Hips May Not Lie But Juan Valdez Sure as Hell Does
Conchita’s had enough!
Hola! Conchita here! You may know me from those Colombian coffee commercials. I’m sure you’ve seen Juan Valdez. Well, I’m his mula. Or at least I used to be. But that’s over now.
Sometimes I wonder why I ever loved him. The man’s a fucking diva. He always hogs the spotlight. He gets manicures and pedicures and wears facial masks at night. But everyone adores him and that’s what really gets me.
“Oh, Juancito,” they say. “Teach us all about your coffee.”
Yeah, right, like he’s some kind of guru. Trust me — Juan doesn’t know shit about coffee. His tintos are too weak and he even says ‘expresso.’ He can barely work a Keurig. Once he tried to use a French press and nearly broke his hand.
But maybe I’m the one that needs my head examined. I tried but couldn’t end it. I would be about to tell him when his smile would melt me. Juan’s always been a charmer. He’s muy detallista. He once bought me a bridle with an emerald on the brow band. Sometimes he’ll leave a chocolate or a carrot on a hay bale. He says my skin’s like a durazno. He likes to see me after dinner. When I smell smoke I know he’s coming. He comes out with a cigar but only takes a puff or two. Next I know he’s with me, stroking my mane, his eyes a little glazed from…
