeat himself, but he merely cocked his guns
and grinned. His teeth were awful. They were green and
broken. The stubble on his face was messy
and behind the barrels of his handguns his
eyes were cold and hard as iron. He looked like
a macho gargoyle with a bandolier
of silver bullets around his barrel chest.
“Shit!” he commanded. I shrugged and did as I
was told. It was disgusting and when I asked
“Donde esta el playa de bano?” the
asshole just laughed and pointed at my pile
of dung on the dirt. “Eat,” he snickered and his
bandito choir roared with laughter. “You want
me,” I said, pausing to emphasize my point
“to eat that? Are you out of your mind, bub?” “Si,”
Pancho replied. I did as I was told.
It tasted about like you’d expect it to.
While he and his friends were celebrating, I
tackled the stocky Mexican and stole his
weapons. “Now, sir,” I said, spitting out a piece
of corn, and if you think that’s foul you should have
been there when Mr. Villa’s dookie showed signs
of Montezuma’s Revenge. I looked at his
canteen as he crapped and knew it was something
in the water. Perhaps formaldehyde or
a secret Russian serum. I don’t know, but
it was brown, runny and ended up in a
pool on the ground like Cincinnati chili.
Oh, my friends. You wanted to know if I have
met Pancho Villa and I can assure you…

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