Bookshops. Will it be Danielle Steele´s latest, The PoolBoy or John Grisham`s highly touted (by the literary magnets at the Houston Chronicle), The Secret Cult of Molesting Lawyers in Memphis? Maybe a 9 foot Toblerone bar to snack on before that dinner of yummy heat lamp pizza and a side of fat. Perhaps a few rounds of ¨How many potential terrorists can I spot?¨ Or, simply calculating how many calories you just burned walking 13 laps around Concourse B. Oh..don´t forget the initial walk through Concourse A...that´s at least one small bite of the alleged pizza. Welcome to the Airport Layover where proof of modern man´s ingenuity awaits you.
And when you´re too poor to fly, you can bathe in the purgatory of the proletariat´s airport, the bus terminal. Until you realize, ... there ain`t no high orange alert homeland insecurity, there ain´t no former Macy´s make-up counter girl closing yo entry door thirty minutes before departure, and the only ´check-in´ is figuring out how to avoid that gang of those little shit gypsy kids. The potential for bus crash catastophe is limited to a measly 100 deaths, maybe 102 if you count those two brothers from Skokie who were inspired by nine11 heroism and tried to save the burning corpses. Suckers. So, a city´s most elite barrio normally plays host to The Bus Station. The kind of upscale neighborhood where the residents are so advanced in their phase of evolution, that laws are not required. Nor are hubcaps or teeth.
My giant four wheeled rolling love machine landed in a town whose name translated to, Happy Port. I had six hours until the next nearly homeless caravan left its port of call. The town naming committee sold me. There would be no counting of the facial tumors on this layover. Johnny was going into town.
A typical half day sampler of a locale usually includes an abundance of walking, random conversations with street vendors, and a wrestling match against the bearded woman in the central plaza. Within an hour, I found the city´s famed market. After purchasing a tube of raw sausage that the butcher claimed didn´t need cooking, I brought my uncooked mystery meat to an outdoor table where I pondered the meaning of life.
Before I ever reached the light, my mind was stuck on the shoeshine boys. These creatures fascinated me. Their ability to bring a forgotten man back into society. Their desire to please. Those cute little wooden lunchboxes with the crusts cut off. And their complete lack of concentration. Like a guy at the beach. A woman at a 75% off sale. A priest at the playground. As soon as these ragamuffins landed a client, their eyes were scopin´ for more leather. No loafer passed ungazed. And sneakers were met with eyes of contempt. The dressier the shoe, the longer the stare. Quality time with their current shoe would decrease. And eventually they just abandoned it for something bigger, prettier, more lucrative. Were these tar faced youths indicative of a human´s struggle to forgoe lust & desire for fidelity & security? Were they a physical manifestation of man´s inability to be fully satisfied in a capitalist system? Or were they just fuckin´ shoeshine boys, you jackass?
I returned to guessing which breasts were natural and which were hand crafted while watching a Gaucho´s street perfomance rendition of the macarena. Do you tip a street perforemer even if he really sucks? And then I realized...the joys of the no tipping the waiter system. Nobody asks you how your food is every 8 mintues. Nobody asks you if there will be anything else. Nobody asks you anything. You can eat raw sausage and mentally undress shoeshiners for hours, and you own that table. Its a bit like a frontier society. Once you´ve found your table, you can homestead until you finally decide to depart. The waiter is merely killing time until his bus leaves. And the Donner family no longer needs that children´s seat. Thanks anyway.
There was still four hours until take-off. I kept seeing these armadas of red jersey wearing men crossing the Square. The commies were descending on Happy Port. Can the municipality please change the name to, “Vodka swilling Frown-Face Port?¨
I just HAD to talk to these chaps. I knew I may lose homesteading rights, but fuck it, right? The Gaucho had passed out from a lethal combination of hyperspeed macarena and moonshine. The boobs were consistently 80/20 in favor of the Lord. And the shoescrubbers were a bunch of elitist snobs. Time for new territory.
The RedMen were no Leninists. They were Fútbol fans. How could I not know? There club won the world championship last year. I’m American. I don`t follow the international results of a bunch of foot fairies. But I love live sporting events. It doesn´t matter what culture you find yourself in because the energy of a live match will surpass anything the Art Museum had to offer. Even though Ms. Mona is lookin´good these days.
I embarked on a Brazilian football pilgrimmage. My three new friends turned into around 40,000 once I arrived at the stadium. Everybody wanted a piece of the gringo. Its a universal trait of team patriots. They want you to know every fact about their loved one. How many goals she scored last year? Did you know that was a new record? And they hold the record for the most fires started in the stands during one game...they are only three fires short of the season record? People who can´t add up their grocery bill will give you statistics that a Gallup poll taker couldn´t calculate. How many votes did Bush win in Cuyahoga county?
And as the data rained down, I began to feel the love. These people were genuinely excited to introduce a new person to their cult. They practically fought over possession of the gringo. You guys familiar with homesteading? I found myself with three different groups of landholders before the game even started. Eventually, my owners planted me in the Fanatic section.
This is a specially reserved area of the stadium where certain people are actually denied admission because they appear too vulnerable. You have to pass through a barbed wire fence to gain entry, and once inside the terrordome, nobody sits. Firecrackers are thrown at the referees. Songs are sung about the various things the opponents can do with a goat and the ref´s wife. Jumping up & down as if you just won the Showcase Showdown is mandatory in five minute intervals. Excitement is everywhere. And your neighbors are your best friends. Homophobia is given a reprieve. Ass-slapping, bear hugging, cheek kissing, nut tickling.....it´s all part of the camaraderie.
Yeah, camaraderie. Fraternity. Brotherhood. Maybe Women aren´t the better race. When you are among your fellow sporting team fans, everbody is family. It doesn´t matter how fat you are, how many zits you have, what your wearing, why your toenails are painted.......you are one unit, with a common purpose. To annhilate. And that common goal keeps you bonded. Perhaps, the lack of women keeps men distraction free, and allows them to bond together. Ah-hah. Those Saudis really are wisemen. And no wonder the U.S. military won´t allow gays to serve.
What other situation does modern society offer where a criminal can sit next to a banker who is sitting next to a retarded dwarf and for two hours, those individuals love each other. Every missed goal is a shared sigh. Every bad call (aren´t they all?) is a shared moment of contempt. And Every score is a shared moment of unrivaled jubilation. This was God´s intention when it created humanity. Or the intention of those aliens L. Ron was talking about. No matter, cause the love Bob Marley was looking for can be found at Football stadiums around the world. Until the game is over. Then the thief robs the banker, and the dwarf gets stuck back in the institution cause the banker doesn´t want him living at home.
Women. 40,000 women in one place, without Oprah, means the shopping mall is having FREE DAY, or Brad Pitt is doing Boob Signings. A woman´s capacity to love another is unrivaled. But you put three or more women in a group setting and the word, ¨Bitch¨ proves its definition. Did you see what she was wearing? I can´t believe the fat one would actually say that? Well, your with me or with her, cause you can´t be friends with both of us. If she thinks he´s going to like her over me, she´s stupider then she looks. Who let those two cows off the farm? Listen Bitch, would you shut the fuck up so we can hear what Brad has to say.
C´mon, pay attention, there´s a game going on. Well..ok. There was one thing that really intrigued me. One of the chants was freakishly similar to the Nazi Hand Jive. The fans repeatedly did the Adolf salute while singing something about whores and kristalnacht. Earlier in the evening I had learned, via a trivia dispensing local, that the Happy Port had the highest concentration of German descendants in Brazil, with the majority arriving between the early 1940´s and the mid 1950`s. Utilizing a complex strain of deductive reasoning, I decided that I would refrain from any discussions of, So, what religion are you?¨....Hans, Dieter, Paulo, We have us a Jew boy here.....Ok, ok, we´ll wait until AFTER the game.
The advantage of attending a live sporting event when you are poorly versed in the local idiom is that you don`t need to talk for three hours. Just keep shouting. My shout was arrGGHHHHHImaManEater. Then follow your indecipherable shouts with smiles and the ´thumbs up´ sign, a Brazilian favorite. And your safe. But at one point during the Foot Fairy War of Happy Port, one of my co-shouters pointed to a fan of the opposite team and said something in Portuguese with the word ´GAY´ in it. He then repeated it, in case I wasn´t familiar with the Portuguse word, GAY. The poor Homosexual community has seen its happy lisping wrist limping (read that twice please) keyword hijacked by foreigners to signify ¨all things stupid or dorkish.¨ Are Miriam and Daniel Webster aware of this?
By the second half, the thrill of brotherly love had worn off, and I just wanted to see a FRIGGIN` goal, already. An hour of men running in circles around the field produced a symphony of sighs and yelps, but no actual scoring. Maybe this is why Americans frown on the ancient sport of footieball. We want action. And we want it now. Slam dunkin´ touchdown dancin´ grand slam touchés. Watching a soccer match is like being cockteased by that girl from highschool. What´s hername. You get a stroke. A little feel. Some nibbles. A lot of rubbin´and kissin´. But after an hour being locked in the closet in John O´ Callaghan´s basement, your ready to shoot. A minimum of three scores to please the fans. But no. Not even a shootout. Your granted a tie. But in your reality, your a LOSER. The best you can hope for is to return home, to your own bedroom, and pray you can find a televised performance of what you just experienced. But with a lot more scoring.
First of all, these guys were playing for Sports Club International. But what´s your name, your mascot, who are you guys? Sports Club International. What kind of unoriginal name is that? The marketing geniuses of America would have branded you something creative like the Hawks, or the Penguins. Or something more local, like the Gauchos or the Thongs.
Perhaps, the real problem lies in soccer´s near-diplomacy manner of playing. Here, you take it. Ok. Good. Now, I take it. Oh, you want it back now. You want it, you want it. Too bad. Ah. Ok, fine, you can have it. Repeat that on-field mantra for nearly two hours, and that`s soccer. Or, maybe it´s more analogous to a modern day RippedAloudOne Van Winkle. After twenty years of a peaceful coma nap, getting his back shaved by Mom every week, he wakes up. He wants to know the score of the Israel-Palestinian Game. His Mom informs him that it´s still tied up, but Palestine has got the ball.
We don`t like diplomacy in America. Not since Mexico stole back Cancùn in the ClubMed War of 1874. We take charge. And we don´t stop to take names. Witness the war-like strategy of a football game. The potential for explosion with every play. Bombs. Sacks. Blitzes. Rushes. The entourage of middle age white men scrutizing every maneuver. The modern day man warriors of the Colisseum. They score points by evading pillaging Man-Giants. In a matter of seconds, a player has leaped 10 feet into the air, caught a ball that he then harnessed for seventy yards while salivating beasts attempted to decapitate him. Upon scoring, he stops to thank the Lord, reminding the World, that we may play harsh. We may kill a few of your children to get our touchdown. But in the end, we are only doing the work of God. And of course, we have the cheerleaders. Cause every man needs a woman to show him her pompoms.
Or basketball. Sports on Crack. That`s why Wilt set the world record for assbanging. The living epitomé of basketball. He could not stop scoring. Jumpshots. Three-pointers. Driving the Lane. Breakaways. Dunks and more Dunks. Imagine waiting 30 minutes to see a ball go through the net. No diplomacy in basketball. You bombed me. Fine, I´m coming right back and droppin´ one on you. This continues until armageddon overcomes the weaker nation. Now, that`s fun.
Baseball gets complaints for being a bit boring. And, well, it can be pretty goddamn boring. But at least your patience pays off. Like George the First waiting for junior to resume the throne. Eventually, you too get to see the statue fall. Strikeout. Walk. Maybe a single. Another single. But then somebody hits a triple, and it´s friggin´ chaos, honey. Men roundin´bases. The fatman on the plate gets bulldozed. And you got a score. And then, yes, maybe, another guys gets up there and rams the ball 435 feet (137.498 meters) out of the stadium. A kicked ball into a net will never compare.
Hockey could be the least scoring game we have, professionally. But, to be honest, it belongs to that U.S. protectorate up North. What´s their name? And to those Viking socialists across the Atlantic. So what do we, the Land of the Home and the Bravado do when you give us a sport. We tell you we want more scoring. You say it ain´t so. Fine. We decide we´re going to start smashing teeth. Cause that´s how we do things around here. We managed to turn hockey into Boxing on Ice. The U.N. may fine us. It may try to place some kind of short lived embargo on us. Maybe give us a stern public warning about the way we play. But in three minutes, we´re out. And we´re hunting for blood. Maybe we can´t penetrate your closed circuit economy. But we`ll rough up your suppliers until you let us in. That´s how we play.
Bowling is an embarrassment to both me, and the entire nation. We will accept your sanctions.
Maybe American soccer can eliminate the goalie. Bring in some thugs. Give bonus points for longer goals. And have NativeAmerican dressed gymnasts immolate themselves during halftime. It will be great, Bill. We´ll get the boys at Viagara to sponsor our stadium. Luxury skyboxes in the whole place. Leather couches, karaoke machines, and big screen televisions. We´ll parachute in some zebras to kick-off the game. Maybe have a black man dressed in Zulu stuff hack one up. You know, just for fun. The fans will have remote controls so they can vote. Every 10 minutes the player with the most votes of disappointment will be craned off the field and put into a cage where kids can throw balls to sink him into a tub of piranha filled water. We´ll check with Deb over at Eco control if the Feds will be ok with that one. This is it. Franchises. Merchandise. Little kids using our patented exploding soccer balls. America is going soccer. Big Time.
But despite its sleep inducing appeal, maybe FootballSoccer serves a greater purpose. Like Christ. He wasn´t just some long haired skinny guy from two millenia ago. Soccer unites the world, outside of America, as usual. The poorest of kids can make a ball, and find a piece of land to run around in circles on. And when a nation plays, especially the revolting ones, the guns are put down. Stores and Offices close. The streets are empty. Families, Friends, and strangers gather in front of televisions and radios. For two hours, there is Unity. There is Hope. There is Peace. Maybe the principle behind humanism is to simply follow the example of solidarity shown by sports fans. A loving brotherhood that no other spectacle has been able to acheive without force or degradation. Us Yanks may need a little Vegas on YOUR football, but I think we get the idea. If not, we´ll ask those Cub fans. Anybody still happy after 85 years of losing must be turned on to some kind of global secret for happiness.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Prevention is the Best Kind of Medicine
The cathartic beats of the pandeiro. The sensual strumming of the cavaco. And the constant rhythm blasts of the surdo. Samba. The heartbeat of Rio de Janeiro. Music so infectious that quadriplegics failed by the healing hand of God´s anointed child, The honorable Reverend Benny Hinn, have found themselves pulled from their two wheeled wrecking machines during a Samba spell. It´s magical music promises to awaken the latent rhythm from within the uncoordinated confines of the whitest of honkies. I felt the Power.
Meeting people in a dance environment has always been preferable to meeting people at the office. First, there are many people who don´t have an office. Including, a very attractive, pregnant homeless woman who would like me to give her money for another drink. Second, if people are moving..swaying...shaking that arse as Shakespeare famously noted…then one need not worry about inappropriate introduction lines. Nice shoes, wanna fuck? Or be fluent in the local syntax. As was my deficiency. One of many. A smile and a wiggle. And keep wigglin´. You got it. Uh..oh. Look out. Here he comes. Yeah, that OTHER guy. Don´t be fooled by the passive grin and back pat you receive. He´s not asking her what time it is. What is he still talking about? Yoo-hoo, remember me? He won´t leave. And if you interrupt, to continue dancing or chatting, your new third wheel will simply return like a horsefly on crystal meth. He will remain by my side the entire evening, until I decide I wanted a divorce anyway. I/You/We have been COCKBLOCKED. Known in Portuguese tounged Brasil as ÇÖÇBLÔÇO.
For our reading, a Cockblocker is defined as any person (scientists have still not determined if animals are cockblocking creatures) who prevents a cock from entering another person´s cock receptacle. A cockblocker may be a man OR a woman. Equally, a cockblockee may be man or woman (since most lesbians, except you kinky Lipstickers, are presumed to hold cocks). Other known definitions which are to be dismissed from this conversation, include a fledgling Russian homosexual political party, any neighborhood street which has banned female residence, a chopping board for live fowl, and a lacquered piece of mahogany where an adult male receives a phallic flambé.
Currently, the Brazilians are the reigning World champions of Cockblocking, which they have held since stripping France of the title in the Great CockBlock SploogeOut of ´98. Any male, regardless of status or stature, is guaranteed to experience the pride of Brasilian Conversation Interruption. Only those engaged in public coital discourse are exempt, and even then, the Brazilian man will patiently wait for the dismounting man to wash himself. Then he will attack.
As you read, Brazilian men are intruding on unsuspecting men and their coveting desires throughout the nation. A young man in Sao Paulo just lost the opportunity to finally make out with a woman he spent the entire evening talking to. A recently retired single male in Salvador went to buy two caipirinhas. Upon returning to his date, he finds two men (sometimes they work in pairs) refusing to allow entry to his former partner. A rehabilitated cockblocker in Rio is furious as an intrusive guy spends hours describing his tattoos (do you know what this Chinese inscription really stands for?) to the blocked´s fiancé. The Vice-President of Sales for a local shoe manufacturer is choking tears as his boyfriend of 8 months has been intercepted by a smooth talking mezclado who continues to find amusing anecdotes that prevent the V.P. from returning to his lover. Its Yellow Fever all over again. The land of Thong & Honey is experiencing an epidemic that officials are unable to control. What can be done to tame an untamable population?
Before discussing the present, we must review history, a lesson the U.S. government still has not learned.
Hieroglyphics found in Luxor, Egypt dispute the myth of the alleged Evil villain, Set, by depicting his brother Osiris as constantly interfering with his encounters with females. It is after one particular drawing with the Goddess Isis that we fail to see Osiris appear in future pictures. Egyptologists have always claimed that Set committed an act of Disgrace by murdering his brother. The theory of cockblocking now disputes this long held belief.
Sacred classified Vatican texts allegedly claim that Matthew had a life long crush on Mark, but the constant cockblocking of Luke made any attempt at true kindling an impossibility.
As the Romans brought a hedonistic spirit to a formerly untoga-ed world, it also unwillingly brought the first great epidemic of Cockblocking. Thousands of Sicilians discovered a natural ability to hijack impending relationships. Nero is said to have been quite the skilled Cockblocker.
Russia´s Catherine the Great is rumored to be history´s first documented Female Cockblocker. Her talents became so legendary that she would throw parties at her palace in Saint Petersburg just to see how many prospective couples she could CockBlock in one evening. If the Blockee´s protested she had them hung, and drank banana milkshakes with the fetid juice of their captured testicles. She later credited this potion to her miraculous ability to levitate after downing a barrel of Popov Vodka.
In mid-19th century London, during the reign of Victorianism, a group of East End derilects devised their own dialect to amuse the escorts of those upper crust Hyde Park wankers. When the woman seemed to tire of the unbeknownst language, another ruffian would enter the fray and begin conversing with Lady of the Hour. Eventually, an entire group of these men would be charming the woman in the most unusual of idioms. The original date, that wanker, was never able to regain his mate. And the language went on to be known as cockney.
Early 20th century North America saw rival cockblockers appear for the first time. Italians were cockblocking the Irish. The Irish started cockblocking the Jews. The Jews were too timid to cockblock anybody, so they started wagering at social gatherings on who could out-cockblock the longest, the quickest, and the most numerous. Soon these cockblocking mobs organized their efforts to form entire blocks of united cockblockers. Blockin´Da Cock,as the New Yorkers called it, became a viscious battle for neighborhood control that would later be documented in West Side Story(although certain nationalities were changed due to the Producers´own affiliation).
World War II saw the affective use of cockblocking prolong the war. In the Spring of 1942, Winston Churchill was meeting with a female German spy, disguised as a flower vendor in Kensington Station. A neighborhing flower vendor, perturbed that the Main Man was not showing her attention, immediately came between the two parties and began discussing her lament in the low quantity of flowers men are bringing home these days. A new biography of Sir Churchill indicates that the spy in question was actually an emissary sent by Adolf the Rednose Reicheer to negotiate a possible armistice. Furious that her historical significance was obliterated by a nosy cockblocker, the spy recommended that Rednose increase his aerial assualts. Two days later, London was bombed.
Meanwhile, the machista bloodlines of South America had been growing over the centuries. An ancestory that includes Western Europe´s most prolific rapers was guaranteed to spawn a lineage of disrespectful domineering faux sensual males. Mixing European decietfulness with African brute strength and the indigenous population´s captivating beauty produced the lethal mix required for Global Cockblocking Domination. Utilizing their unique accent, and superior dancing skills,the Brazilian Men overtook their Spanish speaking neighbors as the greatest race of CockBlockers the World has ever seen. Or, at least that I have ever seen.
Why aren´t are kids learning the dangers of cockblocking? And shouldn´t parents be taught the warning signs? Where are the Public Service announcements, This is Your Child...This is your Child, Cockblocking. When will people start chanting the Just Say No mantra of the new millenium, STOP THE BLOCK. Are psychiatrists finally deciding to classify it as a mental illness, just as they launched the careers of mental retardation, depression, sleep apnea, and erectile dysfunction?
Preliminary reports from the American Psychiatry Society, who are a breakaway group from the American Psychiatric Association (apparently something to due with a discrepancy over Penis Envy, which the current President claims she never had, citing her lifelong penis deficient female lover as incontrovertible proof) have already started to classify the various subgroups of Cockblockers;
Incidentals: This individual is prone to interrupt entangled discussion by chance, and would really back away if he/she knew what they were doing. Person not in need of medication, but could use a strong hint, including, but not limited to, Excuse Me or the more direct Back Off, Geek, that´s who I´M trying to bone.
Beneficiary: This individual may be either male or female, and demonstrates a prolific awareness of a negative future that may arise between the soon to be, cockblockee and the receptacle. Their intention is consistently well-meaning despite the lack of recognition and/or hatred from the one who received the cockblock.
Jealous: This individual has feelings of hurt, most likely expressed as jealousy, toward one of either party involved in the conversation. The offending individual is likely to be aggresive in the manuevering, and may even resort to forceable wrist holding if person encountered tries to exit the encounter. Medication recommended.
Latent Homosexual: This individual is generally a man, and is expressing feelings of dismay, that his Crush may actually be a heterosexual. A particulary dangerous cockblocker as he may elect to block either one of the conversing party. Some Latents have such deep seated desire to further their fantasy, that stalking may follow. Institutionalization may be necessary. Do not ever Urinate in front of the offender, or offer to Suck him off.
Chronic: This individual may or may not be conscious of his/her interfering. They harbor an unquenchable desire to dominate. And once they have conquered, they must find another unsuspecting party to interrupt. They generally first approach the person who will become known as the Blockee. They manipulate this individual by discussing generic matters. After gaining the confidence of the soon to be dejected, the Chronic CockBlocker will slowly initiate conversation with his attempted prey. He will knowingly outmaueuver the blocked party with a constant flow of questions and short stories. If asked to leave, the Blocker will only change his demeanor to make the Blocked appear rude and selfish. Medication is mandatory but unproven. Castration or Death may be only options.
Some advocates have recommended that perpetrators be required to adorn some sort of visible marking that will make the public aware that a cockblocker is within sight.
Initially, offenders were asked to ejaculate into a government monitored tube before leaving the home and/or office. Due to objections over the inefficiency of the system, and certain extreme left wing complaints of ¨cruelty¨, the program was halted.
Currently, two systems are being debated. One would mimick the success of the Lance Armstrong Bracelet by allowing the violators to appear as a part of the citizenry.
The maroon band would be mandatory upon conviction and the offending cockblocker would pay a one-time issuance fee of $200 which would be utilized to fund further research into the relatively unstudied and tragic disease of CockBlocking. The bracelets would be branded with: BLOCK COCK
Another proposal would have only chronic cockblockers be outfitted with a small blinking light that they would be required to wear on the outside of their shirt.
The LED light would safely allow any person fearful of receiving a cockblock to change location until the blinking light is no longer in sight. Further uses have been suggested for this groundbreaking device:
Women who were seeking a one night stand, or an extremely short, but passionate relationship would be obliged to wear such lights. This method has proven to protect many women from unwanted advances, while guaranteeing that horny females can no longer complain about not finding a lover, and men...well...they simply increase their odds.
Straight men who are brought to Gay Clubs with their fag hag girlfriends, or even with their non-straight friends, would be able to purchase the light in an effort to prevent unwanted ass-grabbing. Inevitably, a gay patron would mention to the straight man that his special little light looks Sooo gay.
Economists are excited about the possibility for new job creation, especially crucial during an upcoming election year. Certain economists are crediting the new disease classification on par, if not greater, then the Psychiatry Board´s approval of Erectile Dysfunction several years ago. Tens, perhaps hundreds, of internet solicitation jobs were created. And a few ladies even won highly sought-after acting roles in which they portrayed smiling women rolling happily in a field of flowers.
And the trickle down affect of Cockblocking is considered far greater economically. Cockblockers will be able to purchase cockblocking signal jammers, while potential cockblocking victims will be able to turn vibrating cellphones into cockblocking signal scanners, therefore allowing them better concentration on their nightly subject. Skilled technnicians will be needed to repair the slew of new technology promised to flood the market. Wall Street can barely contain itself.
So, if you or a loved one is guilty of CockBlocking, then keep your thoughts to yourself, and find your own conversation, you fuckin´ slimy cockblocker. And, If you want to witness the greatest Cockblockers on Earth, head to Brazil soon because after the Reformation, the great cockblockers of today may be the gentleman of tomorrow.
Meeting people in a dance environment has always been preferable to meeting people at the office. First, there are many people who don´t have an office. Including, a very attractive, pregnant homeless woman who would like me to give her money for another drink. Second, if people are moving..swaying...shaking that arse as Shakespeare famously noted…then one need not worry about inappropriate introduction lines. Nice shoes, wanna fuck? Or be fluent in the local syntax. As was my deficiency. One of many. A smile and a wiggle. And keep wigglin´. You got it. Uh..oh. Look out. Here he comes. Yeah, that OTHER guy. Don´t be fooled by the passive grin and back pat you receive. He´s not asking her what time it is. What is he still talking about? Yoo-hoo, remember me? He won´t leave. And if you interrupt, to continue dancing or chatting, your new third wheel will simply return like a horsefly on crystal meth. He will remain by my side the entire evening, until I decide I wanted a divorce anyway. I/You/We have been COCKBLOCKED. Known in Portuguese tounged Brasil as ÇÖÇBLÔÇO.
For our reading, a Cockblocker is defined as any person (scientists have still not determined if animals are cockblocking creatures) who prevents a cock from entering another person´s cock receptacle. A cockblocker may be a man OR a woman. Equally, a cockblockee may be man or woman (since most lesbians, except you kinky Lipstickers, are presumed to hold cocks). Other known definitions which are to be dismissed from this conversation, include a fledgling Russian homosexual political party, any neighborhood street which has banned female residence, a chopping board for live fowl, and a lacquered piece of mahogany where an adult male receives a phallic flambé.
Currently, the Brazilians are the reigning World champions of Cockblocking, which they have held since stripping France of the title in the Great CockBlock SploogeOut of ´98. Any male, regardless of status or stature, is guaranteed to experience the pride of Brasilian Conversation Interruption. Only those engaged in public coital discourse are exempt, and even then, the Brazilian man will patiently wait for the dismounting man to wash himself. Then he will attack.
As you read, Brazilian men are intruding on unsuspecting men and their coveting desires throughout the nation. A young man in Sao Paulo just lost the opportunity to finally make out with a woman he spent the entire evening talking to. A recently retired single male in Salvador went to buy two caipirinhas. Upon returning to his date, he finds two men (sometimes they work in pairs) refusing to allow entry to his former partner. A rehabilitated cockblocker in Rio is furious as an intrusive guy spends hours describing his tattoos (do you know what this Chinese inscription really stands for?) to the blocked´s fiancé. The Vice-President of Sales for a local shoe manufacturer is choking tears as his boyfriend of 8 months has been intercepted by a smooth talking mezclado who continues to find amusing anecdotes that prevent the V.P. from returning to his lover. Its Yellow Fever all over again. The land of Thong & Honey is experiencing an epidemic that officials are unable to control. What can be done to tame an untamable population?
Before discussing the present, we must review history, a lesson the U.S. government still has not learned.
Hieroglyphics found in Luxor, Egypt dispute the myth of the alleged Evil villain, Set, by depicting his brother Osiris as constantly interfering with his encounters with females. It is after one particular drawing with the Goddess Isis that we fail to see Osiris appear in future pictures. Egyptologists have always claimed that Set committed an act of Disgrace by murdering his brother. The theory of cockblocking now disputes this long held belief.
Sacred classified Vatican texts allegedly claim that Matthew had a life long crush on Mark, but the constant cockblocking of Luke made any attempt at true kindling an impossibility.
As the Romans brought a hedonistic spirit to a formerly untoga-ed world, it also unwillingly brought the first great epidemic of Cockblocking. Thousands of Sicilians discovered a natural ability to hijack impending relationships. Nero is said to have been quite the skilled Cockblocker.
Russia´s Catherine the Great is rumored to be history´s first documented Female Cockblocker. Her talents became so legendary that she would throw parties at her palace in Saint Petersburg just to see how many prospective couples she could CockBlock in one evening. If the Blockee´s protested she had them hung, and drank banana milkshakes with the fetid juice of their captured testicles. She later credited this potion to her miraculous ability to levitate after downing a barrel of Popov Vodka.
In mid-19th century London, during the reign of Victorianism, a group of East End derilects devised their own dialect to amuse the escorts of those upper crust Hyde Park wankers. When the woman seemed to tire of the unbeknownst language, another ruffian would enter the fray and begin conversing with Lady of the Hour. Eventually, an entire group of these men would be charming the woman in the most unusual of idioms. The original date, that wanker, was never able to regain his mate. And the language went on to be known as cockney.
Early 20th century North America saw rival cockblockers appear for the first time. Italians were cockblocking the Irish. The Irish started cockblocking the Jews. The Jews were too timid to cockblock anybody, so they started wagering at social gatherings on who could out-cockblock the longest, the quickest, and the most numerous. Soon these cockblocking mobs organized their efforts to form entire blocks of united cockblockers. Blockin´Da Cock,as the New Yorkers called it, became a viscious battle for neighborhood control that would later be documented in West Side Story(although certain nationalities were changed due to the Producers´own affiliation).
World War II saw the affective use of cockblocking prolong the war. In the Spring of 1942, Winston Churchill was meeting with a female German spy, disguised as a flower vendor in Kensington Station. A neighborhing flower vendor, perturbed that the Main Man was not showing her attention, immediately came between the two parties and began discussing her lament in the low quantity of flowers men are bringing home these days. A new biography of Sir Churchill indicates that the spy in question was actually an emissary sent by Adolf the Rednose Reicheer to negotiate a possible armistice. Furious that her historical significance was obliterated by a nosy cockblocker, the spy recommended that Rednose increase his aerial assualts. Two days later, London was bombed.
Meanwhile, the machista bloodlines of South America had been growing over the centuries. An ancestory that includes Western Europe´s most prolific rapers was guaranteed to spawn a lineage of disrespectful domineering faux sensual males. Mixing European decietfulness with African brute strength and the indigenous population´s captivating beauty produced the lethal mix required for Global Cockblocking Domination. Utilizing their unique accent, and superior dancing skills,the Brazilian Men overtook their Spanish speaking neighbors as the greatest race of CockBlockers the World has ever seen. Or, at least that I have ever seen.
Why aren´t are kids learning the dangers of cockblocking? And shouldn´t parents be taught the warning signs? Where are the Public Service announcements, This is Your Child...This is your Child, Cockblocking. When will people start chanting the Just Say No mantra of the new millenium, STOP THE BLOCK. Are psychiatrists finally deciding to classify it as a mental illness, just as they launched the careers of mental retardation, depression, sleep apnea, and erectile dysfunction?
Preliminary reports from the American Psychiatry Society, who are a breakaway group from the American Psychiatric Association (apparently something to due with a discrepancy over Penis Envy, which the current President claims she never had, citing her lifelong penis deficient female lover as incontrovertible proof) have already started to classify the various subgroups of Cockblockers;
Incidentals: This individual is prone to interrupt entangled discussion by chance, and would really back away if he/she knew what they were doing. Person not in need of medication, but could use a strong hint, including, but not limited to, Excuse Me or the more direct Back Off, Geek, that´s who I´M trying to bone.
Beneficiary: This individual may be either male or female, and demonstrates a prolific awareness of a negative future that may arise between the soon to be, cockblockee and the receptacle. Their intention is consistently well-meaning despite the lack of recognition and/or hatred from the one who received the cockblock.
Jealous: This individual has feelings of hurt, most likely expressed as jealousy, toward one of either party involved in the conversation. The offending individual is likely to be aggresive in the manuevering, and may even resort to forceable wrist holding if person encountered tries to exit the encounter. Medication recommended.
Latent Homosexual: This individual is generally a man, and is expressing feelings of dismay, that his Crush may actually be a heterosexual. A particulary dangerous cockblocker as he may elect to block either one of the conversing party. Some Latents have such deep seated desire to further their fantasy, that stalking may follow. Institutionalization may be necessary. Do not ever Urinate in front of the offender, or offer to Suck him off.
Chronic: This individual may or may not be conscious of his/her interfering. They harbor an unquenchable desire to dominate. And once they have conquered, they must find another unsuspecting party to interrupt. They generally first approach the person who will become known as the Blockee. They manipulate this individual by discussing generic matters. After gaining the confidence of the soon to be dejected, the Chronic CockBlocker will slowly initiate conversation with his attempted prey. He will knowingly outmaueuver the blocked party with a constant flow of questions and short stories. If asked to leave, the Blocker will only change his demeanor to make the Blocked appear rude and selfish. Medication is mandatory but unproven. Castration or Death may be only options.
Some advocates have recommended that perpetrators be required to adorn some sort of visible marking that will make the public aware that a cockblocker is within sight.
Initially, offenders were asked to ejaculate into a government monitored tube before leaving the home and/or office. Due to objections over the inefficiency of the system, and certain extreme left wing complaints of ¨cruelty¨, the program was halted.
Currently, two systems are being debated. One would mimick the success of the Lance Armstrong Bracelet by allowing the violators to appear as a part of the citizenry.
The maroon band would be mandatory upon conviction and the offending cockblocker would pay a one-time issuance fee of $200 which would be utilized to fund further research into the relatively unstudied and tragic disease of CockBlocking. The bracelets would be branded with: BLOCK COCK
Another proposal would have only chronic cockblockers be outfitted with a small blinking light that they would be required to wear on the outside of their shirt.
The LED light would safely allow any person fearful of receiving a cockblock to change location until the blinking light is no longer in sight. Further uses have been suggested for this groundbreaking device:
Women who were seeking a one night stand, or an extremely short, but passionate relationship would be obliged to wear such lights. This method has proven to protect many women from unwanted advances, while guaranteeing that horny females can no longer complain about not finding a lover, and men...well...they simply increase their odds.
Straight men who are brought to Gay Clubs with their fag hag girlfriends, or even with their non-straight friends, would be able to purchase the light in an effort to prevent unwanted ass-grabbing. Inevitably, a gay patron would mention to the straight man that his special little light looks Sooo gay.
Economists are excited about the possibility for new job creation, especially crucial during an upcoming election year. Certain economists are crediting the new disease classification on par, if not greater, then the Psychiatry Board´s approval of Erectile Dysfunction several years ago. Tens, perhaps hundreds, of internet solicitation jobs were created. And a few ladies even won highly sought-after acting roles in which they portrayed smiling women rolling happily in a field of flowers.
And the trickle down affect of Cockblocking is considered far greater economically. Cockblockers will be able to purchase cockblocking signal jammers, while potential cockblocking victims will be able to turn vibrating cellphones into cockblocking signal scanners, therefore allowing them better concentration on their nightly subject. Skilled technnicians will be needed to repair the slew of new technology promised to flood the market. Wall Street can barely contain itself.
So, if you or a loved one is guilty of CockBlocking, then keep your thoughts to yourself, and find your own conversation, you fuckin´ slimy cockblocker. And, If you want to witness the greatest Cockblockers on Earth, head to Brazil soon because after the Reformation, the great cockblockers of today may be the gentleman of tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
When in Rome, what Do YOU do?
The people of Paradise are revolting. Paradise, Brasil….not Paradise, Mujahedeenistan. You would have a tough time finding a virgin over the age of 12 here. And most women are Grannies by the age of 40, the year most Cosmopolitan ladies are starting their hunt for a sperm donor…and won´t that anonymous, cash strapped, progeny oblivious spanker be proud that his Playmate fantasy by-product will leave the legs of PalmPilot Punani and spend the next several years learning the names of the smorgasbord of female immigrants that will rotate through her home while occasionally remembering that her Mother actually has the same color skin. But let us return to paradise cause Consuela has to take the baby to Yoga practice.
I only landed in Paradise by chance, which is always how Paradise need be found…just ask Gilligan. Some general guidelines in locating your own personal Eden: Find a city on a map that is barely legible, on the coast, has no paved roads or airport (use the legend, not of the pillaging Jew with Horns but the other definition), and most importantly…it is not mentioned in a guidebook. When chancing upon a beautiful sounding locale in a tourist publication that begins with ¨You will just adore this hidden little paradise with cute little boutiques and a well-hung African man known to many as BoBo¨ then you better realize that your not the first person to discover the island of Jamaica. Paradise never allows its name to be published, until Donald Trump´s sister-in-law discovers it. Then you will be able to get a lovely ocean view condo starting in just the low 7 millions.
But Paradise always has a native population. And they don’t exactly like outsiders. Just ask the Israelis. My guide to Paradise´s backdoor was François, an incredibly sweet, well-meaning woman who escaped the repressive regime of Belgium. If your fatherland only made three products, but three of the finest quality products in the world, three things that every human should require to survive merrily….Beer, Chocolate, French Fries…..would you really want to leave? Perhaps it was complete shame of the constant reminder that Jean Claude Van Damme was her paisano. Belgium…Belgium…wait, yes…I know a Belgian, Van Damme…God damn, Jean Claude is from your country. You rock. And I sympathize. Your from New Jersey…New Jersey…Oh yeah baby, Bon Jovi is from Jersey. You know Bonjon. He friggin´ rocks. But c´mon ya disgruntled Belgies, Arnold Schwarzenegger (who knows how to spell that thing?) is the ruler of America´s largest Colony, and people are STILL moving there in droves.
François not only adored the orgasmic coma inducing scenery, but also the small native population that occupied the hamlet. They were your typical inhabitants of a naturally rich, governmentally poor locale. The men fished for what they needed to eat. The kids swam naked all day in the calm turquoise waters, until they got impregnated. The mothers gathered by the river to wash clothes together and gossip about Bobo´s latest conquest. They were without formal education, basic health necessities, or a local government. Which means, they were basically happy.
But François saw things differently. The lack of clean fresh water and sanitary bathrooms were a serious health detriment. The absence of electricity meant that fisherman couldn’t preserve their catches for market days, and that women were suffering without the famed Brasilian telenovelas. And could you disagree with Françy? The availability of the these things would mean longer, healthier lives. So the Belgian Bon-Bon bought one of the only available homes and starting kicking ass, Van DamYou style.
She organized the locals, protested daily to the government, and fundraised from her fellow chocolatiers. And within two years, the small forgotten Paradise had a fresh water well, running water to every household, electricity, a cultural center, a library, and a small clinic. All of these aids to finer living were the direct result of foreign intervention. The Brasilian government never tried to help. The Brasilian people never tried to help. Only one woman yielding a large Freedom Fry.
And now the mutiny is beginning. Town leaders, who have only recently emerged, have convinced the locals that a Foreigner is trying to take over their land, their customs. A certain government official, masquerading as an environmentalist is grooming leaders so that they can both reap the financial rewards of government funding in the form of Park Reserve status. Instead of being a saviour, and she didn’t ask to be anointed, Françy has become the reason for every imaginable problem. Your kid is studying rather then fishing, blame François. You can´t take a dump in the woods like the ole days, blame François. In this tropical haven, where Ms. Belgica once found tranquility, she now finds a threat to her very existence.
Is this scene any different then Iraq? Conspiracy theories abound from America´s glutton desire to obtain more oil to a jaded Richard Cheney who wanted revenge after his coital advances were rejected by both Tariq Aziz and Ussay Hussein, who reportedly gave the best head on this side of the Euphrates, that side of the Tigris. Despite the bullshit lies of Mass Destructing Weapons, why it so hard to believe that U.S. wanted a more democratic, less terrorist friendly Iraq. Was Maddass Hussein not a threat to the whole Middle East? Was an economic powerhouse, free society Iraq not an inspiration for other neighboring countries to overthrow repressive governments (except Saudi Arabia, our good friend and marketer of fine women´s fashion….did you check out that new Mohammed Armani Full-length Black robe for Fall with the really cute shear lace full face black ninja mask)?
The United States, like Belgium in Paradise, is guilty of one thing --- Not understanding the local culture. Further, these well intentioned interlopers are really guilty of not understanding the human condition within societies. Basically, people don´t like strangers telling them what to do. You want to tell your brother he´s a fat bastard and he better lose weight if he wants to get laid before he turns 50, then go ahead. But if a stranger tells your brother that in a restaurant, you´ll kick his/her ass. If you’re a black person in America and decide to critique your community, people will listen. They may not act, but they won´t try to lynch you. If you’re a white folk who moves into a black neighborhood, and tries to change the lifestyle, you’re a stupid honky bastard who should stick to your own kind. If you’re a government that helps a nation with financial aid, they will stop looking for solutions and keep their hand out asking for more. And when you cease the grants, or start charging interest, you’re the enemy. You can tolerate your co-workers, but everyone unites in acrimony against the Boss.
So what happened before part of the world developed a humanist conscience (or a guilt complex, afterall how do you think Western countries got to be wealthy in the first place)? Before the formation of nation-states? The people blamed GOD. The greatest single marketing phenomenon of All-time. That´s right Mattel. Fuck you. Cause Barbie is still a distant second. Got no water. Blame GOD. Your kid died mysteriously. Its GOD´s way. An unknown person set your house on fire. It was GOD´s method of saying we need a house, honey. G-d doesn´t have national borders. god doesn´t have two 110 story office buildings jutting out the center of his cranium. God doesn´t have a doorbell, and its not because it can´t figure out The Home Depot Do-IT Yourself DoorBell Fixing HandBook.
Ok. Ok. Many people are foaming at the mouth asking how many wars have been fought in the name of God. 14, 320….14,321…wait, another just started in northwestern Mozambique. A lot. But that is only because there are competing Gods. My God is better then your God, kind of Gods. I am leading a journey that will take our planet back to a system of one God, indivisibly championing justice & tragedy for all.
Before the presentation of a revolutionary, world changing program, let the screen jump back to Paradise. We want to find out how to maintain happiness and peace. Clearly, people are less prone to fight when there is no outside party to blame, and the population all credits the same God for their fortunes, their misery. The other facet impeding joy, learned in Eve´s Garden, was education. Many esteemed people will preach incessantly about the values of an education. Defined as the learning of reading, writing, mathematics, and science. And maybe Home Economics, if the School Board didn’t cut it. What a strange name…was the intention to teach people how to have a Bake Sale?
Here´s what I witnessed in the changing climate of Paradise. A few adults had decided to study. And a couple of teenagers. Since most locals stop studying at 11 years old, this concept was rather unique. So instead of kicking a football on the beach, or splashing in the water, or dry-humping a chicken, these select few were questioning life? Trying to answer questions that only God could answer. And in the process, were making themselves miserable. Take the group of young girls doing arts & crafts, giggling throughout the entire process. The one, slightly older girl, who began to educate herself in the ways of Plato was the only person who DID NOT appear happy. She actually had an appearance of disdain on her face. Clay figures, that is so dull. Doesn´t anybody know what Goethe said about clay figures? There was the restaurant shack owner who started an adult higher learning program. Every night who would appear in a button down shirt, and a serious demeanor, eager to show me his notebook on quadratic equations. Meanwhile, his other co-workers pranced around shirtless laughing at anything their other friends would say.
Don´t you see, Sir? Paradise is an incubator for some of life´s greatest riddles. You have a small homogenous population untouched by modern society until very recently. So the affects of all introduced concepts can be measured. I would really like to find out if that Six in One kitchen knife really makes life easier. And at the heart of this incubation machine, are the principal tenets of humanity---Happiness and Peace.
Tonight, in front of the Board, I will present a program to bring these two coveted gems to every human possible. Before I begin, I want to mention that I have been forced to remove my initial plan due to certain legal constraints. Following in the esteemed footsteps of PolPot, mass genocide of the intelligentsia seemed appropriate. Intellect is dampening happiness, and spreading like the children of Wilt Chamberlain. You don´t believe me…well, look at those people screaming at the Football match, the audience laughing at Sinbad or the Sunday Comics, the addicts of Reality television, the supporters of Keanu Reaves, the members of the KKK. These people don´t have advanced degrees. They don´t know theory from Thor. They are just looking for the little things. And they always seem to be having a good time. But the academics…..have you seen these people? They would rather spend their time figuring out the three thousand two hundred and eighty third position behind the decimal point in PI. They choose reading Descartes rather then enjoying the Reggaeton at their neighborhood street festival. They wear black turtlenecks in summer and think that spilled paint on canvas represents man´s struggle against the forces of nature.
Hey Englebert, I´m going to grab a burger, and then go have some cold one´s with the boys down at Freddy´s. You comin´?
James. Friend. Brother. If all my Tchaikovsky was unceremoniously engulfed by flames, and the only man left to keep me company was that classical fraud, Philip Glass, I still would not accompany you and your ignoramuses on your adventure in imbecility.
Bro. Take it easy. Get out of the house for once, and come get loaded with the gang.
Thank for your gracious invitation, but no Thank You. I have better things to do with my life. For instance, this re-issue of Homer´s lost work, ¨Syphilis with Oedipus¨, is absolutely begging for my attention.
The more degrees you have the more miserable your life, and those you invariably infect. How many times have your heard an educated person wish he didn’t know anything. That he was naïve like those guys on the construction site. That he didn’t question religion. That essentially, he didn’t know anything. Wouldn’t his life be easier, less complicated? Is naiveté really Bliss?
Besides, no one votes a smart guy for their leader. Most Dubya Bush supporters cite his ability to seem ¨normal, like one of us¨. What they are really saying is that he is stupid. And people like a leader who seems ignorant and poorly spoken. People didn’t elect Kerry because many said he was an elitist, a flip-flopper. What they really meant was that Kerry was intelligent, a person willing to debate, and change opinions after learning more facts, and that scared the public. The largest human voting bloc on Earth (Should we count the chaotic land of India?) is proof that we might as well kill these intelligent types.
And really, to be fair to the Ph.d´s and their overwhelming college debt, there were others who I felt should be part of this Genocide. Rebels, Artists, Teachers, Lawyers, Sidewalk Preachers and anyone else questioning civilization.
Unfortunately, and I really do apologize for my failure to complete my Genocide plan, I was unable to figure out the logistics of murdering hundreds of millions of people. Maybe it was because I lack German blood. Or perhaps it was my dismay over Mercedes refusal to sponsor the project. You may think its easy to find Large Ovens but think again. The great Oven Builders of 1940´s Rhineland have all disappeared into the depths of Argentine society, forsaking their great artistic trade for leather tanning. I tried getting Angola to donate the land for the massive gas shower complexes, but they said that because they rejected the initial settlement of Israel, it would only be fair to reject this proposal. They expressed sincere regret since they acknowledged the money making tourist site the chambers would become, and were even willing to accept Grohe´s claim to national sponsorship. Some government officials went as far as creating mock tourist brochures to visit the well preserved Gas Chambers of the Great Intellectual Disappearance with all tours including a natural lunch of sustainable organic manioc and a 25% discount on their next Grohe purchase. We welcome your visit to the great African nation of Grohe. But, in the end, I have been forced to remove the proposal.
In it´s place, I present a more feasible plan of de-educating the population, while simultaneously introducing One GOD.
Schools are banned. Immediately. Close them all. Convert them into housing for those in need. And keep the lunch ladies for mascots.
Television only shows Cartoons and Soap Operas. The News is banned. Whenever an accident or a miracle happens on TV, the reason is God, who is now referred to as Godo, so as to create a new image.
All religious institutions are officially changed to the Universal Religion of Godo. There is no sacred text, only hymns that sing the praise of Godo, and acceptance of his calamity causing outbursts.
Vegans eliminated. Miserable people with a misplaced superiority complex. When you give the date and duration for how long you have been part of something, you either have a fatal disease or belong to an outlawed cult. The genocide rule will be relaxed here because of the fear that Vegan misery may spread to the general populace. Happy populations eat burgers and dogs. And keeping butter and eggs out my double chocolate chip brownie is criminal. You have no place in an carefree thoughtless world. Now go milk the cow, dammnit!!
Consumer Products are free. You can take as many rice crispy bars as you need, and drive as many Hummers as necessary. Your neighbor will no longer have what you want. Since you can get all the stuff you desire.
The government only exists in the form of a military whose job is to make sure that every family takes care of their kids and refrains from committing acts of violence. The government provides hospitals and free ironic t-shirts with your favorite iron-on. Limit one per family per week.
People do not have to go to work, and are encouraged to raise or hunt their own food. If they can not raise or hunt, then one of inferior quality will be given to them.
This program will be implemented on a global level. Nobody will want to leave their people/their nation when all the fascinating products they see on TV are available at their local Free-Product Pick-UP Store. Governments will have no more corrupt power since there is no reason to steal since money no longer has value. Unless your a traveling hippie who wants to make necklaces out of discarded coins and trade them for hemp brownies. Oh, you know what..fuck nations, its all one big global enterprise of peace and happiness promotion, under the auspices of the Homeland Security.
Oh…I didn’t mention that. No more dough. Its all free. And who creates the products in this libraryless, schooless, religious-sectless society? The Martians. No, No silly. The people are required to work at a factory of their choice on a rotating schedule. No more then two shifts are allowed at either the chocolate factory or the vibrator factory.
Ok. so maybe the enforcing military will end up changing things and everyone will leave in fear of getting shot, or put on a plane to Harvard.
You got a better idea?
It´s not fantastic. But it´s a start. America is already trying out this program, but we must try harder. Until humanity can lose its capacity to question, and learn only how to survive, and until our great race recognizes one mysterious, unseeable force as the reason for everything that happens....then Earthlings are doomed to mental purgatory.
Although....I hear there is this new religion spreading rapidly across the world. They have even recently opened up shop in Paradise. Their team call themselves EVANGELICALS. They purport that their God is one for all the people and they take all of your money so that you don´t have to worry about finances any more. They even support the popular U.S. president. Check out a service near you.
You may not have to travel to Paradise, after all, to get your own peace and happiness.
I only landed in Paradise by chance, which is always how Paradise need be found…just ask Gilligan. Some general guidelines in locating your own personal Eden: Find a city on a map that is barely legible, on the coast, has no paved roads or airport (use the legend, not of the pillaging Jew with Horns but the other definition), and most importantly…it is not mentioned in a guidebook. When chancing upon a beautiful sounding locale in a tourist publication that begins with ¨You will just adore this hidden little paradise with cute little boutiques and a well-hung African man known to many as BoBo¨ then you better realize that your not the first person to discover the island of Jamaica. Paradise never allows its name to be published, until Donald Trump´s sister-in-law discovers it. Then you will be able to get a lovely ocean view condo starting in just the low 7 millions.
But Paradise always has a native population. And they don’t exactly like outsiders. Just ask the Israelis. My guide to Paradise´s backdoor was François, an incredibly sweet, well-meaning woman who escaped the repressive regime of Belgium. If your fatherland only made three products, but three of the finest quality products in the world, three things that every human should require to survive merrily….Beer, Chocolate, French Fries…..would you really want to leave? Perhaps it was complete shame of the constant reminder that Jean Claude Van Damme was her paisano. Belgium…Belgium…wait, yes…I know a Belgian, Van Damme…God damn, Jean Claude is from your country. You rock. And I sympathize. Your from New Jersey…New Jersey…Oh yeah baby, Bon Jovi is from Jersey. You know Bonjon. He friggin´ rocks. But c´mon ya disgruntled Belgies, Arnold Schwarzenegger (who knows how to spell that thing?) is the ruler of America´s largest Colony, and people are STILL moving there in droves.
François not only adored the orgasmic coma inducing scenery, but also the small native population that occupied the hamlet. They were your typical inhabitants of a naturally rich, governmentally poor locale. The men fished for what they needed to eat. The kids swam naked all day in the calm turquoise waters, until they got impregnated. The mothers gathered by the river to wash clothes together and gossip about Bobo´s latest conquest. They were without formal education, basic health necessities, or a local government. Which means, they were basically happy.
But François saw things differently. The lack of clean fresh water and sanitary bathrooms were a serious health detriment. The absence of electricity meant that fisherman couldn’t preserve their catches for market days, and that women were suffering without the famed Brasilian telenovelas. And could you disagree with Françy? The availability of the these things would mean longer, healthier lives. So the Belgian Bon-Bon bought one of the only available homes and starting kicking ass, Van DamYou style.
She organized the locals, protested daily to the government, and fundraised from her fellow chocolatiers. And within two years, the small forgotten Paradise had a fresh water well, running water to every household, electricity, a cultural center, a library, and a small clinic. All of these aids to finer living were the direct result of foreign intervention. The Brasilian government never tried to help. The Brasilian people never tried to help. Only one woman yielding a large Freedom Fry.
And now the mutiny is beginning. Town leaders, who have only recently emerged, have convinced the locals that a Foreigner is trying to take over their land, their customs. A certain government official, masquerading as an environmentalist is grooming leaders so that they can both reap the financial rewards of government funding in the form of Park Reserve status. Instead of being a saviour, and she didn’t ask to be anointed, Françy has become the reason for every imaginable problem. Your kid is studying rather then fishing, blame François. You can´t take a dump in the woods like the ole days, blame François. In this tropical haven, where Ms. Belgica once found tranquility, she now finds a threat to her very existence.
Is this scene any different then Iraq? Conspiracy theories abound from America´s glutton desire to obtain more oil to a jaded Richard Cheney who wanted revenge after his coital advances were rejected by both Tariq Aziz and Ussay Hussein, who reportedly gave the best head on this side of the Euphrates, that side of the Tigris. Despite the bullshit lies of Mass Destructing Weapons, why it so hard to believe that U.S. wanted a more democratic, less terrorist friendly Iraq. Was Maddass Hussein not a threat to the whole Middle East? Was an economic powerhouse, free society Iraq not an inspiration for other neighboring countries to overthrow repressive governments (except Saudi Arabia, our good friend and marketer of fine women´s fashion….did you check out that new Mohammed Armani Full-length Black robe for Fall with the really cute shear lace full face black ninja mask)?
The United States, like Belgium in Paradise, is guilty of one thing --- Not understanding the local culture. Further, these well intentioned interlopers are really guilty of not understanding the human condition within societies. Basically, people don´t like strangers telling them what to do. You want to tell your brother he´s a fat bastard and he better lose weight if he wants to get laid before he turns 50, then go ahead. But if a stranger tells your brother that in a restaurant, you´ll kick his/her ass. If you’re a black person in America and decide to critique your community, people will listen. They may not act, but they won´t try to lynch you. If you’re a white folk who moves into a black neighborhood, and tries to change the lifestyle, you’re a stupid honky bastard who should stick to your own kind. If you’re a government that helps a nation with financial aid, they will stop looking for solutions and keep their hand out asking for more. And when you cease the grants, or start charging interest, you’re the enemy. You can tolerate your co-workers, but everyone unites in acrimony against the Boss.
So what happened before part of the world developed a humanist conscience (or a guilt complex, afterall how do you think Western countries got to be wealthy in the first place)? Before the formation of nation-states? The people blamed GOD. The greatest single marketing phenomenon of All-time. That´s right Mattel. Fuck you. Cause Barbie is still a distant second. Got no water. Blame GOD. Your kid died mysteriously. Its GOD´s way. An unknown person set your house on fire. It was GOD´s method of saying we need a house, honey. G-d doesn´t have national borders. god doesn´t have two 110 story office buildings jutting out the center of his cranium. God doesn´t have a doorbell, and its not because it can´t figure out The Home Depot Do-IT Yourself DoorBell Fixing HandBook.
Ok. Ok. Many people are foaming at the mouth asking how many wars have been fought in the name of God. 14, 320….14,321…wait, another just started in northwestern Mozambique. A lot. But that is only because there are competing Gods. My God is better then your God, kind of Gods. I am leading a journey that will take our planet back to a system of one God, indivisibly championing justice & tragedy for all.
Before the presentation of a revolutionary, world changing program, let the screen jump back to Paradise. We want to find out how to maintain happiness and peace. Clearly, people are less prone to fight when there is no outside party to blame, and the population all credits the same God for their fortunes, their misery. The other facet impeding joy, learned in Eve´s Garden, was education. Many esteemed people will preach incessantly about the values of an education. Defined as the learning of reading, writing, mathematics, and science. And maybe Home Economics, if the School Board didn’t cut it. What a strange name…was the intention to teach people how to have a Bake Sale?
Here´s what I witnessed in the changing climate of Paradise. A few adults had decided to study. And a couple of teenagers. Since most locals stop studying at 11 years old, this concept was rather unique. So instead of kicking a football on the beach, or splashing in the water, or dry-humping a chicken, these select few were questioning life? Trying to answer questions that only God could answer. And in the process, were making themselves miserable. Take the group of young girls doing arts & crafts, giggling throughout the entire process. The one, slightly older girl, who began to educate herself in the ways of Plato was the only person who DID NOT appear happy. She actually had an appearance of disdain on her face. Clay figures, that is so dull. Doesn´t anybody know what Goethe said about clay figures? There was the restaurant shack owner who started an adult higher learning program. Every night who would appear in a button down shirt, and a serious demeanor, eager to show me his notebook on quadratic equations. Meanwhile, his other co-workers pranced around shirtless laughing at anything their other friends would say.
Don´t you see, Sir? Paradise is an incubator for some of life´s greatest riddles. You have a small homogenous population untouched by modern society until very recently. So the affects of all introduced concepts can be measured. I would really like to find out if that Six in One kitchen knife really makes life easier. And at the heart of this incubation machine, are the principal tenets of humanity---Happiness and Peace.
Tonight, in front of the Board, I will present a program to bring these two coveted gems to every human possible. Before I begin, I want to mention that I have been forced to remove my initial plan due to certain legal constraints. Following in the esteemed footsteps of PolPot, mass genocide of the intelligentsia seemed appropriate. Intellect is dampening happiness, and spreading like the children of Wilt Chamberlain. You don´t believe me…well, look at those people screaming at the Football match, the audience laughing at Sinbad or the Sunday Comics, the addicts of Reality television, the supporters of Keanu Reaves, the members of the KKK. These people don´t have advanced degrees. They don´t know theory from Thor. They are just looking for the little things. And they always seem to be having a good time. But the academics…..have you seen these people? They would rather spend their time figuring out the three thousand two hundred and eighty third position behind the decimal point in PI. They choose reading Descartes rather then enjoying the Reggaeton at their neighborhood street festival. They wear black turtlenecks in summer and think that spilled paint on canvas represents man´s struggle against the forces of nature.
Hey Englebert, I´m going to grab a burger, and then go have some cold one´s with the boys down at Freddy´s. You comin´?
James. Friend. Brother. If all my Tchaikovsky was unceremoniously engulfed by flames, and the only man left to keep me company was that classical fraud, Philip Glass, I still would not accompany you and your ignoramuses on your adventure in imbecility.
Bro. Take it easy. Get out of the house for once, and come get loaded with the gang.
Thank for your gracious invitation, but no Thank You. I have better things to do with my life. For instance, this re-issue of Homer´s lost work, ¨Syphilis with Oedipus¨, is absolutely begging for my attention.
The more degrees you have the more miserable your life, and those you invariably infect. How many times have your heard an educated person wish he didn’t know anything. That he was naïve like those guys on the construction site. That he didn’t question religion. That essentially, he didn’t know anything. Wouldn’t his life be easier, less complicated? Is naiveté really Bliss?
Besides, no one votes a smart guy for their leader. Most Dubya Bush supporters cite his ability to seem ¨normal, like one of us¨. What they are really saying is that he is stupid. And people like a leader who seems ignorant and poorly spoken. People didn’t elect Kerry because many said he was an elitist, a flip-flopper. What they really meant was that Kerry was intelligent, a person willing to debate, and change opinions after learning more facts, and that scared the public. The largest human voting bloc on Earth (Should we count the chaotic land of India?) is proof that we might as well kill these intelligent types.
And really, to be fair to the Ph.d´s and their overwhelming college debt, there were others who I felt should be part of this Genocide. Rebels, Artists, Teachers, Lawyers, Sidewalk Preachers and anyone else questioning civilization.
Unfortunately, and I really do apologize for my failure to complete my Genocide plan, I was unable to figure out the logistics of murdering hundreds of millions of people. Maybe it was because I lack German blood. Or perhaps it was my dismay over Mercedes refusal to sponsor the project. You may think its easy to find Large Ovens but think again. The great Oven Builders of 1940´s Rhineland have all disappeared into the depths of Argentine society, forsaking their great artistic trade for leather tanning. I tried getting Angola to donate the land for the massive gas shower complexes, but they said that because they rejected the initial settlement of Israel, it would only be fair to reject this proposal. They expressed sincere regret since they acknowledged the money making tourist site the chambers would become, and were even willing to accept Grohe´s claim to national sponsorship. Some government officials went as far as creating mock tourist brochures to visit the well preserved Gas Chambers of the Great Intellectual Disappearance with all tours including a natural lunch of sustainable organic manioc and a 25% discount on their next Grohe purchase. We welcome your visit to the great African nation of Grohe. But, in the end, I have been forced to remove the proposal.
In it´s place, I present a more feasible plan of de-educating the population, while simultaneously introducing One GOD.
Schools are banned. Immediately. Close them all. Convert them into housing for those in need. And keep the lunch ladies for mascots.
Television only shows Cartoons and Soap Operas. The News is banned. Whenever an accident or a miracle happens on TV, the reason is God, who is now referred to as Godo, so as to create a new image.
All religious institutions are officially changed to the Universal Religion of Godo. There is no sacred text, only hymns that sing the praise of Godo, and acceptance of his calamity causing outbursts.
Vegans eliminated. Miserable people with a misplaced superiority complex. When you give the date and duration for how long you have been part of something, you either have a fatal disease or belong to an outlawed cult. The genocide rule will be relaxed here because of the fear that Vegan misery may spread to the general populace. Happy populations eat burgers and dogs. And keeping butter and eggs out my double chocolate chip brownie is criminal. You have no place in an carefree thoughtless world. Now go milk the cow, dammnit!!
Consumer Products are free. You can take as many rice crispy bars as you need, and drive as many Hummers as necessary. Your neighbor will no longer have what you want. Since you can get all the stuff you desire.
The government only exists in the form of a military whose job is to make sure that every family takes care of their kids and refrains from committing acts of violence. The government provides hospitals and free ironic t-shirts with your favorite iron-on. Limit one per family per week.
People do not have to go to work, and are encouraged to raise or hunt their own food. If they can not raise or hunt, then one of inferior quality will be given to them.
This program will be implemented on a global level. Nobody will want to leave their people/their nation when all the fascinating products they see on TV are available at their local Free-Product Pick-UP Store. Governments will have no more corrupt power since there is no reason to steal since money no longer has value. Unless your a traveling hippie who wants to make necklaces out of discarded coins and trade them for hemp brownies. Oh, you know what..fuck nations, its all one big global enterprise of peace and happiness promotion, under the auspices of the Homeland Security.
Oh…I didn’t mention that. No more dough. Its all free. And who creates the products in this libraryless, schooless, religious-sectless society? The Martians. No, No silly. The people are required to work at a factory of their choice on a rotating schedule. No more then two shifts are allowed at either the chocolate factory or the vibrator factory.
Ok. so maybe the enforcing military will end up changing things and everyone will leave in fear of getting shot, or put on a plane to Harvard.
You got a better idea?
It´s not fantastic. But it´s a start. America is already trying out this program, but we must try harder. Until humanity can lose its capacity to question, and learn only how to survive, and until our great race recognizes one mysterious, unseeable force as the reason for everything that happens....then Earthlings are doomed to mental purgatory.
Although....I hear there is this new religion spreading rapidly across the world. They have even recently opened up shop in Paradise. Their team call themselves EVANGELICALS. They purport that their God is one for all the people and they take all of your money so that you don´t have to worry about finances any more. They even support the popular U.S. president. Check out a service near you.
You may not have to travel to Paradise, after all, to get your own peace and happiness.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
What I did for my Summer Vacation
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Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Finding A Believer, by L. Ron
The new president of Bolivia ran a campaign built around supporting the coca growing industry. And unlike the winner of the U.S. 2000 election, he was elected by the majority of voters. Which means.....Bolivia should become the Amsterdam of South America. For cokeheads. I´ll take the roasted chicken ceasar, light on the onions, and an eightball of that Bo-Lee Blow-Bo you have on special.
The landlocked (thanks to the joint generousity of their brotherly neighbors > Chile & Chile Minor, peru) AndeanAmazonian nation is renowned for its large welcoming indigenous population, jaw dropping & dropping further scenery, and unbelievably low prices. They absolutely will not be undersold. Despite this fine triumvirate of nomadic hobo paradise, I wanted to find out what the people thought of their new Chief Commander Coca. Would he simply pose for opportunistic photos in the coca fields, or was he prepared to open up those large Indian nostril cavities and snort his country´s fine product until his deviated septum fell off into his morning bowl of quinoa & beef hearts.
Sorry to disappoint you gawky gringo, but our president only supports the beneficial use of the coca leaf, and not its chemical derivative, Cocaine. Apparently, the coca leaf can cure everything from upset stomachs to solving the unsolvable crisis of Allah & his loyal guardians battle for hot market real estate. The coca leaf has been used by native people for thousands of years, and is still used today to ward off hunger for Bolivia´s legion of underpaid workers. But, what about the mountain of bananas on every corner, surely there is enough food that they don´t have to chew bitter leaves all day? Hey, back off buddy, the coca is our national crop. And the 20 billion tons of overproduction that the nation can´t consume, I assume that will just become fertilizer to grow more bananas. That´s not really our concern.
Evo Morales. Its hard to find someone here who doesn´t love the guy. South America´s first indigenous president. He´s spent his life fighting for worker´s rights. No connections to big business, and actually his first move as President was to nationalize the Petroleum industry, and share the profits with citizens rather then balding foreign CEO´s. He cleverly initiated this controversial progam on May day, a national holiday and worldwide day of worker´s celebration born in the U.S. that the caring government of America decided to move to the first Monday in September so that Macy´s could sell off its overstock of Docker´s khaki shorts, both traditional and new capri style, and therefore reward hard working laborers with an opportunity to spend their credited money on clothing that they can wear in 9 months. God Bless America. Please.
This Evo dude is unlike most politicians. Because he doesn´t seem like a politician. Which means he seems honest and capable of an erection. And he´s given hope to a population that´s been perpetually screwed since Pizarro first landed his entourage of pig lickers nearly 500 years ago. The people of the street have immense faith in this man behind the Coca. Yes, it was used for Coca-Cola. That´s how good the raw shit really is. Señnor Morales is attempting to bring socialist (of the none hammersickel variety) tendencies back to a nation that is continually raped of its natural resources by foreign enterprises. Sounds legit. But somebody must hate this guy besides the Fruit of the Doom wearing stiffs at the U.S. State Department. Rich people. I had to befriend a member of Boliva´s elite society. Not an easy task considering the population of Jupiter has more residents. The mission morphed. Coke using people who don´t support a Coca loyalist. Get the doctorate ready.
The Brasilian embassy introduced us. She silently occupied my starboard side. Long, dark, sultry Latin hair. Back straight. Tall heels glimpsing athletic calfs and a lickable birthmark. So, do you come here often? Alexia chuckled, a delicious little chuckle, until she asked me to repeat what I had said. Are you a rich coca using chick who hates socialists? Huh? Oh, I said, My name is .....(editor´s choice) . Alexia was awaiting her Brasilian babysitting certificate that she was due to obtain after a two year stint in Brasil, presumably winning the Rio de Janeiro 24 hour Don´t Drop My Baby While You Samba Contest She hoped the officially sealed paper would help her land her dream job as an American nanny. ´I think they call it, Opair´, she said excitedly. Maybe I was meowing up the wrong pole, cause rich people shouldn´t want to take care of other people´s kids. How Gross!
Then her mom showed up. And my pessimistic wonderings were quickly suffocated. Botox had apparently made its way to Bolivia. As did routine chest augmentation. Her excitement over her plastic surgeon brother, and positive vacation experience in Boca Raton only cemented the trading floor speculation. To protect her identity, I´ll call her BoBo.
Alexia and I left the embassy entranced in a deep intercultural exchange.
I really liked to live in Brasil. They are more fun then here in Bolivia.
Yeah, they´re fun, but you´ve got some good people here in Bolivia.
Yes. Yes. This is true. But I really don´t like the men here. Or there. You can not trust them. Really. You can not. They always lie. And have many womens.
That´s terrible. American men aren´t like that. You should probably look for an American man. Or Greenland. They are also nice.
I not know Greenland. But that is my idea. I don´t like Latin men. Yes. Yes. I think an American man would be nice.
I´m American. You saw my passport.
Yes. Yes. I know. And the women. Brasil women are also so crazy. Really. They sometimes want compete with mens. They always have so many men. I don´t like.
Many Men. Wow. That is....that is, that is not nice. What kind of woman does that? You know, I am going to Brasil next week. I’ll have to investigate more.
What?
Alexia treated me to a fine meal of 15 cent salteñas, Bolivianized empanadas. She seemed unopinionated over the Presidency. But she was a budding feminist, and claimed the movement responsible for desperate child craving, relationship salivating, workaholic 42 year old women was spreading to her corner of South America. The days of a male dominated society were over. And she bought me a 15 cent empanada to prove it. Alexia would prove herself as an expert baby handler in America, warding off concerns over the baby´s skin difference with the dexterity of a stain removal salesman. She would then ride that feminist high to Brasil, where she would professionally guide beach seeking tourists to southern Brasil´s best shores. She may even give massages, she noted later. So WHAT? Were you a wealthy brat who hated populists? I´d have to wait for an answer.
I enthusiastically told my new Norwegian friend, a by-product of VikingVodka lust, that we would be meeting two gorgeous women for a night out on the town. Like a good Norse, avoiding the gates to Valhalla, he smiled a big fat CHEESE. I didn´t mention the ringleader was a feminist.
Me and No-Whay were told to take a bus to the south side of the city. My South Side conjures images of the inebriated kids of plumbers running over black babies with their 1978 Trans-Am. This South Side proved that feminism wasn´t the only degenerative American concept to spread down to Bolivia. We were in the suburbs. As frigid and souless as a Whispering Pines near you. And just like Uncles Sammy´s suburbanites, the wealthy of La Paz love their McMansions.
Alexia´s friend was none other then her mom, BoBo. And our hot double date was a drive through La Paz´s forgotten wonderland, Coca Bluffs. The tag-team of We Have This and We Have That went back and forth showing us empty streets and large stores perfectly mimicking America´s fine dining pantheon of Applebee´s, Friday’s, and the Olive Garden.
As they fought each other to point out the latest Starbucks-esque coffeshop, I felt some relief from the affects of Globalization as I looked over to see No-Whay biting back his laughter. Apparently, Lief Erricson´s descendants have really sanitized Outer Oslo.
No stray dogs. No street vendors. No city noise. No colonial architecture. Only a monolithic monstrosity of cement and tinted glass. The apartment had that familiar sign of third world wealth.......immaculate fake antique furniture, a generic Whispering Coca Pines layout, and random adornments of brass and gold. And, well, of course, a servant. But were doing her a favor? What did her people do for her?
After a 45 minute tour of every item in the apartment (that´s our older television from our dining room in the west wing, but we will get a new one), No-Whay and I were invited for a dinner table conversation accompanied by knock-off Chocolate chip cookies, and Coca tea. Ah-Hah!
The conversation started fairly banal, as we exchanged the typical exclamations of job, age, and social status. Then, I decided that my research project was being derailed, and a turn of talk was in order.
Simón Bolivar was a real hero. He seems to be the last great leader that South America had. He only wanted to liberate and bring the continent together
BoBo gave me a look as if I had just puked on her Chinese made Oriental Rug.
He was a Gay. A Gay.
What? Are you kidding me?
Alexia jumped in the fray.
Yes. Yes. He is a Gay.
So what, he kicked the crap out of those pillaging Spaniards. Who cares if he was getting his rod sucked up and down the Andes?
What. I don´t care. He was a Gay.
I couldn´t believe what I was hearing. And the normally Barbie like BoBo was pissed. And then a moment of silence followed as No-Way and I gave awkward glances. Then, to shatter our converational disbelief, Alexia piped up:
A fag. Is that right, Mom, He is a fag.
A faggot, dear. He was a faggot.
Yes. Yes. He is a faggot.
Darling, He is dead. Remember to use the past tense.
Sorry. Yes. He was a faggot.
Berlitz was test piloting its new How to talk Hip with Your Kid in English series. But the onslaught of Gay hysteria night in La Paz would continue.
Well, what about Evo Morales, what do you think of him?
He is Gay too.
Yes, he was a Gay.
Really, he is Gay. Ask my husband. He is from Italy.
Apparently being from the great continent of Europe automatically bestows intellectual certitude upon its inhabitants.
But what about his policies, his idea to help the people, and the businesses.
He is no good. He will be like Castro. And we will move to Italy.
And least your not coming to Miami, we´ve already got enough arrogant commie hating assholes there.
I like Miami.
Figures.
And you know something, really, you know something, the ambassador of your country is Gay. And for Brasil and Chile too.
BoBo works intimately with the embassies in La Paz. I still can´t figure out if she is selling the coke or buying it.
So, we discovered that at least one member of the limited Bolivian elite are not supporting the overwhelmingly supported President. But only because he likes a little amyl nitrate with his coca and calls his wife, BoB.
The conversation only grew in character, as BoBo continued to demonstrate the value of a South American private school education.
Be careful in Brasil. It is very dangerous. Too many blacks. Really. It is bad. Especially in the north. Really. They are bad people.
Its ok. I live in a big American city with many black people. Its not a big deal.
And then, to the complete disbelief of all present at the table, BoBo launched into a ghetto black impersonation, despite the vacuumed face and strong accent. She left her daisy covered seat, and began to swagger across the large white tiled floor.
´Yo, my nigger, you need a ho. My nigger. I be a pimp, my nigger.
No-Whay and I were holding back the tears, but we had to get out of this place. We had enough of Rich Bolivia. Cause really, how much money do you need to afford real Chips Ahoys?
BoBo was proud. I do a good a negro. Yes.
Listen. What is worst? A black person or a Gay?
Black?
Gay. No Black. I agree with Mom. Yes. Black is worst?
Do you like Michael Jackson?
He has really nice voice. Yes. I like.
The taxi was on the way, and I never thought I would be so happy to return to an economically repressed trafffic clogged city.
The taxi is really cheap. So cheap, right. That is why I love my country. Really. Everything is so cheap. My daughter will come home from America and realize how cheap everything is. I can´t move from here. So cheap.
And with that closing line, my research project was or is, damn grammar, finished. The working class want to be able to say their country is cheap. The working class want a chance to have soulless towers in the sky, also. Maybe theyll avoid the brass, though. Its so 80´s. The wealthy don´t want to lose their cheap country. And if millions of people have to remain underpaid, and Gay Indian Coca supporting Hope Inspiring Presidents have to be terminated, then that is how the wealthy will keep it.
No wonder Ronnie Reagan was so popular in Whispering Pines, Phase I & II.
The landlocked (thanks to the joint generousity of their brotherly neighbors > Chile & Chile Minor, peru) AndeanAmazonian nation is renowned for its large welcoming indigenous population, jaw dropping & dropping further scenery, and unbelievably low prices. They absolutely will not be undersold. Despite this fine triumvirate of nomadic hobo paradise, I wanted to find out what the people thought of their new Chief Commander Coca. Would he simply pose for opportunistic photos in the coca fields, or was he prepared to open up those large Indian nostril cavities and snort his country´s fine product until his deviated septum fell off into his morning bowl of quinoa & beef hearts.
Sorry to disappoint you gawky gringo, but our president only supports the beneficial use of the coca leaf, and not its chemical derivative, Cocaine. Apparently, the coca leaf can cure everything from upset stomachs to solving the unsolvable crisis of Allah & his loyal guardians battle for hot market real estate. The coca leaf has been used by native people for thousands of years, and is still used today to ward off hunger for Bolivia´s legion of underpaid workers. But, what about the mountain of bananas on every corner, surely there is enough food that they don´t have to chew bitter leaves all day? Hey, back off buddy, the coca is our national crop. And the 20 billion tons of overproduction that the nation can´t consume, I assume that will just become fertilizer to grow more bananas. That´s not really our concern.
Evo Morales. Its hard to find someone here who doesn´t love the guy. South America´s first indigenous president. He´s spent his life fighting for worker´s rights. No connections to big business, and actually his first move as President was to nationalize the Petroleum industry, and share the profits with citizens rather then balding foreign CEO´s. He cleverly initiated this controversial progam on May day, a national holiday and worldwide day of worker´s celebration born in the U.S. that the caring government of America decided to move to the first Monday in September so that Macy´s could sell off its overstock of Docker´s khaki shorts, both traditional and new capri style, and therefore reward hard working laborers with an opportunity to spend their credited money on clothing that they can wear in 9 months. God Bless America. Please.
This Evo dude is unlike most politicians. Because he doesn´t seem like a politician. Which means he seems honest and capable of an erection. And he´s given hope to a population that´s been perpetually screwed since Pizarro first landed his entourage of pig lickers nearly 500 years ago. The people of the street have immense faith in this man behind the Coca. Yes, it was used for Coca-Cola. That´s how good the raw shit really is. Señnor Morales is attempting to bring socialist (of the none hammersickel variety) tendencies back to a nation that is continually raped of its natural resources by foreign enterprises. Sounds legit. But somebody must hate this guy besides the Fruit of the Doom wearing stiffs at the U.S. State Department. Rich people. I had to befriend a member of Boliva´s elite society. Not an easy task considering the population of Jupiter has more residents. The mission morphed. Coke using people who don´t support a Coca loyalist. Get the doctorate ready.
The Brasilian embassy introduced us. She silently occupied my starboard side. Long, dark, sultry Latin hair. Back straight. Tall heels glimpsing athletic calfs and a lickable birthmark. So, do you come here often? Alexia chuckled, a delicious little chuckle, until she asked me to repeat what I had said. Are you a rich coca using chick who hates socialists? Huh? Oh, I said, My name is .....(editor´s choice) . Alexia was awaiting her Brasilian babysitting certificate that she was due to obtain after a two year stint in Brasil, presumably winning the Rio de Janeiro 24 hour Don´t Drop My Baby While You Samba Contest She hoped the officially sealed paper would help her land her dream job as an American nanny. ´I think they call it, Opair´, she said excitedly. Maybe I was meowing up the wrong pole, cause rich people shouldn´t want to take care of other people´s kids. How Gross!
Then her mom showed up. And my pessimistic wonderings were quickly suffocated. Botox had apparently made its way to Bolivia. As did routine chest augmentation. Her excitement over her plastic surgeon brother, and positive vacation experience in Boca Raton only cemented the trading floor speculation. To protect her identity, I´ll call her BoBo.
Alexia and I left the embassy entranced in a deep intercultural exchange.
I really liked to live in Brasil. They are more fun then here in Bolivia.
Yeah, they´re fun, but you´ve got some good people here in Bolivia.
Yes. Yes. This is true. But I really don´t like the men here. Or there. You can not trust them. Really. You can not. They always lie. And have many womens.
That´s terrible. American men aren´t like that. You should probably look for an American man. Or Greenland. They are also nice.
I not know Greenland. But that is my idea. I don´t like Latin men. Yes. Yes. I think an American man would be nice.
I´m American. You saw my passport.
Yes. Yes. I know. And the women. Brasil women are also so crazy. Really. They sometimes want compete with mens. They always have so many men. I don´t like.
Many Men. Wow. That is....that is, that is not nice. What kind of woman does that? You know, I am going to Brasil next week. I’ll have to investigate more.
What?
Alexia treated me to a fine meal of 15 cent salteñas, Bolivianized empanadas. She seemed unopinionated over the Presidency. But she was a budding feminist, and claimed the movement responsible for desperate child craving, relationship salivating, workaholic 42 year old women was spreading to her corner of South America. The days of a male dominated society were over. And she bought me a 15 cent empanada to prove it. Alexia would prove herself as an expert baby handler in America, warding off concerns over the baby´s skin difference with the dexterity of a stain removal salesman. She would then ride that feminist high to Brasil, where she would professionally guide beach seeking tourists to southern Brasil´s best shores. She may even give massages, she noted later. So WHAT? Were you a wealthy brat who hated populists? I´d have to wait for an answer.
I enthusiastically told my new Norwegian friend, a by-product of VikingVodka lust, that we would be meeting two gorgeous women for a night out on the town. Like a good Norse, avoiding the gates to Valhalla, he smiled a big fat CHEESE. I didn´t mention the ringleader was a feminist.
Me and No-Whay were told to take a bus to the south side of the city. My South Side conjures images of the inebriated kids of plumbers running over black babies with their 1978 Trans-Am. This South Side proved that feminism wasn´t the only degenerative American concept to spread down to Bolivia. We were in the suburbs. As frigid and souless as a Whispering Pines near you. And just like Uncles Sammy´s suburbanites, the wealthy of La Paz love their McMansions.
Alexia´s friend was none other then her mom, BoBo. And our hot double date was a drive through La Paz´s forgotten wonderland, Coca Bluffs. The tag-team of We Have This and We Have That went back and forth showing us empty streets and large stores perfectly mimicking America´s fine dining pantheon of Applebee´s, Friday’s, and the Olive Garden.
As they fought each other to point out the latest Starbucks-esque coffeshop, I felt some relief from the affects of Globalization as I looked over to see No-Whay biting back his laughter. Apparently, Lief Erricson´s descendants have really sanitized Outer Oslo.
No stray dogs. No street vendors. No city noise. No colonial architecture. Only a monolithic monstrosity of cement and tinted glass. The apartment had that familiar sign of third world wealth.......immaculate fake antique furniture, a generic Whispering Coca Pines layout, and random adornments of brass and gold. And, well, of course, a servant. But were doing her a favor? What did her people do for her?
After a 45 minute tour of every item in the apartment (that´s our older television from our dining room in the west wing, but we will get a new one), No-Whay and I were invited for a dinner table conversation accompanied by knock-off Chocolate chip cookies, and Coca tea. Ah-Hah!
The conversation started fairly banal, as we exchanged the typical exclamations of job, age, and social status. Then, I decided that my research project was being derailed, and a turn of talk was in order.
Simón Bolivar was a real hero. He seems to be the last great leader that South America had. He only wanted to liberate and bring the continent together
BoBo gave me a look as if I had just puked on her Chinese made Oriental Rug.
He was a Gay. A Gay.
What? Are you kidding me?
Alexia jumped in the fray.
Yes. Yes. He is a Gay.
So what, he kicked the crap out of those pillaging Spaniards. Who cares if he was getting his rod sucked up and down the Andes?
What. I don´t care. He was a Gay.
I couldn´t believe what I was hearing. And the normally Barbie like BoBo was pissed. And then a moment of silence followed as No-Way and I gave awkward glances. Then, to shatter our converational disbelief, Alexia piped up:
A fag. Is that right, Mom, He is a fag.
A faggot, dear. He was a faggot.
Yes. Yes. He is a faggot.
Darling, He is dead. Remember to use the past tense.
Sorry. Yes. He was a faggot.
Berlitz was test piloting its new How to talk Hip with Your Kid in English series. But the onslaught of Gay hysteria night in La Paz would continue.
Well, what about Evo Morales, what do you think of him?
He is Gay too.
Yes, he was a Gay.
Really, he is Gay. Ask my husband. He is from Italy.
Apparently being from the great continent of Europe automatically bestows intellectual certitude upon its inhabitants.
But what about his policies, his idea to help the people, and the businesses.
He is no good. He will be like Castro. And we will move to Italy.
And least your not coming to Miami, we´ve already got enough arrogant commie hating assholes there.
I like Miami.
Figures.
And you know something, really, you know something, the ambassador of your country is Gay. And for Brasil and Chile too.
BoBo works intimately with the embassies in La Paz. I still can´t figure out if she is selling the coke or buying it.
So, we discovered that at least one member of the limited Bolivian elite are not supporting the overwhelmingly supported President. But only because he likes a little amyl nitrate with his coca and calls his wife, BoB.
The conversation only grew in character, as BoBo continued to demonstrate the value of a South American private school education.
Be careful in Brasil. It is very dangerous. Too many blacks. Really. It is bad. Especially in the north. Really. They are bad people.
Its ok. I live in a big American city with many black people. Its not a big deal.
And then, to the complete disbelief of all present at the table, BoBo launched into a ghetto black impersonation, despite the vacuumed face and strong accent. She left her daisy covered seat, and began to swagger across the large white tiled floor.
´Yo, my nigger, you need a ho. My nigger. I be a pimp, my nigger.
No-Whay and I were holding back the tears, but we had to get out of this place. We had enough of Rich Bolivia. Cause really, how much money do you need to afford real Chips Ahoys?
BoBo was proud. I do a good a negro. Yes.
Listen. What is worst? A black person or a Gay?
Black?
Gay. No Black. I agree with Mom. Yes. Black is worst?
Do you like Michael Jackson?
He has really nice voice. Yes. I like.
The taxi was on the way, and I never thought I would be so happy to return to an economically repressed trafffic clogged city.
The taxi is really cheap. So cheap, right. That is why I love my country. Really. Everything is so cheap. My daughter will come home from America and realize how cheap everything is. I can´t move from here. So cheap.
And with that closing line, my research project was or is, damn grammar, finished. The working class want to be able to say their country is cheap. The working class want a chance to have soulless towers in the sky, also. Maybe theyll avoid the brass, though. Its so 80´s. The wealthy don´t want to lose their cheap country. And if millions of people have to remain underpaid, and Gay Indian Coca supporting Hope Inspiring Presidents have to be terminated, then that is how the wealthy will keep it.
No wonder Ronnie Reagan was so popular in Whispering Pines, Phase I & II.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Who Shot Thelma & Louise or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Atomic Bomb
Relationships are difficult. That´s why we kill for the insurance money. But I lost all my money on that infomercial investment. I had no choice. You must believe me.
Life as a single person requires no compromises. No sacrifices. No arguments. And some might add…..No companionship. But that´s why the Lord Almighty gave us two hands and deregulated Cable.
When a person sans compromising companionship travels solo the rewards are many…..countless invitations to strangers homes (due to your perceived loneliness?) where you are free to eat the organs of endangered species without your partner exhibiting severe signs of nausea and disdain for your barbaric hosts. Gross. These people are gross. I AM LEAVING. An independent party can easily choose a night´s lodging without the vocal accompaniment of bedspread criticism and faulty tile grouting. And perhaps, most liberating, more then a pair of pampers, after a night of bad fish, on a 21 hour dirt road bus ride, would be……the freedom to wander, in search of the weird, wonderful, & wacky without the constant chants of , ¨Can´t we go to that store, I want to stop over there, I don’t like this neighborhood, I understand local traditions, but I still don´t think he should be putting his finger there. Its hurts goddamnit. Are you listening to me, you selfish bastard?¨
Naturally, I was a bit concerned when a good friend asked to join me for a portion of the current South American Adventure, never to be seen in a theatre near you. Despite his being cloaked of the same gender, relationships are relationships.
But what would we do? Would I be totally removed from local culture, spending countless hours chatting with my fellow gringo, while opportunity after opportunity passed me by due to my reluctance to leave the non-spanish speaking compatriot stranded? Would I be railroaded into staying in faux Marriott style hotelpenitentiaries that promised a complete removal of character in exchange for a wonderfully bland sterile air conditioned environment and an Incan bellhop named Jake. Well, I consoled myself with the fact that the incredibly appreciative & rewarding American employment system only allowed its servants a maximum of two weeks holiday. Uh…that may be an exaggeration. I think after at least 10, or maybe fifteen years, an employee may receive an extra week holiday. And a promotional certificate to Magic Kingdom with a coupon for half off your second purchase of an 84 oz. Mickey CocaCola Cup. Fuck, Mickey´s made it this long, with all those lecherous bastards yanking at his tail, and molesting his Minnie. I could make it 12 days. Right?
I met George at the Lima airport. 6 a.m. And a typical gray Peruvian sky welcomed his arrival.
Hey.
Hey.
Your no longer George. You are Jorge. When people ask your name, don´t ever say George. Got it, Jorge.
Are fuckin´nuts? My name is George, dude. I´m sure they can say George. Geoooorge.
I know you’re a white American. But trust me, the people have more respect when you give them a Spanish name. Think about it. Would you rather bitch about your system being down to your Indian tech guy by calling up and saying, ¨yo, Hajmantabali, my computer just crashed¨ or ¨yo, Bob, can you fix my damn computer?¨
Jorge soon learned to enjoy his new identity. Once, I swear, I saw him practicing the pronunciation while he brushed his teeth.
My fears were soon allayed. Jorge would not be a hindrance. He would actually motivate me. As if I was deputized some kind of Caucasian ambassador for the great land of Peru, I immediately displayed the hospitality of the locals.
She was a stunning, full-bodied (that is to say, she hadn’t read Cosmo´s groundbreaking story from this month´s issue, 10 ways to stay Thin. The Waif is back in.) brunette with a chest enlargement to satisfy the most persnickety of Boob men. Jorge was head of the Boob men at his local Lion´s Club.
Dude. I don’t get it. Is she some kind of hooker? She´s just going to leave the airport with us, and spend the day, hanging out, like she´s our buddy.
Yep. People are genuine here. You’ve got to trust. Its probably just a good opportunity for her to guide some strangers and share her culture.
You’re an idiot. Watch your wallet. And don’t say I didn’t tell you so.
Her name was Lolita. Really, Lolita of the jungle. We met her in the airport terminal of our first destination, a small, but hectic city bordering the Peruvian Amazon. She soon learned that Jorge refused to stay in a place without air conditioning. We were finally recommended to the only place in town with refrigeration. A perfect example of a hotelpenitentary.
Fuck you. Ok. Its 20 degrees in Chicago. I don´t care if people here open their windows. Its hot. You think these monkeys wouldn’t die if they landed in O´hare. You´ll be thanking me by the morning.
Lolita spent almost 2 days with her Gringo masters. Mostly it was a translation fest. Jorge would pepper me with questions to ask our Amazonian Lolita. One such occasion took place in the town square, the Plaza de Armas, where families and young couples gathered to enjoy the sounds of harmonically challenged musicians.
Ask her if She believes in Christ.
No way man. It’s a catholic country. That’s like asking a guy from Texas if he believes in Bush.
Just ask her.
Do you believe in Jesus?
Yes, but of course.
I told you, jackass.
Ask her, if she knows that he´s a false prophet.
Are you crazy? These people will lynch me. Go learn Spanish and then you can tell her.
Ok. Just ask her why she believes in God.
Jorge believes in God, don’t you think its important to believe in one God?
Yes. Yes, I do.
So. What did she say.
She has no problem with extramarital sex.
At the time, I didn’t realize that a vacation of blasphemy was about to begin.
Later that evening, Jorge retreated early to our Freon den of Blandness.
And I got to know our little Lolita better. Not like that, though.
She talked about her clothes business. Apparently, she bought fabrics in Lima, and had them designed into clothes, that she sold in smaller cities throughout Peru. She was a new breed of Peruvian woman. Independent, and in complete opposition to the early marriage values that surrounded her. Actually, she seemed like a poor Peruvian Oprah. She had a dynasty of incredibly unsuccessful businesses. A rice and corn trader. A re-seller of books. A part-time television host. And her most recent pursuit….guinea pig farmer. This beautiful jungle empresario had a dream to raise guinea pigs. And then sell them around the country. Granted, guinea pig is a delicacy her, and quite valuable. But its hard to picture an undiscovered cover girl covered by a swarm of Richard Gere´s favorite rectal treat.
My self-invitation for an ensuite late night cup of tea was denied.
A fuckin´guinea pig farmer. Dude, your kidding me, right? That hot chick is not farming guinea pigs.
I swear. And by the way, they are not called guinea pigs, but referred to by their indigenous name, Cuy. Pronounced like Kweeph. Minus the ¨ph¨.
Why would they name their prized meat after the female fart?
Uh..I don’t think the forbearers of their language knew English.
So, our girl, is farming flatulent guinea pigs.
Kwee became our code word for fart on the local bus. Apparently, based on recent observation, there are some serious digestive problems in Peru. And as impossible as solving PI, one did not ride public transport without falling prey to the KWEE. A smell so pungent, that even locals rushed to lower the windows.
Did you Kwee?
That was not me. It was the women in the striped poncho.
They´re all wearing striped ponchos. Its like a Gap ad for Andean people.
Well, it wasn’t me.
Lolita would become a recurring theme in our trip, but she was forced to return to her hometown, where she had some municipal bribing to take care of. Apparently, opening a guinea pig farm was not taken lightly in these parts.
With his first authentic encounter completed, Jorge was ready to fully steep himself in local culture.
Where´s the drugs? Where is all this great Amazon shit I hear about?
Like the Ayahuasca. You want to try the Ayahuasca.
Get it for me. Whatever. Let´s do it.
The theme of our adventure had now been set. Drugs, Blasphemy, & Foul Air excreting Guinea Pigs.
The taste of vomit and memories of mosquito ravaged sphincter were still fresh memories. Too fresh. I was a bit reluctant about partaking in another Ayahuasca experience. But, I felt it was my duty as newly appointed ambassador to share the mystical jungle vine with my friend. The newly evolved Jorge.
Our search for a shaman was met by skepticism. From me. After having experienced a genuine shaman in the middle of the jungle, I could not possibly except some small city imitation.
Ayahuasca is not a drug you take and go out clubbing. Its meant to be done in a ceremonial setting where the shaman, or guide, leads you on a journey through ritual and music so that you can discover truths about yourself or the world through hallucinatory meditation. Or something like that.
Her name was Jesús. My first female Jesús. What would the archdiocese think? I liked her from the start. One of those people that are so sweet, warm and genuine, you feel your big brother protective mode kick in immediately. Very strange, considering I never protected my little sister. But Jesüs….well, for christsake, we were in the company of Jesus.
We were told that our ¨ceremony¨ would take place in a specially designed retreat center, where we would be able to sink into a meditative state with ease. Jesus and her diminutive partner, Hernán would be our hosts. They were not jungle shamans, but had trained with the very best, and we would be in good hands. It´s like they read some sort of Business School Marketing strategy book.
We arrived at 9pm. We were told to not come earlier. Now we understood why. Our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ was an impoverished Peruvian Melrose Place. On Wednesday´s at 9. A courtyard of grubby one room studios surrounded a large rectangular dirt courtyard covered in a strangulating maze of undulating clotheslines. We assumed that the local building office had yet to approve their plans for a swimming pool and Tiki bar. As the neighbors socialized in the open-air, we were shown the rear of the complex. Was this how David Koresh started? A tin roof hung perilously on four crooked wooden posts. On the red dirt, several straw mats were spread around. Several chickens roamed freely over our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ Two stray dogs would chase the chickens around. And for education purposes, an enormous ayahuasca vine, producer of the much sought after magic, was planted in plain view of the seating chambers.
Dude. No way. No way. I am not tripping outside somebody´s apartment. Did you see the chickens? Did you? This is crazy. Let´s go.
Look. I know it may seem odd (and it was certainly, ODD), but we have got to go with the flow. No matter what, it will be an experience.
I tried reassuring Jorge out of my own insecurity. This place was bizarre. And did these people realize that their friendly neighbor was sending Gringos on drug altering trips in their backyard?
We took our seats under the shanty awning, and our gracious hosts passed us empty buckets.
Por Vomitar.
I understood that. We´re suppose to sit here, with the chickens, the dogs, and the neighbors, and just start barfing. This is fuckin´ crazy.
Well, at least the neighbors know the puke is being taken care of.
Assuming the universal position for the uncoordinated Buddha, we downed our foul, tobacco kwee tasting medicine, and awaited our journey.
The rhythms began softly. Just a few notes from the flauta, the five pronged native flute. And then a couple of howl out of the 3 foot long didgeridoo, an ancient tribal wind instrument. Our eyes were closed. No Peeking. (no duck either, just chickens). And slowly, we drifted off into another universe, where, tribal melodies guided our visions. Our hosts would take turns, singing songs that can only be described as Angelic. Voices so rich with feeling, that you honestly felt as if heaven really did exist. Apparently, blasphemous thoughts had been suspended. Not exterminated.
Lolita came to visit me. A simple pat on the head, but she was present. And lots of children. In non sensual poses, just smiling and staring at me. Eventually, the vines started growing. Visions full of extenuating vines, never threatening, just encompassing. Groups of people on small gondola type boats, in a slightly carnivalesque atmosphere, would come gliding by accompanied the mystical chants that seemed to emanate from the vines, themselves. And the plants kept talking, singing really. It was all quite lovely. But what the fuck was happening in the real world. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer.
I´m still not sure if I made a mistake. Never open your eyes, they tell you. Within minutes, an incredibly short, indigenous man appeared right before me. Bobbing up and down like a doll, he kept smirking and began to mock the barfing that was a common ritual in this experience. He then continued dancing in a very care-free way. I wanted to dance with him. Maybe introduce him to my parents. But I was concerned about Customs. How would I declare this creature? And how much should I say he cost? Sir. Where did you find this little man? On my ayahuasca trip. He was just standing there, so I put him in my backpack. This is your brain on drugs.
Jorge had apparently been turned into larvae and watched himself metamorphosize into a butterfly. But Lolita never dropped by to say hello.
We were out of trance now, our musicians having the life sucked from them.
We´re in a manger. Dude, this is genious. These people are fuckin´gods. They stuck us in a manger.
What´s a manger? And how do you spell that?
Your such a Jew. Manger, you know, nativity scene on suburban front lawns. Mary, Jesus, Saints, the whole gang. This shelter is the manger. And the animals. And fuck, dude, her name is Jesus. Don´t you get it?
It did appear as if we´d been transported to some desert oasis, and yes, I did agree, our noveau shamans had some type of magical voice. But he was right. I was just some stupid Jesus killing Jew. If he only equated the scene to an ancient marketplace with our hosts as nomadic merchants, then perhaps the little jewboy could transgress.
Jorge was hooked. He wanted more natural Peruvian substances. Cocaine. Well, that’s actually processed, so we opted the original Coke. Preservative free. The much maligned Coca leaf.
Interlude. We are not drug addicts. We are not the people who need to get drunk every night or stay stoned all day. Granted, we were not big fans of Nancy Reagan but that’s simply because of her poor taste in dress. All that Red. A bit dramatic, don´t you think? Most Peruvians refrain (disdain, actually) from all drugs, and can´t understand why America buys so much of it. They have seen Miami Vice, and for some reason, they still think Crockett & Tubbs were dealers. We were simply two foreigners looking to find significance in local herbs. And, well, I guess, get a bit fucked up while we were at it. Bathroom break is over.
Lacking the time or interest to see the famed ruins of Machu Picchu, Jorge decided on visiting a lesser known, more dramatic, pre-Incan city. With Coca, of course. It was long mountainous climb to the 11,000 foot ruin site. We were joined by a typically anal retentive German, who donned an unkempt beard and a medusa mane of permed Bavarian curls. Our other guest was a young, blue eyed, idealistic Finn. We assumed his ideal was to spend his day drinking vodka, wondering when the world would stop confusing Finland with the bastard Swedes. Our two EuroUnion guests agreed to spilt some Coca with us. And the guide simply laughed at us. But since most mountain dwelling indigenous people chew the Coca leaf to help provide stimulation in the high altitude draining environment of their laborious farm work (which probably consists of harvesting more coca), the much adored leaf was widely available. So like getting hot dogs from a 50´s style drive-thru, we pulled up in the three shop town, and the toothless storekeeper brought to our window a small garbage bag full of coca leafs.
Dude. Is this enough, or should we get more. Its only a buck for the whole thing.
In da willage, dez is normal. Ve no need more. You trust me, ok.
Yah. We drink vodka too. Its better. Really. Ask the locals.
If we chop the leaf up real small, can we snort it?
The four foreign stooges tramped up the mountainside, mouths full of bitter tasting green leaves.
You fucked up, yet. I don’t feel anything.
Ya do not get fahcked up. Only make you mah clear.
Thanks, Hans. But we´re trying to get fucked up. Like the locals.
Its Heinreich,not Hans. And how many times I tell you…dey don’t get fahcked. Have respect.
You know. In the Finland, we don’t have such thing. I like it. Not like to drink vodka. But I like.
And so the asinine conversation continued. We barely dented the one kilo bag, before Jorge and I agreed, through green stained teeth, that the only reason these people chew so much of this crap was because they couldn’t get afford their own byproduct. They were probably hoping we´d give them some of our own Peruvian Flake.
Really, why are Germans so fastidiously anal. Mr. Liederhosen spent the entire trip wandering through the ruined city arguing with our guide over the percentage of lime used to cure the concrete. He just didn’t understand the tourguide´s proportions. And I thought Americans had issues. No wonder their cars run so smooth and their gas showers are so functional.
Having been relegated to a 1-1 record on our drug procurements, we developed a new fondness for the original inhabitants of this ruined fortress city, known as Kuélap. According to our incredibly jovial young guide, the original inhabitants were descended from Vikings. And honest to the local Rain God, there is a town in northeastern Peru (whose name will not be disclosed in order to prevent its pillaging by the migratory group of tourists, known as sex tourists) that has remained sequestered from the Incan and Spanish bloodline. That´s right, imagine hot Swedish women speaking Spanish and conveying that salsa attitude. An entire region of tall, blue eyed blond hair residents.
Our Finnish friend seemed to doubt this.
I don’t think my people would come here to live. No. They wouldn’t.
The Vikings were from Norway. Your descended from an unwanted batch of Mongolian and Russian sperm.
Vat? Vat you say?
Germans had old cities like dis one, too. Have you know the Teutonics?
You know the ancient city of Auschwitz?
Globalization had reared its head in the remote Andes. But where were those telenovela speaking Vikings?
Traveling across these mint candied labeled mountains requires time, patience, and more patience. Things Jorge was severely lacking.
Dude. Uh. I am not riding in that thing for 18 hours. We can barely fit in there.
(2 hours later)
Dude. Are you kidding me. Did you see how far down that was. Its gotta be a 3000 foot drop and this mini bus is all over the place.(3 hours later)
Kwee. Somebodied Kweed. I know you smell that.(15 minutes later)
Jesus fuckin Christ. What died. Somebody keeps Kweeing.(35 minutes later)
Get me out of here. The smell of Kwee. This road. This is insane. How do you do this all the time?
(about 8 hours into the trip)
What the fuck. We are not going across that. There is no way Im crossing that. Get me back.
A landslide had just buried the road. And in a scene that would have driven most Americans into a cellphone dialing seizure, the locals simply laughed it off and took turns digging out the mound of rock that had inundated the ¨highway¨, our half lane dirt road clinging to mountain cliffs, forcing uncontrollable motion sickness vomit from the elderly indigenous women who were our kweeing co-riders.
21 hours later, Jorge arrived, and seemed to be a new man. Telling anyone that would listen about his death defying ride across the grueling, unforgiving, paralyzing, not crossed sinced Incan times, Andean mountain pass.
But the relationship had only grown. Maybe it was our honey moon phase. But we laughed at absolutely everything. Nothing escaped our giggling sophomoric attitude.
So with drugs and guineas on hiatus, we reverted back to the holy spirit. A mutual friend of ours claimed lineage from the yet, another remote, mountain town that the arduous journey had delivered us to. She was a Sephardic Jew, and this small town was apparently full of them.
Three hours of intense investigation led to the following:
People with paintings and statues of Jesus hanging over their storefront windows don’t like to talk about Jews. They never existed and no one here has ever heard of them. Our friend is a liar, and we are welcome to attend mass at 7 o´clock.
We thought we finally hit paydirt. What is paydirt, anyway? An overly accommodating man sent us to the local synagogue. He promised we would find our bit of history inside. Well, our friendly fellow seemed confused. The Church of Israelites were not Jews. But we did get some lovely Jehovah´s calendars.
Time for more drugs. What was left, on the natural circuit of dosing? San Pedro, the patron saint of Texas. We had both heard of this jungle derived herb, that apparently had its own psychedelic affects. Jorge knew of a certain friend back home, the Prada Hippie he claimed, the kind of girl that makes the average Chinese stir-fry sound like it was descended from Ming, himself, and tasted so outrageously delicious that even Chung Fat could not have created such a delicacy. This respected purveyor of the overly exaggerated truth was our source for the San Pedro.
She said it blew her mind away, and was so intense, she didn’t know where she was.
She also thinks her Yoga teacher can levitate.
Lets do it anyway.
Apothecaries, they call them. Druggists before Johnson & Johnson sent out scantily dressed women with Recreation degrees from SouthwestEastern Missouri State to push their products on the local medic. We needed the local apothecary, whose shop was overrun by a stack of discarded garden twigs & funny smelling leaves. He needed an hour to mix our potion.
Dude. It looks like urine. And its warm. Are you sure we should drink this?
We´ll drink it tomorrow. Let it cool down.
But if we want to get off, maybe we should drink it now.
So your grossed out that it may be a bottle of piss, but your so desperate to get high, that you´d drink it.
Aren´t you?
Yeah, your right. Piss it ain´t so bad. The Prime Minister of India used to drink it. And now look at their economy.
But maybe that´s why its so fuckin hard to understand when I call my credit card company. They all have a mouth full of pee.
We waited two days. Cause in the end, we weren’t that desperate.
Our next Peruvian mountain city had a bizarre natural landscape that hovered on it´s outskirts. Giant 300 foot rock faces hugged to the sides of steep hills, kind of like fusing Easter Island statues with Stonehenge. A little papau wau wau with your shepherd´s pie. This mystical setting would be a good place to pay homage to San Pedro, patron saint of Peter the pissboy. And like all bizarre places in Peru, some ancient tribe had lived there. Maybe San Pedro would bring them back to visit us.
After disclosing our intentions to our guide, he fled, staying a minimum of 100 yards in front of us. But it´s natural,man. These guys don´t like any drugs. Just fry up some guinea pig and they´ll be happy.
So the two gringos carried their matching recycled soda bottles of possible urine, slowly sipping, as they awaited the rocks to begin their chanting. And the more we seemed to drink, the further away our guide went. Each time we passed a solitary boulder, an Incan smurf would pop out, offering us a wool pancho.
Dude, did you see that. Who were those people?. This shit is strong.
No. We´re sober. Drinking some foul tasting mystery juice, and those people live here. They´re native. They want money. And whatever you do, don´t call them ¨little people¨
An hour went by, and no hallucinations. All that sewer tasting liquid for nothing. But my head did feel tingly. And the body kind of light.
You feel anything?
Dude. I feel like I´m on fuckin´ X. I´m so goddamn horny. This is sick.
Maybe you should go behind the rocks and stoop a little old Inca lady.
Im serious, dude. This is ecstasy. I´m going off.
Shortly after our illuminating conversation, I realized Jorge was right. We had drank some kind of herbal ecstasy and instead of transporting ourselves back to pre-Incan times, we were two horny guys looking for anything that would breathe. So much for singing Rocks and talking mountaintops.
You want a massage. I´ll give you one, then you massage me.
Get the fuck out of here. This is serious. Im going off.
As Jorge drowned himself in a trance of fawning concubines, I came up with a plan.
There were thermal baths nearby. We would go lounge in the healing baths, again, a relic of some Incan history, and then luxuriate to a massage. Not by me, but by the Incan goddesses they would employ to pamper the San Pedro infested gringos. A new tourism campaign. A lanky white man drinking a urine colored beverage while being shoulder massaged by a sultry Incan princess. Come to Peru. San Pedro is waiting.(this message is brought to you by the Peruvian Tourism Board, and we take no responsibility for any adverse reactions people may have to our ancient Incan urine. Please recycle)
As we gyrated ourselves in the Incan baths, which were really used American whirlpools with sulfur smelling water and poor grout jobs, we imagined our awaiting decadent massage. Who was she? Maybe there was two? Could we pay extra for the Special?
He looked like Henry Winkler. An older version, but unmistakably, Henry Winkler. He had relocated to northern Peru, to massage SanPedroing tourists as part of a new Peruvian Tourism Board campaign.
Did you ask Fonz for the Special?
Fuck you.
Time to follow Nancy´s advice. We were done. We were saying no. What was Lolita up to?
I had emailed her to invite her to meet us during our trip, even offering to help with the expenses. She never responded. Not once. And Jorge, he had 4 emails in less then a week. He didn´t speak a word of English. Insulted her religious beliefs, and even mentioned that he was married.
Apparently, she had misunderstood my heretical questioning and sent Jorge two ¨Jesoid¨ e-cards with Corinthian quotes. He was her ¨pretty eyed¨man, and I was simply the guinea pig to lure the real meat.
Jorge was now rhapsodizing about his opportunity to give up corporate life and move to Peru, where he and biblical Lolita would raise the Kwee, and maybe run an ayahuasca center on the side. On the side. This was insane but she had him hooked. Then again, a wooden pole, with fleshy breasts, would cause him to kneel down and prostrate uncontrollably.
Maybe this whole Lolita the guinea pig farmer and her mute American love were a running commentary on certain facets of our culture. Was life so monotonous and dull in the states, that a fairly intelligent man would give up his secure life to run a guinea pig farm? Would he name is first pig after me, the matchmaker? Or reaching beyond America, were certain people so drained of their local women´s quirks that anything outside the borders presented an exotic eroticism? No. I think this analogy touches deeper into the concept of the unknown. Mystery.
As humans, we seem to want to project our hopes, our desires, onto those things which we can not understand. Including. Those things, those people or animals or objects that we are unable to communicate with. God must be a loving, caring soul who wants to reward us for all the good that we do. The rain surely must want to fall to provide us with food and bring us life so that we can survive and prosper. Our dog is a saint. He (or she, but can´t the feminists cut some slack, just this once) loves us, he needs us. He thinks we are the best.
OR, maybe the dog has got no other place to go. He realizes we are hypocritical, insincere, and sloppy purveyors of meatloaf. He doesn´t forgive us. He doesn’t even love us. He just wants a bed and some food, so he uses us. We imagine the rest.
Jorge was Lolita´s pet dog. By not speaking her language, he could embody all those things that Peruvian men were unable to provide. He was her San Jorge. Me. Just another perverted foreigner that she had no use for. Wait until the local Chairmen of Boob Studies learns the local dialect. Perhaps, that´s how so many sects of the same religion grew. Sunnis & Shiites, Baptists, Lutherans, & Anglicans. Hindus & Sikhs. They weren’t prospering under one system. The crops weren’t as yielding as they hoped. They´re homes were not quite big enough. They´re women would´t play doggie. Maybe that new guy could provide it.
Celebrating Jorge´s penpal, we decided a disco was in order. We weren´t big fans of the club scene, or for that matter bad Latin pop music, but we figured we should lay off the local medicine for a few nights. In accordance with our religious curiosity, the dancing establishment was properly named, El Diablo. As if dictated by some omnipresent DiscoClub doctrine, the place was full of small circles of dancing girls surrounded by large circles of ogling men. In a matter of minutes, we realized our mistake. So, we ordered more beers, and joined the throngs of ogling men.
The following day, on our way to the bus station, I asked our driver if he as familiar with El Diablo. The translation follows:
Have you heard of The Devil?
Yes. Of course.
We visited The Devil last night?
Really.
Yeah. Have you visited the Devil?
No.
Do you know the Devil?
What?
Do you know THE DEVIL?
Yes. Well, no. No.
Don’t. go. The Devil sucks. Really. We don´t like The Devil.
Good. Good. Thank you.. God be with you.
It was only after the conversation that I noticed the postcard of Mary´s son, glued to his dashboard. Were we prophets, or disciples?
More translatory fun awaited us. Long distance bus journeys were prone to showing dubbed American movies. But sometimes, they kept the original language, English, and subtitled in Spanish. The significance of this rather banal topic is that many people profess to learning English through subtitled movies. Really, go ask your local busboy.
So we spent a bus ride figuring out how a perverted Spanish boy could learn English from subtitled porn movies.
A Peruvian immigrant walks into a convenience store in Chicago.
I am here to fix your cable.
We don’t need our cable fixed.
But you know you want it.
We don’t want it.
Yeeah, yeah, you want it bitch.
Excuse me. Who you call a bitch. You come here, you bitch.
No. I come on you. Wait. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
I call the police. You leave.
Yes. Yes. I am coming.
No. you are leaving.
I am coming.
You are leaving.
I am here to fix your cable.
It’s a new instructional video put out by The United Federation of Erotic Movie Producers to show the Republican party that they are serious about responsible immigration. Go Big Red.
A few days had passed since the last herbal anointment ceremony, and Jorge wanted another try.
Dude. Fuck this jungle crap. Just find us some weed.
Im not buying weed off the street. You know how long you go to jail for?
Oh, but you bought San Pedro escstasy crap. You bought coca. C´mon.
That stuff was legal.
Beachtown, Peru. Or beachtown anywhere. Why are all beach towns, regardless of national borders, full of cheap t-shirt shops, sleazy motels, and bums. Who ordained that one? Really, what Peruvian realized that people at the beach want 3 t-shirts for 10 bucks that exclaim what women look like after you drank a 6 pack. Followed by the name of the said beachtown. Well, one thing beachtowns do have is a plethora of dope pushers. I guess when you apply for your beachtown license, you are permitted an allotted number of scumbag street pushers. And somebody must be giving them dialect lessons, cause the following example can be found on the beaches of Africa, Asian, and the Mid-East.
His body was covered in tattoos. He worn a backward baseball cap and an unbuttoned baseball jersey. I think it was the Brewers. Underneath he wore a classic tight fitting ¨wife-beater¨ tank top.
Yo bro. Yo bro. I got some good shit. You want a dime. I got a dime, right here, bro.
Where did you learn your English?
Motherfucker, you want a bag or not. Why you care where I learn my English?
But really, how did you learn those words?
Man, from the street, bro. Im from the hood.
Where did you live.? Chicago. New York. Milwaukee.
Man, you stupid. I never been the states. How some punk ass like me going to get to the states. I from Lima, bro. And yeah, I watch me some dope American movies too.
Time was running out on the dueling gringo adventure. Jorge really wanted one last dip in the hallucinogenic thermal fonzy bath. I couldn’t deal with ordinary pot. Being a delegate of the Peruvian Tourism Board, it was my duty to utilize indigenous plants.
I had bought some green leaf rolled tobacco in the market. The saleslady promised me that the green leaf helped to bring on the visions. I told her the San Pedro salesman told me the same thing. She said I should only use that stuff with my wife. Little late for that.
That evening, in the solitude of our courtyard motel room, with the meows of caged cats (Our neighbors eat them, so they stay caged, our proprietor informed us) singing in the background, I found peace. And I hadn’t even smoked. I can´t believe how naïve I had been all these years. Philisophical texts. Meditations. Gurus. Hallucinatory drugs. Nonsense. True focus. True clearing of the mind was attainable through joint rolling.
An absolute art form. Forsaken by most folks in the West for the quick high of the Bong, or the creatively named, one-hitter. These were all false prophets. It was through a Zen like concentration, that one could attempt, since perfection was impossible, to create a hand rolled smoking contraption that conveyed upon its beholder the feeling of cradling some exquisitely crafted antique Incan pottery jar. My meditative ears were immune to impatient Jorge´s whining. Each shard of grass was carefully sprinkled in the jaws of the waiting paper. The magical jungle leaves were delicately placed within the narrow confines of the ganja sativa. Every roll of the cannabis sarcophagus was a lesson in patience, as one slight twitch would send the entrancing concoction to the dirty floor below. Why haven´t the Rastas, the Global Prophets of Copious Pot Inhalation, opened up a convent, The Peter Tosh, Paul, & Mary Jane School of Ganja Joint Rolling. Rasta Monks would isolate themselves in beachside caves, fixated on turning the perfect marijuana cigarette. And maybe some chocolate to munch on.
The Peruvians are so drug averse, that they have Bob Marley posters in practically every bar in the country. But almost no one, outside the capital city, dares to smoke it.
Hey Republicans, more family values. Incans for Congress.
We never did figure out what the little green leaves did to our hooch. We were stoned. We kept noticing a small shanty terrace protruding from the giant rock mounds that hovered over the beach. So, we visited a nearly homeless man who actually made a home for himself below that terrace. A natural piece of home construction. In his earthen hovel, surrounded by tourist refuse, sat a Forbes magazine. Its cover read, in English, 400 Richest People in the World. I wonder how they found him.
The relationship had certainly peaked. Two friends were exploiting every bit of humor possible from the unsuspecting locals. It was quite different from my normal, solitary explorations, which seemed more culturally heavy, then comedic. Our final days were spent back on the religious side.
Jorge has a bizarre obsession with churches. He has to see every Church, and in Catholic Latin America they are as plentiful as suburban Applebees. It’s a bizarre obsession because he doesn’t want to pray. He doesn’t want to admire the Holy Spirit, or absolve his multitude of sins. He simply wants to find the freaky shit, as he says.
You know, Jesus draped in black with specters coming out of his body. Crap like that.
So our final days were spent Colonial church hopping, hypothesizing how Mary really got pregnant. God borrowed some sperm and put it on a vibrator. He assured her this would maintain her virginity. Mary was a lesbian and was unable to get pregnant without a donor. She asked both Luke and Mark to donate, so neither would know who was the real father. Jesus was the product of a young Israelite couple´s burning lust. Embarassed by their offspring, they left it for the frigid old lady on the hill who would nobody would sleep with. They figured it was her only chance for a kid.
And so it went. A holiday that any Tourism Board would love to put into pretty little glossy brochures. That unsuspecting people pick up. Like a bottle of San Pedro, and get lulled into a false sense of exotic adventure.
I learned something. Maybe something that every relationship needs. And maybe something that a solo lifestyle can never provide…..Humor is a necessary ingredient. Without laughter, life is misery, or at best, just plain dull. And sure, you can always find humor on your own. But …but, when you have someone to share that with, the humor only grows, and grows until you actually forget that there are things in this world that bother you. There are things in your life that bother you. Drugs aren’t really the answer. Nor is religion. Or guinea pigs. Although all those things make a good canvas to laugh on. Maybe we don’t even need intimacy in the long run. It’s a partner who can sustain the comedy, the comedy that is life. Maybe this will revolutionize the online dating world. SingleBlackWhitePuertoRicanBurmeseMaleFemale looking for someone I can spend my life cracking up at the absurd shit us humans do. But I do warn you, eventually I´ll have to get laid. Then, I´ll come home and we can laugh about it.
Life as a single person requires no compromises. No sacrifices. No arguments. And some might add…..No companionship. But that´s why the Lord Almighty gave us two hands and deregulated Cable.
When a person sans compromising companionship travels solo the rewards are many…..countless invitations to strangers homes (due to your perceived loneliness?) where you are free to eat the organs of endangered species without your partner exhibiting severe signs of nausea and disdain for your barbaric hosts. Gross. These people are gross. I AM LEAVING. An independent party can easily choose a night´s lodging without the vocal accompaniment of bedspread criticism and faulty tile grouting. And perhaps, most liberating, more then a pair of pampers, after a night of bad fish, on a 21 hour dirt road bus ride, would be……the freedom to wander, in search of the weird, wonderful, & wacky without the constant chants of , ¨Can´t we go to that store, I want to stop over there, I don’t like this neighborhood, I understand local traditions, but I still don´t think he should be putting his finger there. Its hurts goddamnit. Are you listening to me, you selfish bastard?¨
Naturally, I was a bit concerned when a good friend asked to join me for a portion of the current South American Adventure, never to be seen in a theatre near you. Despite his being cloaked of the same gender, relationships are relationships.
But what would we do? Would I be totally removed from local culture, spending countless hours chatting with my fellow gringo, while opportunity after opportunity passed me by due to my reluctance to leave the non-spanish speaking compatriot stranded? Would I be railroaded into staying in faux Marriott style hotelpenitentiaries that promised a complete removal of character in exchange for a wonderfully bland sterile air conditioned environment and an Incan bellhop named Jake. Well, I consoled myself with the fact that the incredibly appreciative & rewarding American employment system only allowed its servants a maximum of two weeks holiday. Uh…that may be an exaggeration. I think after at least 10, or maybe fifteen years, an employee may receive an extra week holiday. And a promotional certificate to Magic Kingdom with a coupon for half off your second purchase of an 84 oz. Mickey CocaCola Cup. Fuck, Mickey´s made it this long, with all those lecherous bastards yanking at his tail, and molesting his Minnie. I could make it 12 days. Right?
I met George at the Lima airport. 6 a.m. And a typical gray Peruvian sky welcomed his arrival.
Hey.
Hey.
Your no longer George. You are Jorge. When people ask your name, don´t ever say George. Got it, Jorge.
Are fuckin´nuts? My name is George, dude. I´m sure they can say George. Geoooorge.
I know you’re a white American. But trust me, the people have more respect when you give them a Spanish name. Think about it. Would you rather bitch about your system being down to your Indian tech guy by calling up and saying, ¨yo, Hajmantabali, my computer just crashed¨ or ¨yo, Bob, can you fix my damn computer?¨
Jorge soon learned to enjoy his new identity. Once, I swear, I saw him practicing the pronunciation while he brushed his teeth.
My fears were soon allayed. Jorge would not be a hindrance. He would actually motivate me. As if I was deputized some kind of Caucasian ambassador for the great land of Peru, I immediately displayed the hospitality of the locals.
She was a stunning, full-bodied (that is to say, she hadn’t read Cosmo´s groundbreaking story from this month´s issue, 10 ways to stay Thin. The Waif is back in.) brunette with a chest enlargement to satisfy the most persnickety of Boob men. Jorge was head of the Boob men at his local Lion´s Club.
Dude. I don’t get it. Is she some kind of hooker? She´s just going to leave the airport with us, and spend the day, hanging out, like she´s our buddy.
Yep. People are genuine here. You’ve got to trust. Its probably just a good opportunity for her to guide some strangers and share her culture.
You’re an idiot. Watch your wallet. And don’t say I didn’t tell you so.
Her name was Lolita. Really, Lolita of the jungle. We met her in the airport terminal of our first destination, a small, but hectic city bordering the Peruvian Amazon. She soon learned that Jorge refused to stay in a place without air conditioning. We were finally recommended to the only place in town with refrigeration. A perfect example of a hotelpenitentary.
Fuck you. Ok. Its 20 degrees in Chicago. I don´t care if people here open their windows. Its hot. You think these monkeys wouldn’t die if they landed in O´hare. You´ll be thanking me by the morning.
Lolita spent almost 2 days with her Gringo masters. Mostly it was a translation fest. Jorge would pepper me with questions to ask our Amazonian Lolita. One such occasion took place in the town square, the Plaza de Armas, where families and young couples gathered to enjoy the sounds of harmonically challenged musicians.
Ask her if She believes in Christ.
No way man. It’s a catholic country. That’s like asking a guy from Texas if he believes in Bush.
Just ask her.
Do you believe in Jesus?
Yes, but of course.
I told you, jackass.
Ask her, if she knows that he´s a false prophet.
Are you crazy? These people will lynch me. Go learn Spanish and then you can tell her.
Ok. Just ask her why she believes in God.
Jorge believes in God, don’t you think its important to believe in one God?
Yes. Yes, I do.
So. What did she say.
She has no problem with extramarital sex.
At the time, I didn’t realize that a vacation of blasphemy was about to begin.
Later that evening, Jorge retreated early to our Freon den of Blandness.
And I got to know our little Lolita better. Not like that, though.
She talked about her clothes business. Apparently, she bought fabrics in Lima, and had them designed into clothes, that she sold in smaller cities throughout Peru. She was a new breed of Peruvian woman. Independent, and in complete opposition to the early marriage values that surrounded her. Actually, she seemed like a poor Peruvian Oprah. She had a dynasty of incredibly unsuccessful businesses. A rice and corn trader. A re-seller of books. A part-time television host. And her most recent pursuit….guinea pig farmer. This beautiful jungle empresario had a dream to raise guinea pigs. And then sell them around the country. Granted, guinea pig is a delicacy her, and quite valuable. But its hard to picture an undiscovered cover girl covered by a swarm of Richard Gere´s favorite rectal treat.
My self-invitation for an ensuite late night cup of tea was denied.
A fuckin´guinea pig farmer. Dude, your kidding me, right? That hot chick is not farming guinea pigs.
I swear. And by the way, they are not called guinea pigs, but referred to by their indigenous name, Cuy. Pronounced like Kweeph. Minus the ¨ph¨.
Why would they name their prized meat after the female fart?
Uh..I don’t think the forbearers of their language knew English.
So, our girl, is farming flatulent guinea pigs.
Kwee became our code word for fart on the local bus. Apparently, based on recent observation, there are some serious digestive problems in Peru. And as impossible as solving PI, one did not ride public transport without falling prey to the KWEE. A smell so pungent, that even locals rushed to lower the windows.
Did you Kwee?
That was not me. It was the women in the striped poncho.
They´re all wearing striped ponchos. Its like a Gap ad for Andean people.
Well, it wasn’t me.
Lolita would become a recurring theme in our trip, but she was forced to return to her hometown, where she had some municipal bribing to take care of. Apparently, opening a guinea pig farm was not taken lightly in these parts.
With his first authentic encounter completed, Jorge was ready to fully steep himself in local culture.
Where´s the drugs? Where is all this great Amazon shit I hear about?
Like the Ayahuasca. You want to try the Ayahuasca.
Get it for me. Whatever. Let´s do it.
The theme of our adventure had now been set. Drugs, Blasphemy, & Foul Air excreting Guinea Pigs.
The taste of vomit and memories of mosquito ravaged sphincter were still fresh memories. Too fresh. I was a bit reluctant about partaking in another Ayahuasca experience. But, I felt it was my duty as newly appointed ambassador to share the mystical jungle vine with my friend. The newly evolved Jorge.
Our search for a shaman was met by skepticism. From me. After having experienced a genuine shaman in the middle of the jungle, I could not possibly except some small city imitation.
Ayahuasca is not a drug you take and go out clubbing. Its meant to be done in a ceremonial setting where the shaman, or guide, leads you on a journey through ritual and music so that you can discover truths about yourself or the world through hallucinatory meditation. Or something like that.
Her name was Jesús. My first female Jesús. What would the archdiocese think? I liked her from the start. One of those people that are so sweet, warm and genuine, you feel your big brother protective mode kick in immediately. Very strange, considering I never protected my little sister. But Jesüs….well, for christsake, we were in the company of Jesus.
We were told that our ¨ceremony¨ would take place in a specially designed retreat center, where we would be able to sink into a meditative state with ease. Jesus and her diminutive partner, Hernán would be our hosts. They were not jungle shamans, but had trained with the very best, and we would be in good hands. It´s like they read some sort of Business School Marketing strategy book.
We arrived at 9pm. We were told to not come earlier. Now we understood why. Our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ was an impoverished Peruvian Melrose Place. On Wednesday´s at 9. A courtyard of grubby one room studios surrounded a large rectangular dirt courtyard covered in a strangulating maze of undulating clotheslines. We assumed that the local building office had yet to approve their plans for a swimming pool and Tiki bar. As the neighbors socialized in the open-air, we were shown the rear of the complex. Was this how David Koresh started? A tin roof hung perilously on four crooked wooden posts. On the red dirt, several straw mats were spread around. Several chickens roamed freely over our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ Two stray dogs would chase the chickens around. And for education purposes, an enormous ayahuasca vine, producer of the much sought after magic, was planted in plain view of the seating chambers.
Dude. No way. No way. I am not tripping outside somebody´s apartment. Did you see the chickens? Did you? This is crazy. Let´s go.
Look. I know it may seem odd (and it was certainly, ODD), but we have got to go with the flow. No matter what, it will be an experience.
I tried reassuring Jorge out of my own insecurity. This place was bizarre. And did these people realize that their friendly neighbor was sending Gringos on drug altering trips in their backyard?
We took our seats under the shanty awning, and our gracious hosts passed us empty buckets.
Por Vomitar.
I understood that. We´re suppose to sit here, with the chickens, the dogs, and the neighbors, and just start barfing. This is fuckin´ crazy.
Well, at least the neighbors know the puke is being taken care of.
Assuming the universal position for the uncoordinated Buddha, we downed our foul, tobacco kwee tasting medicine, and awaited our journey.
The rhythms began softly. Just a few notes from the flauta, the five pronged native flute. And then a couple of howl out of the 3 foot long didgeridoo, an ancient tribal wind instrument. Our eyes were closed. No Peeking. (no duck either, just chickens). And slowly, we drifted off into another universe, where, tribal melodies guided our visions. Our hosts would take turns, singing songs that can only be described as Angelic. Voices so rich with feeling, that you honestly felt as if heaven really did exist. Apparently, blasphemous thoughts had been suspended. Not exterminated.
Lolita came to visit me. A simple pat on the head, but she was present. And lots of children. In non sensual poses, just smiling and staring at me. Eventually, the vines started growing. Visions full of extenuating vines, never threatening, just encompassing. Groups of people on small gondola type boats, in a slightly carnivalesque atmosphere, would come gliding by accompanied the mystical chants that seemed to emanate from the vines, themselves. And the plants kept talking, singing really. It was all quite lovely. But what the fuck was happening in the real world. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer.
I´m still not sure if I made a mistake. Never open your eyes, they tell you. Within minutes, an incredibly short, indigenous man appeared right before me. Bobbing up and down like a doll, he kept smirking and began to mock the barfing that was a common ritual in this experience. He then continued dancing in a very care-free way. I wanted to dance with him. Maybe introduce him to my parents. But I was concerned about Customs. How would I declare this creature? And how much should I say he cost? Sir. Where did you find this little man? On my ayahuasca trip. He was just standing there, so I put him in my backpack. This is your brain on drugs.
Jorge had apparently been turned into larvae and watched himself metamorphosize into a butterfly. But Lolita never dropped by to say hello.
We were out of trance now, our musicians having the life sucked from them.
We´re in a manger. Dude, this is genious. These people are fuckin´gods. They stuck us in a manger.
What´s a manger? And how do you spell that?
Your such a Jew. Manger, you know, nativity scene on suburban front lawns. Mary, Jesus, Saints, the whole gang. This shelter is the manger. And the animals. And fuck, dude, her name is Jesus. Don´t you get it?
It did appear as if we´d been transported to some desert oasis, and yes, I did agree, our noveau shamans had some type of magical voice. But he was right. I was just some stupid Jesus killing Jew. If he only equated the scene to an ancient marketplace with our hosts as nomadic merchants, then perhaps the little jewboy could transgress.
Jorge was hooked. He wanted more natural Peruvian substances. Cocaine. Well, that’s actually processed, so we opted the original Coke. Preservative free. The much maligned Coca leaf.
Interlude. We are not drug addicts. We are not the people who need to get drunk every night or stay stoned all day. Granted, we were not big fans of Nancy Reagan but that’s simply because of her poor taste in dress. All that Red. A bit dramatic, don´t you think? Most Peruvians refrain (disdain, actually) from all drugs, and can´t understand why America buys so much of it. They have seen Miami Vice, and for some reason, they still think Crockett & Tubbs were dealers. We were simply two foreigners looking to find significance in local herbs. And, well, I guess, get a bit fucked up while we were at it. Bathroom break is over.
Lacking the time or interest to see the famed ruins of Machu Picchu, Jorge decided on visiting a lesser known, more dramatic, pre-Incan city. With Coca, of course. It was long mountainous climb to the 11,000 foot ruin site. We were joined by a typically anal retentive German, who donned an unkempt beard and a medusa mane of permed Bavarian curls. Our other guest was a young, blue eyed, idealistic Finn. We assumed his ideal was to spend his day drinking vodka, wondering when the world would stop confusing Finland with the bastard Swedes. Our two EuroUnion guests agreed to spilt some Coca with us. And the guide simply laughed at us. But since most mountain dwelling indigenous people chew the Coca leaf to help provide stimulation in the high altitude draining environment of their laborious farm work (which probably consists of harvesting more coca), the much adored leaf was widely available. So like getting hot dogs from a 50´s style drive-thru, we pulled up in the three shop town, and the toothless storekeeper brought to our window a small garbage bag full of coca leafs.
Dude. Is this enough, or should we get more. Its only a buck for the whole thing.
In da willage, dez is normal. Ve no need more. You trust me, ok.
Yah. We drink vodka too. Its better. Really. Ask the locals.
If we chop the leaf up real small, can we snort it?
The four foreign stooges tramped up the mountainside, mouths full of bitter tasting green leaves.
You fucked up, yet. I don’t feel anything.
Ya do not get fahcked up. Only make you mah clear.
Thanks, Hans. But we´re trying to get fucked up. Like the locals.
Its Heinreich,not Hans. And how many times I tell you…dey don’t get fahcked. Have respect.
You know. In the Finland, we don’t have such thing. I like it. Not like to drink vodka. But I like.
And so the asinine conversation continued. We barely dented the one kilo bag, before Jorge and I agreed, through green stained teeth, that the only reason these people chew so much of this crap was because they couldn’t get afford their own byproduct. They were probably hoping we´d give them some of our own Peruvian Flake.
Really, why are Germans so fastidiously anal. Mr. Liederhosen spent the entire trip wandering through the ruined city arguing with our guide over the percentage of lime used to cure the concrete. He just didn’t understand the tourguide´s proportions. And I thought Americans had issues. No wonder their cars run so smooth and their gas showers are so functional.
Having been relegated to a 1-1 record on our drug procurements, we developed a new fondness for the original inhabitants of this ruined fortress city, known as Kuélap. According to our incredibly jovial young guide, the original inhabitants were descended from Vikings. And honest to the local Rain God, there is a town in northeastern Peru (whose name will not be disclosed in order to prevent its pillaging by the migratory group of tourists, known as sex tourists) that has remained sequestered from the Incan and Spanish bloodline. That´s right, imagine hot Swedish women speaking Spanish and conveying that salsa attitude. An entire region of tall, blue eyed blond hair residents.
Our Finnish friend seemed to doubt this.
I don’t think my people would come here to live. No. They wouldn’t.
The Vikings were from Norway. Your descended from an unwanted batch of Mongolian and Russian sperm.
Vat? Vat you say?
Germans had old cities like dis one, too. Have you know the Teutonics?
You know the ancient city of Auschwitz?
Globalization had reared its head in the remote Andes. But where were those telenovela speaking Vikings?
Traveling across these mint candied labeled mountains requires time, patience, and more patience. Things Jorge was severely lacking.
Dude. Uh. I am not riding in that thing for 18 hours. We can barely fit in there.
(2 hours later)
Dude. Are you kidding me. Did you see how far down that was. Its gotta be a 3000 foot drop and this mini bus is all over the place.(3 hours later)
Kwee. Somebodied Kweed. I know you smell that.(15 minutes later)
Jesus fuckin Christ. What died. Somebody keeps Kweeing.(35 minutes later)
Get me out of here. The smell of Kwee. This road. This is insane. How do you do this all the time?
(about 8 hours into the trip)
What the fuck. We are not going across that. There is no way Im crossing that. Get me back.
A landslide had just buried the road. And in a scene that would have driven most Americans into a cellphone dialing seizure, the locals simply laughed it off and took turns digging out the mound of rock that had inundated the ¨highway¨, our half lane dirt road clinging to mountain cliffs, forcing uncontrollable motion sickness vomit from the elderly indigenous women who were our kweeing co-riders.
21 hours later, Jorge arrived, and seemed to be a new man. Telling anyone that would listen about his death defying ride across the grueling, unforgiving, paralyzing, not crossed sinced Incan times, Andean mountain pass.
But the relationship had only grown. Maybe it was our honey moon phase. But we laughed at absolutely everything. Nothing escaped our giggling sophomoric attitude.
So with drugs and guineas on hiatus, we reverted back to the holy spirit. A mutual friend of ours claimed lineage from the yet, another remote, mountain town that the arduous journey had delivered us to. She was a Sephardic Jew, and this small town was apparently full of them.
Three hours of intense investigation led to the following:
People with paintings and statues of Jesus hanging over their storefront windows don’t like to talk about Jews. They never existed and no one here has ever heard of them. Our friend is a liar, and we are welcome to attend mass at 7 o´clock.
We thought we finally hit paydirt. What is paydirt, anyway? An overly accommodating man sent us to the local synagogue. He promised we would find our bit of history inside. Well, our friendly fellow seemed confused. The Church of Israelites were not Jews. But we did get some lovely Jehovah´s calendars.
Time for more drugs. What was left, on the natural circuit of dosing? San Pedro, the patron saint of Texas. We had both heard of this jungle derived herb, that apparently had its own psychedelic affects. Jorge knew of a certain friend back home, the Prada Hippie he claimed, the kind of girl that makes the average Chinese stir-fry sound like it was descended from Ming, himself, and tasted so outrageously delicious that even Chung Fat could not have created such a delicacy. This respected purveyor of the overly exaggerated truth was our source for the San Pedro.
She said it blew her mind away, and was so intense, she didn’t know where she was.
She also thinks her Yoga teacher can levitate.
Lets do it anyway.
Apothecaries, they call them. Druggists before Johnson & Johnson sent out scantily dressed women with Recreation degrees from SouthwestEastern Missouri State to push their products on the local medic. We needed the local apothecary, whose shop was overrun by a stack of discarded garden twigs & funny smelling leaves. He needed an hour to mix our potion.
Dude. It looks like urine. And its warm. Are you sure we should drink this?
We´ll drink it tomorrow. Let it cool down.
But if we want to get off, maybe we should drink it now.
So your grossed out that it may be a bottle of piss, but your so desperate to get high, that you´d drink it.
Aren´t you?
Yeah, your right. Piss it ain´t so bad. The Prime Minister of India used to drink it. And now look at their economy.
But maybe that´s why its so fuckin hard to understand when I call my credit card company. They all have a mouth full of pee.
We waited two days. Cause in the end, we weren’t that desperate.
Our next Peruvian mountain city had a bizarre natural landscape that hovered on it´s outskirts. Giant 300 foot rock faces hugged to the sides of steep hills, kind of like fusing Easter Island statues with Stonehenge. A little papau wau wau with your shepherd´s pie. This mystical setting would be a good place to pay homage to San Pedro, patron saint of Peter the pissboy. And like all bizarre places in Peru, some ancient tribe had lived there. Maybe San Pedro would bring them back to visit us.
After disclosing our intentions to our guide, he fled, staying a minimum of 100 yards in front of us. But it´s natural,man. These guys don´t like any drugs. Just fry up some guinea pig and they´ll be happy.
So the two gringos carried their matching recycled soda bottles of possible urine, slowly sipping, as they awaited the rocks to begin their chanting. And the more we seemed to drink, the further away our guide went. Each time we passed a solitary boulder, an Incan smurf would pop out, offering us a wool pancho.
Dude, did you see that. Who were those people?. This shit is strong.
No. We´re sober. Drinking some foul tasting mystery juice, and those people live here. They´re native. They want money. And whatever you do, don´t call them ¨little people¨
An hour went by, and no hallucinations. All that sewer tasting liquid for nothing. But my head did feel tingly. And the body kind of light.
You feel anything?
Dude. I feel like I´m on fuckin´ X. I´m so goddamn horny. This is sick.
Maybe you should go behind the rocks and stoop a little old Inca lady.
Im serious, dude. This is ecstasy. I´m going off.
Shortly after our illuminating conversation, I realized Jorge was right. We had drank some kind of herbal ecstasy and instead of transporting ourselves back to pre-Incan times, we were two horny guys looking for anything that would breathe. So much for singing Rocks and talking mountaintops.
You want a massage. I´ll give you one, then you massage me.
Get the fuck out of here. This is serious. Im going off.
As Jorge drowned himself in a trance of fawning concubines, I came up with a plan.
There were thermal baths nearby. We would go lounge in the healing baths, again, a relic of some Incan history, and then luxuriate to a massage. Not by me, but by the Incan goddesses they would employ to pamper the San Pedro infested gringos. A new tourism campaign. A lanky white man drinking a urine colored beverage while being shoulder massaged by a sultry Incan princess. Come to Peru. San Pedro is waiting.(this message is brought to you by the Peruvian Tourism Board, and we take no responsibility for any adverse reactions people may have to our ancient Incan urine. Please recycle)
As we gyrated ourselves in the Incan baths, which were really used American whirlpools with sulfur smelling water and poor grout jobs, we imagined our awaiting decadent massage. Who was she? Maybe there was two? Could we pay extra for the Special?
He looked like Henry Winkler. An older version, but unmistakably, Henry Winkler. He had relocated to northern Peru, to massage SanPedroing tourists as part of a new Peruvian Tourism Board campaign.
Did you ask Fonz for the Special?
Fuck you.
Time to follow Nancy´s advice. We were done. We were saying no. What was Lolita up to?
I had emailed her to invite her to meet us during our trip, even offering to help with the expenses. She never responded. Not once. And Jorge, he had 4 emails in less then a week. He didn´t speak a word of English. Insulted her religious beliefs, and even mentioned that he was married.
Apparently, she had misunderstood my heretical questioning and sent Jorge two ¨Jesoid¨ e-cards with Corinthian quotes. He was her ¨pretty eyed¨man, and I was simply the guinea pig to lure the real meat.
Jorge was now rhapsodizing about his opportunity to give up corporate life and move to Peru, where he and biblical Lolita would raise the Kwee, and maybe run an ayahuasca center on the side. On the side. This was insane but she had him hooked. Then again, a wooden pole, with fleshy breasts, would cause him to kneel down and prostrate uncontrollably.
Maybe this whole Lolita the guinea pig farmer and her mute American love were a running commentary on certain facets of our culture. Was life so monotonous and dull in the states, that a fairly intelligent man would give up his secure life to run a guinea pig farm? Would he name is first pig after me, the matchmaker? Or reaching beyond America, were certain people so drained of their local women´s quirks that anything outside the borders presented an exotic eroticism? No. I think this analogy touches deeper into the concept of the unknown. Mystery.
As humans, we seem to want to project our hopes, our desires, onto those things which we can not understand. Including. Those things, those people or animals or objects that we are unable to communicate with. God must be a loving, caring soul who wants to reward us for all the good that we do. The rain surely must want to fall to provide us with food and bring us life so that we can survive and prosper. Our dog is a saint. He (or she, but can´t the feminists cut some slack, just this once) loves us, he needs us. He thinks we are the best.
OR, maybe the dog has got no other place to go. He realizes we are hypocritical, insincere, and sloppy purveyors of meatloaf. He doesn´t forgive us. He doesn’t even love us. He just wants a bed and some food, so he uses us. We imagine the rest.
Jorge was Lolita´s pet dog. By not speaking her language, he could embody all those things that Peruvian men were unable to provide. He was her San Jorge. Me. Just another perverted foreigner that she had no use for. Wait until the local Chairmen of Boob Studies learns the local dialect. Perhaps, that´s how so many sects of the same religion grew. Sunnis & Shiites, Baptists, Lutherans, & Anglicans. Hindus & Sikhs. They weren’t prospering under one system. The crops weren’t as yielding as they hoped. They´re homes were not quite big enough. They´re women would´t play doggie. Maybe that new guy could provide it.
Celebrating Jorge´s penpal, we decided a disco was in order. We weren´t big fans of the club scene, or for that matter bad Latin pop music, but we figured we should lay off the local medicine for a few nights. In accordance with our religious curiosity, the dancing establishment was properly named, El Diablo. As if dictated by some omnipresent DiscoClub doctrine, the place was full of small circles of dancing girls surrounded by large circles of ogling men. In a matter of minutes, we realized our mistake. So, we ordered more beers, and joined the throngs of ogling men.
The following day, on our way to the bus station, I asked our driver if he as familiar with El Diablo. The translation follows:
Have you heard of The Devil?
Yes. Of course.
We visited The Devil last night?
Really.
Yeah. Have you visited the Devil?
No.
Do you know the Devil?
What?
Do you know THE DEVIL?
Yes. Well, no. No.
Don’t. go. The Devil sucks. Really. We don´t like The Devil.
Good. Good. Thank you.. God be with you.
It was only after the conversation that I noticed the postcard of Mary´s son, glued to his dashboard. Were we prophets, or disciples?
More translatory fun awaited us. Long distance bus journeys were prone to showing dubbed American movies. But sometimes, they kept the original language, English, and subtitled in Spanish. The significance of this rather banal topic is that many people profess to learning English through subtitled movies. Really, go ask your local busboy.
So we spent a bus ride figuring out how a perverted Spanish boy could learn English from subtitled porn movies.
A Peruvian immigrant walks into a convenience store in Chicago.
I am here to fix your cable.
We don’t need our cable fixed.
But you know you want it.
We don’t want it.
Yeeah, yeah, you want it bitch.
Excuse me. Who you call a bitch. You come here, you bitch.
No. I come on you. Wait. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
I call the police. You leave.
Yes. Yes. I am coming.
No. you are leaving.
I am coming.
You are leaving.
I am here to fix your cable.
It’s a new instructional video put out by The United Federation of Erotic Movie Producers to show the Republican party that they are serious about responsible immigration. Go Big Red.
A few days had passed since the last herbal anointment ceremony, and Jorge wanted another try.
Dude. Fuck this jungle crap. Just find us some weed.
Im not buying weed off the street. You know how long you go to jail for?
Oh, but you bought San Pedro escstasy crap. You bought coca. C´mon.
That stuff was legal.
Beachtown, Peru. Or beachtown anywhere. Why are all beach towns, regardless of national borders, full of cheap t-shirt shops, sleazy motels, and bums. Who ordained that one? Really, what Peruvian realized that people at the beach want 3 t-shirts for 10 bucks that exclaim what women look like after you drank a 6 pack. Followed by the name of the said beachtown. Well, one thing beachtowns do have is a plethora of dope pushers. I guess when you apply for your beachtown license, you are permitted an allotted number of scumbag street pushers. And somebody must be giving them dialect lessons, cause the following example can be found on the beaches of Africa, Asian, and the Mid-East.
His body was covered in tattoos. He worn a backward baseball cap and an unbuttoned baseball jersey. I think it was the Brewers. Underneath he wore a classic tight fitting ¨wife-beater¨ tank top.
Yo bro. Yo bro. I got some good shit. You want a dime. I got a dime, right here, bro.
Where did you learn your English?
Motherfucker, you want a bag or not. Why you care where I learn my English?
But really, how did you learn those words?
Man, from the street, bro. Im from the hood.
Where did you live.? Chicago. New York. Milwaukee.
Man, you stupid. I never been the states. How some punk ass like me going to get to the states. I from Lima, bro. And yeah, I watch me some dope American movies too.
Time was running out on the dueling gringo adventure. Jorge really wanted one last dip in the hallucinogenic thermal fonzy bath. I couldn’t deal with ordinary pot. Being a delegate of the Peruvian Tourism Board, it was my duty to utilize indigenous plants.
I had bought some green leaf rolled tobacco in the market. The saleslady promised me that the green leaf helped to bring on the visions. I told her the San Pedro salesman told me the same thing. She said I should only use that stuff with my wife. Little late for that.
That evening, in the solitude of our courtyard motel room, with the meows of caged cats (Our neighbors eat them, so they stay caged, our proprietor informed us) singing in the background, I found peace. And I hadn’t even smoked. I can´t believe how naïve I had been all these years. Philisophical texts. Meditations. Gurus. Hallucinatory drugs. Nonsense. True focus. True clearing of the mind was attainable through joint rolling.
An absolute art form. Forsaken by most folks in the West for the quick high of the Bong, or the creatively named, one-hitter. These were all false prophets. It was through a Zen like concentration, that one could attempt, since perfection was impossible, to create a hand rolled smoking contraption that conveyed upon its beholder the feeling of cradling some exquisitely crafted antique Incan pottery jar. My meditative ears were immune to impatient Jorge´s whining. Each shard of grass was carefully sprinkled in the jaws of the waiting paper. The magical jungle leaves were delicately placed within the narrow confines of the ganja sativa. Every roll of the cannabis sarcophagus was a lesson in patience, as one slight twitch would send the entrancing concoction to the dirty floor below. Why haven´t the Rastas, the Global Prophets of Copious Pot Inhalation, opened up a convent, The Peter Tosh, Paul, & Mary Jane School of Ganja Joint Rolling. Rasta Monks would isolate themselves in beachside caves, fixated on turning the perfect marijuana cigarette. And maybe some chocolate to munch on.
The Peruvians are so drug averse, that they have Bob Marley posters in practically every bar in the country. But almost no one, outside the capital city, dares to smoke it.
Hey Republicans, more family values. Incans for Congress.
We never did figure out what the little green leaves did to our hooch. We were stoned. We kept noticing a small shanty terrace protruding from the giant rock mounds that hovered over the beach. So, we visited a nearly homeless man who actually made a home for himself below that terrace. A natural piece of home construction. In his earthen hovel, surrounded by tourist refuse, sat a Forbes magazine. Its cover read, in English, 400 Richest People in the World. I wonder how they found him.
The relationship had certainly peaked. Two friends were exploiting every bit of humor possible from the unsuspecting locals. It was quite different from my normal, solitary explorations, which seemed more culturally heavy, then comedic. Our final days were spent back on the religious side.
Jorge has a bizarre obsession with churches. He has to see every Church, and in Catholic Latin America they are as plentiful as suburban Applebees. It’s a bizarre obsession because he doesn’t want to pray. He doesn’t want to admire the Holy Spirit, or absolve his multitude of sins. He simply wants to find the freaky shit, as he says.
You know, Jesus draped in black with specters coming out of his body. Crap like that.
So our final days were spent Colonial church hopping, hypothesizing how Mary really got pregnant. God borrowed some sperm and put it on a vibrator. He assured her this would maintain her virginity. Mary was a lesbian and was unable to get pregnant without a donor. She asked both Luke and Mark to donate, so neither would know who was the real father. Jesus was the product of a young Israelite couple´s burning lust. Embarassed by their offspring, they left it for the frigid old lady on the hill who would nobody would sleep with. They figured it was her only chance for a kid.
And so it went. A holiday that any Tourism Board would love to put into pretty little glossy brochures. That unsuspecting people pick up. Like a bottle of San Pedro, and get lulled into a false sense of exotic adventure.
I learned something. Maybe something that every relationship needs. And maybe something that a solo lifestyle can never provide…..Humor is a necessary ingredient. Without laughter, life is misery, or at best, just plain dull. And sure, you can always find humor on your own. But …but, when you have someone to share that with, the humor only grows, and grows until you actually forget that there are things in this world that bother you. There are things in your life that bother you. Drugs aren’t really the answer. Nor is religion. Or guinea pigs. Although all those things make a good canvas to laugh on. Maybe we don’t even need intimacy in the long run. It’s a partner who can sustain the comedy, the comedy that is life. Maybe this will revolutionize the online dating world. SingleBlackWhitePuertoRicanBurmeseMaleFemale looking for someone I can spend my life cracking up at the absurd shit us humans do. But I do warn you, eventually I´ll have to get laid. Then, I´ll come home and we can laugh about it.
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