That would be Paul Rugg of Freakazoid! fame. Excuse me: Steven Spielberg Presents Freakazoid!
Don’t get me wrong. I love Cubans. I married one. I still am married to one. But I have come to the conclusion that they’re insane. Not criminally or anything like that. None of them have ever held me hostage or taken my dog out back for a beating. No. It’s just that Cubans tend to argue with each other about all kinds of things. Anything. Cheese. Flan. The name of that armless man that used to sell eggs back in Havana…the one with the cleft pallette and the bone sticking out of his leg. Cubans will argue about chicken, sell-by freshness dates and what causes intestinal gas (which, it turns out, is everything).
I have seen two elderly Cuban women almost kill each other over whether their mother’s arroz con pollo recipe had beer or pimento. The only thing Cubans agree on is that anything under 67 degrees is freezing and requires a parka and a mad dash to the car before limbs begin to fall off. I have seen Cubans spend over three hours getting on their coats and hats and gloves and scarfs for a five foot walk from the door to the car. Once in the car, those same Cubans will spend another three hours taking off their gloves and hats and coats and scarfs because to leave them on in the car will cause an embolism. (I have also heard a complicated theory that orange juice and milk are fine individually, but have them BOTH for breakfast and your stomach will melt.)
(I added the paragraph break; I’m sorry. It just seemed to cry out for that.)
I like Paul because he’s funny, and because his writing style—from what I hear—is so very much like my own. But he made something of himself anyway. As they say.
Oh, right. He calls it Froynlaven. Sounds suspiciously German to me.
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