Most gringos think Mexican baloney smoke is shady, criminal, and dangerous. While it definitely can be shady, depending on the person distributing it, Mexican baloney smoke isn't really "lower" than American baloney smoke on the danger hierarchy of smoked, disingenuous meats. This presumption is in fact an indicator of one's own level of comfort with American baloney smoke. Mexican baloney smoke isn't really anything to be afraid of. Americans are just used to their own BS, is all it is.
While American baloney smoke presumes to improve the morality of the person receiving it while dictating its own incapacity behind a veil of policy ("I'm sorry, sir, we simply can't help you," she said, with a mean, bureaucratic smile. "It's policy."), Mexican baloney smoke only wants 20 bucks. American baloney smoke thinks it's going to make the world a better place by talking incessantly about what can't be done; Mexican baloney smoke tapes the windshield to the front of the car so we can get to the next town, and asks for 20 bucks. American baloney smoke is lofty, haughty presumption disguised as the moral high ground. Politeness is the veil used to project this false morality. Mexican baloney smoke will probably smile at you in a way that isn't quite polite. Mexican baloney smoke is street.
Once, I reserved a room in a small town NW of Mexico City for the night. I had my cats, and there was a pet fee. The reservation was for a Monday. I showed up at 3 or 4pm, walked into the office, and attempted to check in. Except for the desk girl and probably some housekeeping staff, no one else was on the property. The desk girl looked at a computer screen, pretended to do her job, and informed me that I had no reservation there. She said it as though to say, "now leave me alone, gringo." There wasn't even an offer to book a room independently of a booking app. She didn't speak a word of English.
Baloney smoke, I said to myself.
Instead of responding to this obvious baloney smoke like an indignant gringo, waving my confirmation number in her face and demanding things be done by the numbers like a morally- (read: financially-) superior rich kid, I said to her, "how about this. I pay for the room with my card, and give you the pet fee in cash." I implied with my tone and demeanor that she could then pocket the pet fee and buy herself something nice when she got off work.
She brightened immediately. She appreciated my suggestion so much, not only did she give me the room at the rate I had reserved it for, she waived the pet fee entirely. "Welcome to Hotel Baloney Smoke, sir," she said, handing me the old-school metal key on a keychain. "Enjoy your stay."
I took my cats upstairs and we had a good night. We watched Mexican rock & roll muppets on TV, since the walls were so thick the WiFi from the router downstairs was barely visible to my computer. The walls were strong enough to repel cannonballs, and American baloney smoke. We slept well enough, woke up somewhere farther down the conveyor belt of time, and went on our way.
I'm not a fan of baloney smoke. In fact I hate it. But given the choice between Mexican and American baloney smoke, I prefer the Mexican variety. It's more up front. It doesn't revel in its own incapacity from a high ground of rich, presumptuous anti-morals. American baloney smoke thinks it's better than you. It believes it can improve you by making you as incapable and useless as it aspires to be. Mexican baloney smoke is street.
Now you know.
