J. Peter Freire has a hilarious take-down of Geraldo Rivera’s latest book (Not that one; this one) over in the American Spectator:

Being Hispanic has only benefitted me. I can tan. I don’t look like a total ass when I dance. I can roll my “r”s in a sophisticated way. Surrounded by conservatives as I frequently am, I help boost the number of minorities in the room by 100 percent. The best part is, they don’t know it or have to come to terms with it, because of my dark secret. I’m Spanish (indeed, from Spain), which is technically Hispanic, according to dictionaries, but I look white, depending on where I spend my weekend.

There are downsides. I have to shave almost twice a day to prevent myself from looking like Pancho Villa. I dial “1″ for Spanish just to practice for when I talk to my distant relatives. And I have to dodge the paranoid, delusional bigots my compadre (that’s a Spanish word) Geraldo Rivera has uncovered in his book, His Panic. Of course, that last bit is easy, primarily because I’ve never found any.

Not so for Geraldo. Since his probably-likely-almost-definitely-staged on-screen dust-up with Bill O’Reilly (viewable here), Geraldo has decided to fight “the maddening tendency in this country to want to burn the immigrant bridge as soon as your particular crew has come in over it.”

***

At least when Bernard Henri-Levy tried to define America by the circus freaks he encounters during his travels in American Vertigo, he could claim innocence based on being a foreigner (and a Frenchman to boot). But Geraldo is clueless. Look how he confirms his minority status by describing his grandmother as possessing an “angular, chocolate-colored face made leathery by the sun.” Not only has Geraldo adopted Borat’s use of “chocolate face” but he can’t spot a cliche when he sees one.

No word on whether, as a young nino cradled in his grandmother’s arms, Geraldo ever reached up to stroke his abuela’s moustache, but I think we can assume it.

Read the whole thing here. J.P., the next round of Dos Equis are on me.