Ask Senor Besame-Mucho | HumorOutcasts

Ask Senor Besame-Mucho

June 10, 2017
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The women of America suffer from a lack of passion in their lovers, the phlegmatic sons of Angles, many of which are 90 degrees, and Saxons, so stolid in their romancing. It is for this reason that I, Senor Besame-Mucho, answer questions from those who wish to be kissed much more times, even if it is by the cold lips of a man who has just removed a bottle of beer from his mouth.


“You have spinach between your teeth, my darling!”

 

Dear Senor Besame-Mucho:

Following your advice I suggested to my boyfriend “Chuck” (his real name, but he thinks he looks better when he wears quotation marks) that perhaps I would be more enthusiastic in bed if he would just take the trouble to woo me as a Latin lover would do. He seemed to “get it,” and for once actually made reservations for our Saturday night date at a restaurant he said would be a big “surprise” for me.

Well, surprise isn’t the word for it. He made me close my eyes the whole way down Route 126 although I peeked a couple of times and could tell we were headed out past Shopper’s World.

He pulls into the parking lot at the Sam Diego’s Mexican restaurant and says Okay, you can open your eyes now.


What a letdown.

 

Well, I couldn’t help but burst into tears. “Refried beans are NOT my idea of a romantic night out!” I said–actually I sort of hissed it, with my teeth clenched really tight. “Chuck” got all bent out of shape and said “I can’t win with you–do you want a night of torrid Latin romance with $2 Bud Light Specials or not?”

Senor Besame-Mucho, we have agreed to refer this dispute to you for binding arbitration. Whatever you say is fine with me as long as you take my side.

Cheryl Lynn Sefretz, Framingham, Mass.


“Be careful–my breasts are VERY sharp.”

 

My dear Cheryl-Lynn (and allow me to add a hyphen to complement your pretty name!)–

The philosophy of Besame-Mucho is to accept all kisses for fear that you will lose the lips of the lover (and try saying that five times fast) who so tenderly offers them to you. I must side with “Chuck” on this one, even if his besar is blown your way with a beer and chimichanga wind from a faux-Southwestern franchise restaurant.

Dear Senor Besame-Mucho:

I bought your ten sixty-minute audio cassette home instruction course “Let’s Talk the Language of Love” for $49 and am writing to give you a chance to “make it right” by me before I call the Better Business Bureau.

Tape 1 was okay as it gave me the “Fundamentals of Wooing and Winning Women With Latin Love Techniques,” but the rest was mostly filler. Tape 2 was a bad Ricky Ricardo impersonator telling jokes from “I Love Lucy,” Tape 3 was “Rock of the 70’s: From Menudo to DeBarge,” and from there it went downhill.

Frankly, I think you should pay return postage for this rip-off, but in the spirit of compromise I re-gifted them to my mailman as I did not want to create an expectation I am going to give him a cash tip every year.

Claude Boul, Wicasset, Rhode Island


Menudo: 70’s boy band or tasty soup?

 

Dear Mr. Boul–

My sincere apologies for what appears to be an error by the stockpickers at Senor Besame-Mucho’s fulfillment center just north of the Texas border–it is so hard to get good American help these days!

As every bi-lingual hourly wage drudge should know, “menudo” is a soup made from beef tripe, while “Menudo” is a boy-band whose music was tripe. A replacement tape is on its way to you even as I tap these words!

Dear Senor Besame-Mucho:

I have been a reader of your columns for several years, and often cut them out of the Penny Saver and attach them to my refrigerator with a colorful Kansas City Chiefs magnet so my husband will notice them and hopefully heed your advice.

So far it hasn’t done me a lot of good as “Furman” just grabs the handle and says “We got anything to eat?” before making a sandwich and settling into his BarcaLounger for another afternoon of football, snoring, and reality-TV “handfishing” shows.


“He followed me home–can I keep him?”

 

Senor Besame-Mucho–I am at my wit’s end. How can I get my man to realize there is more to life than blitz packages and stupid catfish(es)? Furman is asleep right now, so don’t call, text me.

Paula Oehrke, Shawnee-Mission, KS

Dear Paula–

You say you read my columns–but do you truly understand them? You must submit to the thralldom of love even as your man slumbers his weekend away!

While Furman snoozes, put on a black lace teddy, gently lower the BarcaLounger to “Full Prone Slob” position, then recite an English translation of “Besame Mucho” readily available via search on the World-Wide Web. If you are too cheap to upgrade your browser and still use Netscape, here are the words you want to whisper–the breathier the better!

Kiss me more,
kiss me much more times,

because I fear I will lose you,
I’ll lose you sometime!


“Your wife was really hot, so we took care of her first.”

 

If he does not respond to that, you may want to call your local emergency medical technicians and see if they can remedy either his problem or yours.

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Take My Advice–I Wasn’t Using it Anyway.”

Con Chapman

I'm a Boston-area writer, author of two novels (most recently "Making Partner"), a baseball book about the Red Sox and the Yankees ("The Year of the Gerbil"), ten published plays and 45 books of humor available in print and Kindle formats on amazon.com. My latest book "Scooter & Skipper Blow Things Up!" was released by HumorOutcasts Press last year. My humor has appeared in The Atlantic, The Christian Science Monitor, The Boston Globe and Barron's, and I am working on a biography of Johnny Hodges, Duke Ellington's long-time alto sax player for Oxford University Press .

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