The tiny cerebellum of Donald J. Trump has declared that his country could interrupt trade with Mexico with yet another of his delirious justifications in his stubborn eagerness to raise his low childish non-intellectual quotient and his uncontrollable genetic desire to clone himself with Adolf Hitler. According to the tiny peanut that inhabits his skull, trade with Mexico is only about “tomatoes and spicy tamales” and I assume the civic duty to wrap myself in the tricolor flag, caress the eagle, and coil myself around the serpent like a fine jewelry necklace to try to respond directly to the blonde wig, orange skin, bulky diaper, and excessive stupidity of the aforementioned leader with the following list of Mexican exports already indispensable for the North American market:
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You are missing avocados (a Nahuatl word meaning testicles), disinfected lettuce, clean meat (not from Millei), cardona tuna, annatto, axolotls (for Sea World), Saltillo sarapes (ideal complement for LGBT flags), chorizo in boxes (brought from outside by inhabitants of Toluca), tons of bananas (each with seven hundred calories) and it’s obvious from miles away that you like chili pa’silla. You will be left without black bay beans (true weapons of mass destruction), sweet potato bars from Puebla, Badón cheese made from sweet potato, Sientes sweet potato, longaniza from Metepec and Cacahuamilpa, pineapple-peanut-black sapote-tomato-epazote and other miracles listed by Diego Rivera in one of the murals of the National Palace.
I add that who knows why Mexican Coca-Cola is better than the American one, that suadero, pastor, nana, buche, nenepil, and ojo tacos could ease your fake marriage with Melania and that it remains to be truly found out that here the pork rinds crackle even more if bathed with Valentina. You lack powdered Miguelito and jicama with lime and piquín, not to mention daring to try carachiles in nogada, mole poblano, coloradito, negro, verde, and rojo, as well as tricolor pozoles. You will be left without chongos zamoranos, jericallas from Guadalajara, and charamuscas from Guanajuato; you will create a massive withdrawal syndrome due to the scarcity of tequilas, mezcals, pulques, and aguas de jamaica, horchata, tamarind, etc., as well as rose petal, soursop, and abajeño lime popsicles.
You will cry for your damn hard and pre-folded toasted tortilla tacos, as well as for real tortillas (corn and flour), grilled onions with Maggi sauce, the post-classical penchant for Michelada, and Armando Manzanero’s records. You will bark to hear the mariachi version of Y.M.C.A. and not a few ballads by Juanga, not to mention the great works of artists, architects, sculptors, writers, poets, novelists, essayists, and short story writers (which you really don’t know what I’m talking about) that could flood your country’s bookstores with revolutionary editions from the Fondo de Cultura Económica, printed on toilet paper and stapled bindings (to minimize costs and maximize profits) and you will miss some Mexicanisms and heterodox and conflictive Mexicanisms such as: not a few forms of the very Mexican political and economic corruption, the narco-innovative varieties of money laundering, the multifaceted benefits of bribery, the polyhedral and empirical etymology of huachicol, and the urge to cry to celebrate whatever.
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Keep playing Gestapo with your ICE (Fascism on the rocks) and you will be left without gardeners who prune bushes like herons, the sweet science of drying a freshly washed car with a wet rag, and Samaritans capable of understanding stray dogs, tireless cleaners, monarchical servants of immense dignity, and the entire movie Coco. You will lack atole (a very Mexican brew that also serves to govern with the finger) and little birds that bring you luck with their beak, wonderfully Chiapan marimbas, and Papantla flyers capable of cleaning Manhattan windows without ropes… do you really want to cut off the flow of fentanyl, the cocaine trade, the marijuana markets?
Anyway, now without maple syrup and Canadian woods (and not a few goods coming from Vancouver, Ottawa, and Ontario) you are digging the already infinite pit of your putrid oblivion, but I hope my little list serves as a wish: may the day come when, reveling in your isolation, proud against our exports, you fall into the painful realization that thousands of Mexicans don’t care about you.
