I never get to brag about my ethnicity because I’m always unsure of it. I know I’m American, born in a sterile American hospital like the majority of us. But my father’s side is Spanish! I am half Spanish! And I really love that half. Because it drinks wine and eats tortillas and dances flamenco and takes cafes-con-leche at all hours and tried Marlboros at an early age and calls juice ‘zumo’ and eats grapes at midnight and loves tapas and stands at the bar to eat churros y chocolate and shares bocadillos in the park and takes strolls through plazas and rests in the day and occasionally reads El Pais and La Guia del Ocio and is in love with Javier Bardem and wants to be like Almodovar and expects olives and nuts with every bar order and calls underwear ‘bragas’ and glasses ‘gafas’ and hates gilipollas.
Maybe these things are too stereotypical. Because I’m HALF Spanish, I always feel on the fringe, like a Spanish faker.
But today, I abolish this ethnic insecurity. Today is the day that I reclaim my Spanish roots. Because I’m fucking Spanish. And we’re champions of the world! EL MUNDO! And I’ve always wanted to be a champion of something! So now I am. Gracias, Epaña, por darme los bragging rights. I love you and your men and your passion for soccer and emotion and tight pants and food.
Campeones del Mundo!
Even after all the hullabaloo of the Spanish victory, though, I have to say that [this] is my favorite part of the World Cup hysteria. Who knew that one day Fozzie’s words would grab a global audience? Wocka Wocka.