“Karen and the Cultural Catastrophe: Día de los Muertos Gets Colonized”
It started as a beautiful morning in San Antonio—skulls were sparkling, altars were glowing, and kids were busy painting sugar skulls with more concentration than a room full of engineers on deadline. The air smelled like pan de muerto and warm tamales. Joy was alive, the ancestors were honored… and then she arrived.
She emerged from the crowd like an unsolicited opinion—wearing tie-dye (of course), loose capri pants (wrinkled and somehow already dirty), and Birkenstocks that had clearly seen a few protests and probably zero showers. No bra, but plenty of misplaced confidence and a neck tan line that screamed, “I refuse sunscreen on principle.”
“I teach this culture,” she announced to a vendor who just wanted to sell papel picado in peace. “I’ve studied Día de los Muertos for fifteen years. This is my first time seeing it in person, but I assure you I know what’s accurate.”
Ah yes. A scholar in the wild. Tenured, tan-lined, and tragically underdressed.
She moved from altar to altar like an uninvited tour guide, correcting grieving families on their own family altars.
“Marigolds should be in odd numbers.”
“Your sugar skulls are too commercial.”
“Calaveras shouldn't smile that way. It’s in poor taste.”
She told a child their papel picado looked “machine-cut and inauthentic.” The kid looked like he was about to offer her a knuckle sandwich with extra glitter. Grandma started warming up her chancleta.
Then, she found a group of abuelas carefully placing mole and photographs on an elaborate ofrenda and decided to lecture them on Aztec symbolism—mispronouncing every Náhuatl word like she was sneezing through a kazoo.
She wasn’t alone either. Oh no. Karen brought her support group:
Linda the Loyal – Karen’s bestie from grad school, wearing harem pants, chunky turquoise jewelry, and filming the chaos for her vlog titled Soul Sisters Abroad. She whispers affirmations while accidentally filming a security guard's shoes.
Maggie the Marg-Mama – Three margs deep and suddenly realizing this isn’t a wine tasting. She keeps muttering, “This wasn’t on the brochure,” and slowly backs away when things escalate.
Steve, the Silent Husband – Pale. Crocs. Regrets. Holds all the tote bags and desperately avoids eye contact with literally everyone. When Karen finally gets cuffed, Steve just sighs and goes to find the churros.
Then came the tequila.
After loudly berating a mariachi band for not taking her “Song of the Dead” request (which she insists she learned in Oaxaca—pronounced “Oh-ax-ah-cah”), she proclaims that she’s ready to make a “personal spiritual offering.”
She climbs an altar. Yes, on the altar.
One foot slips on a marigold. She wobbles. She flails. She crushes an ofrenda tamale and faceplants into a papel picado curtain, shrieking, “THIS IS MY TRUTH!!”
Security approaches, but the crowd's already circling.
In a desperate attempt to recover dignity, Karen dives into a nearby fountain for a “ritual cleansing.” It’s two feet deep, full of pesos, duck poop, and a soggy churro.
She surfaces gasping, shirt clinging like a sad kaleidoscope of failure, clutching someone’s floating flip-flop like it’s a sacred relic. She screams, “I HAVE A PODCAST!”
That’s when the police step in.
Karen is cuffed, dripping, still trying to quote Frida Kahlo. She yells, “This is oppression! I teach anthropology!” as she’s loaded into the back of a cruiser.
Steve just waves, mutters “She’ll be fine,” and finally gets that churro.
Diagnosis: Chronic Cultural Superiority Complex with tequila-induced delusions and catastrophic footwear choices.
Recommended Treatment: 72 hours in a holding cell, one humility workshop, and mandatory service as an ofrenda janitor next year.
Moral: If you're going to drink the spirits, try not to become one.
#AsshatOfTheDay #DiaDeLosMuertos #SanAntonioFails #CulturalKaren #TequilaTantrum #FestivalFiasco #ObservationalHumor
No comments:
Post a Comment