Who's your favorite Argentinian?

[LoathedVermin72]

[Jorge]

[Simple Torture]

César Aira

[spike]

Who’s that hottie below Che Guevara? Not the blonde one.

[Anders]

[Anders]

[B]

There has been an anonymous request that I clarify that Ethan Hawke is not Argentinian.

[Jorge]

He might as well be

[tommy]

He might as well be

But he's not

[Chris_H_2]

[Jorge]

He might as well be

But he's not

For all intents and purposes, he is

[dad]

He might as well be

But he's not

For all intents and purposes, he is

what about all intended porpoises?

[Ello Sailor]

He might as well be

But he's not

For all intents and purposes, he is

what about all intended porpoises?

Intensive*

[The Argonaut]

I'm a big fan of author Samanta Schweblin

[Bammer]

The political candidate who did the sexy campaign ad wearing lingerie out on the street.

[daft twat]

I had a student from Argentina a few years ago. Sweet kid. As a senior who had never played baseball, he went out for the team, and despite his unfounded optimism, it went exactly how you imagine. He died last year in Colorado in a hunting accident. This year I have an Argentine girl, and in the first week I told her about this kid and how great he was. It was her brother. Different last names, but as soon as she said it I could see him in her face. She’s fucking awesome, too. So for me, it’s Jorge.

[Ello Sailor]

Jorge is Colombian. He is the best Colombian in the world.

Best Argie is clearly Veggie.

[Dev]

not this idiot

[E.H. Ruddock]

Mine is Julieta Lazcano

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.