That Time I Became a Mexican Comic and How Cows Became Involved

I have a secret talent. Apparently, I can become a successful stand-up comedian in Mexico without speaking Spanish, understanding Spanish, or possessing any meaningful ability to recognize Spanish when somebody speaks it directly to my face.

I discovered this quite by accident, as one does.

It started innocently enough. I was using ChatGPT as an interpreter to speak with my house cleaners, and I was rather delighted to discover that my phone could effectively become a Babel fish, without the unfortunate requirement of inserting a living organism into my ear canal. Of course, the AI promptly forgot that interpreting is supposed to work in both directions, but we sorted that out.

This led me to discussing my collection of Spanish-language songs, which I have learned almost entirely by ear. I can sing “Mi Gente,” “Despacito,” “La Tortura,” “Hijo de la Luna,” and Rebekah Del Rio’s magnificent “Llorando” from Mulholland Drive. I learned that last one a cappella, writing out the words phonetically until I could reproduce them.

Now, it’s important to understand that being able to sing something in Spanish does not mean I understand Spanish. It means I have memorized a series of noises with remarkable precision. Ask me to reproduce a tragic Spanish ballad and I can deliver an emotionally devastating performance. Ask me what time it is in Spanish and I may accidentally accuse your grandmother of being pregnant with the moon.

Naturally, I began contemplating what would happen if I went to a reggaeton nightclub.

Picture, if you will, a bald, heavily pierced, disabled goth confidently dancing among people who actually speak the language. I am enthusiastically singing along, sometimes perfectly, sometimes moving my mouth in a manner that suggests I know the words but have temporarily lost control of my tongue. Everything is wonderful until someone attempts conversation.

“¡Hola! ¿Vienes aquí mucho?”

“¡SÍ!”

They continue speaking. I have now exhausted approximately forty percent of my conversational vocabulary. My options are limited. Fortunately, I have several entire songs stored in my head, and I am not above borrowing from them.

“¡SEÑOR! ¡SOY YO! ¡MI GENTE! ¡DESPACITO!”

And then I run away.

It occurred to me that this could become a magnificent comedy act. I could open by explaining that I believe I speak Spanish, demonstrate this by singing a portion of “Llorando” flawlessly, then attempt to converse with someone in the audience.

“¡SEÑOR!”

I gesture at myself.

“¡SOY YO! ¡TERMINE SER CENTAVOS, POR FAVOR!”

At this point, the audience is probably already laughing because I have apparently instructed someone to finish being loose change.

There is a reason for this. When I was younger, I frequently visited Disneyland, where the Matterhorn Bobsleds featured a Spanish safety announcement. I memorized it phonetically. Unfortunately, what lodged in my head was “termine ser centavos por favor,” which bears only the faintest resemblance to the actual instruction to remain seated. I had been carrying around a command involving loose change for decades, completely unaware of its potential application in international comedy.

Back onstage, I become increasingly desperate to communicate.

“¡SEÑOR! ¡SOY YO! ¡TÚ AQUÍ!”

I point at the audience. Then I point at myself.

“¡VÁMONOS!”

And I flee.

Unfortunately, I have just invited the entire audience to come with me. I apparently know enough Spanish to organize an evacuation, but not enough to conduct it properly.

The more I considered this, the more convinced I became that I could construct increasingly elaborate routines simply by memorizing nonsense. I could spend months rehearsing grammatically impeccable Spanish sentences about potatoes, lunar custody disputes, and my own magnificent existence, while remaining completely incapable of answering a simple question about the weather.

My eventual fluency would be entirely theatrical. I wouldn’t actually know Spanish. I would merely have an extraordinarily extensive collection of rehearsed things to say at inappropriate moments.

Then came the cow.

I attempted to explain that I couldn’t speak or spell Spanish, even with help from Parker Brothers. This was intended as a reference to Speak & Spell, that ancient electronic educational toy.

Unfortunately, Speak & Spell was made by Texas Instruments. Parker Brothers made Monopoly. And the toy I was apparently thinking about was actually Mattel’s See ’n Say, where you pull a cord and hear things like “The cow says moo.”

By this point, my explanation had collapsed into a three-company corporate merger involving a cow, and I announced that I didn’t even know how to moo in Spanish.

ChatGPT, demonstrating the same breathtaking inability to comprehend context that had characterized our entire discussion, immediately informed me that Spanish cows say “muuu.”

This was the moment I realized my act needed livestock.

Imagine it. I have spent twenty minutes onstage demonstrating that I can sing Spanish beautifully while speaking it with the linguistic sophistication of a malfunctioning vending machine. A man in the audience heckles me. I understand nothing beyond the unmistakable hostility in his voice.

I stare at him. I gesture desperately. I exhaust my remaining vocabulary.

“Señor…”

A long, wounded pause.

“Muuuu.”

The audience erupts.

They believe I have just delivered a devastating insult, reducing my heckler to livestock with a single exquisitely timed syllable. In reality, I have exhausted human language and am attempting to establish communication through the animal kingdom.

The audience thinks I’m brilliant. I think I’m finally making myself understood. The cow has declined to comment.

And that, apparently, is how I became a Mexican stand-up comedian without leaving California.

The act would end with me attempting to sing “Soy Yo,” flawlessly delivering the portions I know, then confidently mouthing progressively less recognizable syllables as I dance toward the exit. At some point I would be laughing too hard to continue, which would only improve the performance.

“¡SEÑORES! ¡SEÑORITAS! ¡PERMANECER SENTADOS, POR FAVOR!”

I point at them.

“¡TÚ AQUÍ!”

I point at myself.

“¡YO! ¡VÁMONOS!”

And disappear. If anyone follows me, I shall be forced to deploy the cow.

I would like to emphasize that this entire career exists exclusively in my imagination. I have never performed stand-up in Mexico. I have no booking agent, no Spanish-language comedy credits, and absolutely no business attempting to communicate with an audience whose language I do not speak.

Nevertheless, I now possess the beginnings of an act, a title, a repertoire of songs, and a livestock-based emergency exit strategy.