The One About Sancho

Dear Agnes:

I need your help. I have been dating this man, for the sake of anonymity we will call him Boris. Anyways, Boris got it into his sick little head that he is not Boris anymore, but instead he is Sancho. All I hear all day long is “Is Miss Tibbits Sancho? No, I am Sancho”. What can I do to convince Pablo, er I mean Boris that he is not Sancho. I mean, Scott Baio is not Sancho, and you, Miss Agnes are not Sancho. We all know this, why doesn’t he?

Yours in Sanchotude,

Miss Tibbits
Tibberia, TA, UTA

Dear MT,

I once who had a friend, Martin, who had what I’ve labeled the Sancho Personality Disorder (SPD). Our friendship started off normal, but after a cultural traumatic experience at the Midway Sunday Flea Market, he was struck with SPD, and all he could say after that was, “Are you Sancho? No. You are not Sancho. I am Sancho.” Then, to top it off, he’d tilt his head back and do a little hip-hop-hip-hop that would make me moister than a Betty Crocker Cake. My menopausal school-girl crush got the better of me and that evening when Martin/Sancho passed out from too many servaysas, I mounted him like a taxidermist and rode him faster than a speed freak on a mechanical bull — sparks, smoke, leather, beer stains and all! Something came alive in me that day … I never regreted taking advantage of him in his drunken slumber. Not once.

Martin/Sancho met a bitter, traumatic, tragic, very sad, very nasty end: He overdosed on back-alley gorditas at the local Taco Gal the very next day. Three months later I was a ‘gal in trouble’ and after what seemed like months, I eventually gave birth to a boy who I named Ricky … he had two rows of the most gorgeous teeth, and dark hair with natural blond highlights. And boy could he shake a rattle! And he smiled all the time. The nurses said it was gas, but I knew it was happiness. I gave him his father’s name as a last name, and then put him up for adoptin. Last I heard little Ricky Martin was in some boy band, Menudo, and was doing well.

I still pine for Martin/Sancho and his reeko swavay ways. I know when my time comes and god calls upon me to make the final run for the border, Martin/Sancho will be there waiting … smiling at me … wearing a white tank top and a gold chain.

In conclusion, Miss Tibits, you’ve got to take your Sancho in whatever form you can while you can get it and be thankful you’re getting any at all. Mine got away, but yours doesn’t have to.

Your best friend,

July 4th, 2006