Birthday

A friend of mine asked all of his friends to write emails to his mother for her birthday. Not my cup of tea, but I took it as an opportunity to write something hilarious.

To
Jesse's Mom
Subject
Happy Birthday

From a Complete Stranger.
I know your son, Jesse. We met shortly after The War while we were both stationed in Cuba. I'll never forget the first time I ran across him. It was in a dusty little pueblo outside Havana, during the afternoon siesta. Jesse was in the middle of the unpaved dirt street teaching a little senorita how to dance The Charleston (as you no doubt know, Jesse's love of dance is widely misunderstood). An old gaucho sat nearby, picking out Guantanamera lazily on his guitar; the ballad, arguably the first habanera famous in the US, provided the perfect rhythm and beat to learn Jazz dance. The little senorita, it turns out was very progressive, for Salsa-loving Cubans generally looked down on Jazz as an American perversion in those days. Indeed, when the proprietor of the local saloon made his way to the doors, you can imagine his outrage to find the dust-storm plaguing his establishment was caused by an American GI teaching modern Jazz techniques to his wife. His pride as a husband, and as a Salsa-dance champion were both injured grievously. I'll never forget the pain in his eyes as his wife yelled to him, in Spanish, "Ramon, te amo mi amor, pero La Salsa esta muerta! Viva Jazz! Viva Jazz!" When he challenged Jesse to a dance-off to the death, I knew what had to be done. Jesse was no novice, true, but he could not compete with the mighty Ramon, pride of all Cuba and Grand Master of Salsa Dance. To make a long story short, Ramon Castro ended up dead in the street and a certain firearm was checked-in at base minus two rounds. Ramon's wife was left behind to raise their son, Fidel - who, incidentally, swore revenge upon America. We have often wondered how young Fidel would have turned out if he had a strong father figure in his younger years. Perhaps we'll never know.