Before I get into this report, I would like to thank those of you that were kind enough to write encouraging words of support, as well as those of you that scared the shit out of me regarding the "Tigger situation." Some of my friends and neighbors took more concrete steps and ordered me two SOG knives in some weird contorted effort to either protect or kill me; I haven't figured out yet which they are trying to accomplish. It was like Christmas when they arrived in the mail and I open them as quickly as a young kid rips through his presents under the tree. They were absolutely beautiful, one had an aluminum handle while the other one had a ballistic plastic handle and, as a result was slightly lighter and, therefore, far more dangerous or so I was told. Both had black blades with a little knob on them so that with a flick of your thumb they opened and were ready for action. I couldn't keep my hands off them and it finally got so bad, my kids told me that I couldn't bring them to the dinner table anymore. You're probably wondering how proficient I became, aren't you? Let's just say that after two months of playing with both, each knife is still ahead on points. Another friend whose heart was in the right place and couldn't stand seeing me cut my hands anymore, went out and bought me some pepper spray to take the Rio. Although his heart was in the right place, his mind definitely wasn't because when he went to the store to buy it they were having a sale and as a result he bought me the Costco size unit for $14, which was exactly the same price as the little purse size. Not that I carry a purse or anything like that, but it would be kind of nice to slip something small in my pocket rather than having to strap a fire extinguisher size instrument to my belt. I wound up leaving it at home.
You may be wondering why my neighbors would assist me in my trips to Rio and that was something I found perplexing for quite a while till one of them slipped and said, "The neighborhood's much more tranquil with you out-of-town." What the fuck was she getting at? Fortunately, I live in a relatively nice and quiet neighborhood in suburban Philadelphia and, I know exactly what you're thinking because my neighbors thought exactly the same thing. How the fuck did this idiot get the money together to move into this neighborhood? Rumors still swirl to this day and they range from: he won the lottery to, he's in the Mafia. Ha, ha, can you imagine me with a gun in my hand, especially after I just told you about my prowess with a knife? First of all, the only lottery I ever won was the first Selective Service Draft Lottery in December 1969. Take my word for it; it was not the one you wanted to win. No, I'm not in the Mafia; I made money (before I got raped in Divorce court) in a far more sinister way -- Wall Street. About twenty years ago when very bright people were battling over the fortunes of Wall Street and Corporate America by doing leveraged buyouts and financing them with junk bonds, I had the opportunity to sit in on some of the negotiating sessions and this was where I found a "chink in the armor," that I could manipulate to my advantage. It was very simple, the more intelligent the people at the table, the more intense the negotiations became until someone perceived they had an advantage, then pressed for it. Now picture this, you sit down at a negotiating table, look across it and see me sitting there desperately trying to put together a paper clip chain and you suddenly think, this is a fucking slam dunk. Consequently you relax your guard and before you know it, I have the better part of the bargain and walk away well compensated for my effort. Now that I think of it; it's quite similar to what Jorge did to me on my last trip. Sadly, unlike Jorge, I lost most of my money betting on “sure things,” (rehab helped me immensely) so now I have another career that’s far more enjoyable and gratifying. Enough background crap, you probably want me to get right into my June trip; you do, don't you?
Oh, before I go any further, I have to tell you about what happened on the way to the airport. Because I was flying out of Philadelphia, I asked my son (let's call him Austin, for Austin Powers, that other secret agent) to drive me down to the airport so that I wouldn't have to leave my car there for 14 days. He's 26 years old and very curious; this was evident when I was dictating my first report because I continually asked him to leave the room so he wouldn't hear what I was saying. I can't type worth a damn so I use a voice-recognition program called Dragon NaturallySpeaking which works like a charm except for the fact that it doesn't take too kindly to learning words such as: fuck, shit, cock sucker or cunt. That reminds me of when I taught those exact same words to my 8 year old son, but that a story I’ll tell you about later. Where did I start to digress? Oh yeah, I remember. In an effort to avoid any embarrassing moments, I downloaded a program called Folder Lock which enabled me to put my Word file in a safe and secure place, totally encrypted and password-protected. This is a great program, particularly if you have a snooping wife or curious children. Another great feature of this program is that you can see if someone has been trying to hack into it; it logs each and every attempt and when I last looked, he had tried 296 times to access the files. He's very persistent! Okay, we're driving down to the airport and he's asking me questions such as what will I be doing in Rio, who will I be seeing and why do I go to Rio so much? I successfully avoid directly answering each and every question because I don't want him to know the real reason why I'm going to Rio -- pussy. As I'm getting out of the car he asks me, "Are you going to see Fawn on this trip?" I answer, "Yeah, I plan to spend a few days with her." He smiles, hugs me then drives off. As he's pulling away from the curb it suddenly hits me, I never told him that I nicknamed her Fawn, I always used her real name whenever I talked about her. How did he know to call her Fawn? Oh fuck, he somehow must've gotten into my files and read the God damn report. Then I remembered all those pictures supposedly securely locked in Folder Lock, oh shit, I thought. Imagine this, I haven't even left the ground and I'm dying to go back home to get on my fucking computer to see if he's accessed all my files. This should have given me a subtle hint as to how this trip was going to develop, but it didn't.
You'll be happy to learn that I made it from Philadelphia to Houston without any major problems; the same can't be said about the Houston to Rio flight. Now, as you might imagine, I'm somewhat highly medicated at all times because of a serious injury years ago. My doctors claim these medications are for sound medical or psychiatric reasons, but sometimes I think they have other motives. Most of the time my medicine comes in mayonnaise size jars, not the tiny brown medicine bottles you get from the local CVS or Rite Aid. Weeks before I was to leave I asked my Neuropsychiatrist to prescribe something to help me sleep, hoping he would write me a prescription for Ambien. Luck was with me and I was soon walking out of his office with a prescription for 50 tablets -- enough for 25 round trips to Rio. I was going to meet a friend from Florida in Rio and when I told him that I had the Ambien, he begged me to send him a couple and, by the way, did I have any Cialis laying around the house? Of course I did, he remembered that one of my neighbors who's a doctor gave me some before I went on that fucked up trip to the Dominican Republic last December with him. I told him that it was against federal law for me to give my medicine to him but I would have both medications with me in Rio. I did a dry run with the Ambien and they work like a charm. I was amazed that such a tiny tablet could be so powerful and effective. As I packed for my trip, I got my Cialis sample bottle out and emptied it into my little brown Ambien bottle in an effort to save space and uncomplicate my life. Unfortunately, this simple action on my part would have some truly remarkable unintended consequences.
After arriving in Houston, I grab dinner and a half bottle of wine at Pappadeux's then proceed to the gate, which is conveniently located right next to the restaurant. I have about an hour's wait and as I'm sitting there a tall beautiful girl sits down next to me. She's absolutely gorgeous with long dark hair, porcelain colored skin and piercing brown eyes. Her clothes are fantastic, cotton sweatpants that just hang from her narrow hips and a pink belly shirt that reveals one of the flattest stomachs I've ever seen. We start to talk and, besides being beautiful, she's incredibly intelligent. Apparently she just finished her second year at the most highly rated university in Texas (no, I do not mean the University of Texas) and is on her way to Rio to spend three glorious weeks traveling throughout Brazil with her college roommate who just so happens to be Brazilian. Remembering the rule I broke on my last trip, I decide to put dirty thoughts out of my mind and treat her exactly like a treat my daughter's girlfriends. Well, not exactly that way, but somewhat close to it. We talked for an hour and it wasn't till we both reached our seats on the plane that we realized we were sitting next to each other. What a wonderful coincidence that would somehow transform into a disastrous event. How disastrous? Just read on!
Terror at 35,000 Feet
Take off is uneventful and within minutes they're lugging those carts down the aisle asking us what we would like to drink. "Two bottles of Chardonnay and a Diet Coke," is my order; Miss Luscious coed next to me orders bottled water. After the dinner trays are taken away, I get up and reach into the overhead, open my briefcase, grab the little medicine bottle, open it and feel around for the small Ambien pills, extract one, pop it in my mouth and wash it down with my last gulp of Chardonnay. As I sit down I'm comforted by the fact that within minutes I'll be sound asleep and when I awaken I'll be in Brazil. Sometimes my plans go slightly astray, and this was certainly no exception. Within minutes I start feeling a little funny and before I know it I have a raging hard-on that somehow has a mind of its own. What the fuck is going on? I know she's gorgeous but suddenly I'm getting a little out of line even by my own warped and distorted standards. How could this be happening? As she continues talking to me, I keep piling pillows and blankets on my lap in an effort to somehow disguise the offending appendage. After about 15 minutes Miss Luscious decides to go to sleep and suddenly I have to take a wicked piss, but how do I walk down the aisle without anyone seeing the lump in my pants. Come on brain wake-up I need a little help here, quickly please? It tells me to take off the pillowcase and tuck it in my pants like a napkin -- what a perfect solution. I follow its instructions then reach in the overhead, open my briefcase and extract the tiny brown Ambien pill bottle to take with me so I can find out exactly what medication I wound up taking. As my luck would have it there are a couple of beautiful women sitting in the aisle seats on the way back to the bathroom and this gives me another raging erection. Fortunately one lavatory is unoccupied and I slip inside, locking the door behind me. Now I don't know about you, but I have always found it extremely difficult to take a leak with a hard on mainly due to the fact that it's pointing in the wrong direction -- up rather than down, where the toilet is. All right, I somehow managed to get it out of my pants then bend over as far as I can from the waist, carefully aiming for the blue liquid swirling around in the toilet under that little fucking flapper. I manage to hit the blue bull's-eye, the flapper opens and that when all Hell breaks loose. I sneezed, lost my grip and before I knew it, I was peeing all over the wall behind the toilet. And that's when I turned around and try to hover over the bowl, once again bending at the waist as far as I could to aim my erection in the right direction (Oh my God, that sounds like something Johnnie Cochran would come up with). My efforts were not terribly successful because all I did was wind up pissing all over the floor. After I was done redecorating the bathroom, I decided to do something to clean it all up so I grabbed a handful of paper towels and tried to wipe down the walls. This is when I found out that Continental must buy all of their paper towels in Brazil. How can a country that has such abundant natural resources make such lousy paper products? What the fuck do they do with all those rainforest trees they cut down? Those of you who have been to Brazil know what I mean. For those of you who haven't, please let me explain. The paper towels and toilet paper in Brazil are the absolute worst. Simply put, they fall apart like a wet Kleenex. Picture a Bounty commercial in which they compare Bounty against another brand that immediately falls apart -- well, that other brand comes from Brazil.
Clean Up
Okay, I'm in the can with a handful of fucking Brazilian paper towels and I start to try and wipe up the offending puddles only to leave more offending clumps of yellow stained paper towels all over the walls and floor. The place looks like shit and people are outside banging on the door to get in. Fuck them, I have to find out what pill I took. I open the bottle, look in and wonder what the fuck is this? Apparently in my haste I grabbed a bottle of amoxicillin in error and dumped the Cialis in it. I know I had eight cialis pills so I start counting and when I only reach seven on the second count the realization hits me hard. Oh fuck, I took Cialis not Ambien and the likelihood that I will get any sleep on this trip is now somewhat remote. Why do these things happen to me? People are still banging on the door; I open it up, keep my head down and avert my eyes as I walked back towards my seat via the aisle on the opposite side of the plane so that no one will know exactly where I sit. I hear a commotion behind me and figure they probably don't like my decorating efforts. As I plop in my seat the flight attendant immediately announces the following over the PA system in a clearly agitated voice: “We have eight more hours of flight and only four bathrooms for 310 passengers, so please keep the bathrooms clean. Be considerate!" The guy ahead of me mutters, "Filthy fucking Brazilian's." Whew, dodged that bullet didn’t I! I can’t believe it! I just read what I’ve written so far and it has taken me four fucking pages to cover the first eight hours of my trip. How long is this report going to be? Well guys, fasten your seatbelts.
Now that I know I'm not going to get any sleep on this flight I figure this might be a good time to formulate some kind of master plan. Since I'm not particularly good at planning; I usually procrastinate to the last possible minute and this is no exception. After thinking long and hard for about half an hour, I finally decided on the following course of action. Spend the first four days visiting every terma I possibly can, have Fawn down to Copacabana for four days, ship her back to Buzios and, finally, spend the last four days with Angelina Jolie a.k.a. Miss Bubble Lips or Lara Croft. All I needed to do was keep a low-profile so that I don’t show up on anyone’s radar screne, blend in with my surroundings, oh yeah, avoid Tigger at all costs, fuck my brains out at terma's then on to Fawn and Angelina. I'm proud that I was able to come up with such a simple and deviously efficient plan but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why it took me a half-hour to come up with it. Oh yeah, now I know why it took me so long to come up with my Master Plan -- Miss Luscious next to me was moaning in her sleep and putting her left hand down the front of her sweatpants, causing an interesting reflex reaction in my pants. This God damn fucking Cialis is driving me crazy! Every time I look over at her -- Bong, it's happy time again. When does this shit wear off? Soon, I hope! Luckily for me, but more so for the rest of the passengers, the remainder of the flight was uneventful, but I will tell you that going through customs holding a briefcase over my crotch was probably not the best course of action.
As my taxi hurdles along the highway towards Copacabana, I'm supremely confident that armed with the SOG knife that's in my luggage, coupled with my acute ability to instantly spot danger (I said spot, not necessarily avoid) that I should be able to keep myself out of trouble. Kilometer by kilometer, my confidence quickly recedes as it becomes readily apparent to me that the only way I could recognize Tigger during my last trip was due to the fact that he was always wearing the same filthy Unimed soccer shirt each and every day. You know, the one with the vertical brown and white stripes similar to a referee’s in the NFL. Moreover, I came to the stunning conclusion that there was a relatively high probability that during the past 2 1/2 months Tigger has changed his shirt or more likely, stolen a new and different one. One that was probably not Unimed also! Oh shit, I was fucked because practically all the 18 to 20-year-old Brazilian guys look-alike to me: tall, thin, and wiry with dark hair. When my cab pulled up in front of the Princess Copacabana, I looked cautiously at the new doorman. For all I knew it was Tigger in a nice new uniform. I'm scared to death and I have been on the ground for only one hour with 12 more days to go -- this is going to be sheer hell. Upon closer inspection, I'm convinced the doorman is not Tigger. With my luck it's probably his older brother.
Don’t Eat the Candy
Its 12 o'clock and they check me into my room, once again putting me on the third floor. I suspect they keep me on the lower floors for one of two reasons. First, they either think I'm a jumper or they have a good reason to think one of the girls will throw me off the balcony. Whatever their motivation is I'm thankful that they keep me on a lower floor because the elevators in the Princess Copacabana crawl, and I mean to crawl at an extremely slow pace. I take a quick shower, check the mirror (I’ll tell you why later on) put on my bathing suit, and grab some money to change at the Cambio and off to the beach. As I hand my favorite Cambio $400 to change, he apologizes that he must go upstairs to get more bills and that's when he leaves me alone and I get into trouble. How can I get into trouble? Pay close attention. As he goes upstairs, I look around his jewelry shop and there on his desk is a little bowl of candy, tiny red, pink and white candies that looks absolutely delicious. I reach my hand in grabbing about 50 of the tiny morsels and pop them in my mouth, then bite down. Oh man, the stuff taste like shit as I run out the front of the store and into the street spitting as much out as I can without barfing. Brazilians have really weird tastes! Remember the Bulls penis incident that I wrote about? After washing my mouth out with a bottle of water that I fortunately had with me, I quietly slip back into the store, acting like nothing happened. Within a minute he returns with R$1000 because the fucking dollar had tanked to 2.50 to one and that's when I decided to ask him the following: "What kind of candy is that?" He looked up and said one word, "fragrance." What the fuck did that mean? He could clearly see by the confused look on my face that I didn't understand what he was saying so he decided to rephrase it for me, "It's for the air." Oh shit, I ate his fucking air freshener! Brazilians should label every fucking thing in their country so that people like me don't poison themselves.
After that debacle I decided I had better head right to the beach to fight with the beach chair guys for my right to select whomever I wanted to do business with. Apparently that is not an entitled right in Brazil. As I pass Meia Pataca I see Sandman sitting there and he beckons me over. As I approach he says, "What's the matter James (as in James Bond)?" "Nothing," I reply. Then he looks down and points at my crotch and that's when I notice that the fucking Cialis kicked in again. He leans back in his chair, puffs on his cigarette and says, "Tell me what happened, this should be good." Fuck him, here I am in Rio with too much money on me, a knife in my pocket that's only a danger to yours truly and I'm sitting alone in a restaurant with another guy making pup tents in my bathing suit. And he wants stories! Does he have any fucking idea how embarrassed I am? Of course he does, that's why he wants all the gory details. I break under the stress, blurting out every disgusting detail; he looks at me and smiles. Why does he smile at me like that, I wonder? In an attempt to calm me down, he suggests we walk over to Terraco for a bowl of soup but that backfired on him. How you might ask? Well, as we're slurping up our soup a bunch of vendors go by and one of them is carrying a large plastic bag of cashews perched up on his left shoulder. I tell him that I was surprised how expensive cashews were in Brazil particularly since this is where they're produced. He leans in closely, squinting his eyes and asks me why I assume they're so expensive. "Because the last time I was down here, I paid R$10.00 on the beach for a little shot glass that only contained about 6 nuts in it. He almost choked on his soup. He then proceeds to tell me that for R$10.00 you get a large bag, not a fucking shot glass full. Thank you, Sandman, for highlighting that salient point. Then as I’m leaving, he delivers the coup de grace and says, “ Sunday’s dia namorada.” “Say what? “Dia namorda, the Brazillian equivalent of Valentines Day.” How fucking stupid does he think I am? Bet the next thing he tells me is that this coming Thursday is when Brazil celebrates Christmas. I thank him for lunch and mutter “fuck you too” as I walk away.
Now I'm getting more pissed so I decide that me and my hard on will go to the beach and get a massage; perhaps that will relax me. I usually go to Darli's Massage on the beach because I prefer to get massaged by women and furthermore they do a great job. Since I'd been there many times before the girls recognized me as I approached, they waved enthusiastically in an effort to get me to come over. I waved back and as I got closer their smiles changed dramatically. How do I put it? Well, let's just say they went from enthusiastic to extremely cautious within a matter of seconds and that’s when I realized that the fucking cialis was fucking me up again. What the hell, hadn't they seen a hard on before, hadn’t they? Then I realized both were lesbians and perhaps they hadn't. Fuck it, just give me a massage!
The massage is over, I have almost forgotten all of my problems but now I'm getting a little sleepy because I didn't get any sleep the night before. But before I leave I have to find out if Sandman is messing with me or what. If Sunday really is “Girlfriend Day” who better to ask then a couple consisting of two woman; smart thinking, right? I gently ask them and they say, “Si.” “No shit,” I replied totally stunned. Then I pressed the issue, which I shouldn’t have, “When is Brazil’s Christmas?” Both look at me like I belong in the cell next to Hannibal Lechter so I quickly get off the table and slither away. Now's a good time to head back to my hotel, take a shower to get all the massage oil off me and lay down for a nice relaxing nap before going to my first terma. On the way back to the hotel I can't resist reaching into my bathing suit pocket, grabbing my knife and trying to see how fast I can get it out and open it, ready to use. As it cleared my pocket, my thumb was ready to flick the knob opening the blade when all of a sudden it was gone. What happened to it? Apparently, the fucking thing slipped out of my hands because they're all covered with massage oil and now it was lying on the concrete, begging me to pick it up. Had anyone seen that smooth maneuver? Perhaps Sammy Uri was right when he said that I should stick with the rock. Ah, what the fuck does he know!
I make it back to the hotel all right, take a long hot shower and climb into bed for a well deserved the three-hour nap when all of a sudden I'm awakened by a phone call. Its Carlos downstairs, telling me my girlfriend is in the lobby. "What girlfriend," I ask. He whispers into the phone, "It's not the tall one." That means it’s not Lurch but who can it be? Oh fuck, Fawn knew I was coming to town today because I couldn't keep my mouth shut and now she's downstairs in the lobby. Well, that only means I have to readjust my schedule somewhat. No problem, I think. That's when Carlos throws me a curve, "She says her name is such and such." Fuck, that's Miss Bubble Lips, what she doing here, I remember thinking? "Send her up," I tell him and suddenly the thought of getting laid within the next five minutes triggers the usual cialis induced response. When I open the door she looks down and says, "James happy to see me?" Of course I am, now why don't you get comfortable honey as I usher her into the bathroom because all Brazilian girls like to go fiddle around in the bathroom for a few minutes before they hop into bed. While she's in the bathroom I start to wonder how she knew that I would be in town today. I'm positive I only told Fawn what day I was coming to Rio, and I'm sure I told Miss Bubble Lips that I was coming to town sometime in June but not the specific date. The next day Carlos told me that she had been coming to the hotel each day since June 1 asking for James Bond. They wouldn't tell her when I was checking in, but would tell her if I had checked in and, of course, today I checked in. Simply put, I was being stalked and didn't have a fucking clue that it was going on -- I'm sure that doesn't surprise you guys one bit.
Sex--Finally
One of my friends who's been reading over my shoulders as I dictate this epic has informed me that after 7 full pages I haven't even talked about my sexual exploits and that must be a Club Hombre record. There's a very simple reason for this, I hadn't gotten laid yet! If you want a little sex, here it comes. Miss Bubble Lips emerges from the bathroom naked as the day she was born except for the towel on her head, and then proceeds to do a sexy stripper routine, using the towel in delightful ways. I wonder where she learned this skill but within a minute that thought slipped out of my head. She can see that I'm very excited, and I think, shit, half of Rio knows that also. Before I know it she's going down on me and I can barely restrain myself but then I find out one of the drawbacks of cialis; you can't get off quickly. Oh fuck, why do I get tortured like this? After about half an hour I'm able to crack my nut and as we are lying in each other's arms she says those three words I have come to dread, "I love you." You're moving a little fast aren't you, I think; we've been together only 45 minutes but what the hell, we're in Brazil and things move quickly, very quickly down here. After about a half-hour she starts cooing again and starts rubbing up against me and suddenly I'm as ready as a 16-year-old at his Junior Prom. She's surprised; no more like stunned at my stamina and lets me have my way with her one more time. After we are finished fucking, she grabs the remote control and turns on CSI, then cartoons and finally a novella. I napped through most of her channel surfing and around nine o'clock we got up, showered and then went to Terraco for dinner. As we were leaving the room she asked if she could clip one of her small hair clips onto my belt loop. It was one of those small clips that look exactly like the jaws on one of those crane things in the lobby of Denny’s restaurants; you know the thing that you play trying to pick up prizes while waiting for your table. I say “sure” but little did I know how this innocuous act would affect my whole vacation and my self esteem. Where was I, oh yeah, you may wonder why we went back to Terraco for dinner and the reason is quite simple, they're used to seeing guys there with lumps in their pants and I would be sure to fit in just in case the Cialis kicked in again as it was more than likely to do. After dinner we went to Help for short time then back to our room for another fuck-fest.
Photo: Miss Bubble Lips 01
The next morning I got up early somewhere around 6:30 a.m., put on my shorts and a T-shirt and went down the beach for a morning walk. The sun was up, the sky was absolutely clear and the beach was nearly deserted. I went over to where I last saw Tigger sleeping 2 1/2 months ago right near one of the sand sculptures, but he wasn't there. Several other criminal types were lounging around in some drug-induced stupor so I decided to steer clear of them and walk down near the ocean. As I was walking on the beach I would kick over these strange looking structures, something similar to a walled sand castle but usually there would be a dead rose, candles and often a bottle placed inside the circular walls. For some odd reason this brought back childhood memories of building sand castles at the beach than jumping up and down and crushing them. The things little boys do! I walked for almost an hour, crushing about 10 of the sand castles then rushed back to my room for some big boy fun -- fucking Miss Bubble Lips. Afterwards she asked me if I would let her sleep so I grabbed my pen and a pad of paper and went out on the balcony to make notes about the previous day's trip to Brazil. One hour later I was ready for round two and thankfully Angelina complied. "Let me sleep longer," she asked so I did. I don't know about you, but from my limited experience with Brazilian girls, they don't like to get up before 11 a.m. They're kind of like my college-age children, you know; get up at noon and party till 2 a.m. What the hell, I did it once when I was young, that is when I could get away with it.
Photo: Miss Bubble Lips 02
Now before I go any further I have to tell you that Angelina is a wonderful woman although somewhat different from any other woman I've ever been with. Let me explain. On of my good friends, upon seeing her picture said,” Bet she has DSL” To which I replied,” No, I think she has cable. ” I can’t quite describe the look he gave me but I just hope I don’t get anymore like that during my lifetime. Clearly, we were talking about two different things. He then explained what DSL he was talking about; that’s when I said “she sure does.” She has most fantastic lips, they're sexy, expressive and extremely soft and they're attached to one of the largest mouths I've ever seen. When you look at her, her mouth doesn't appear that large but when you kiss her it opens up wider than you could ever imagine. Think of what a Muppet looks like, you know the ones with the mouths that open from ear to ear, now imagine kissing someone who can open their mouth that wide -- that's what it's like kissing her. The first time she kissed me deeply I thought I was kissing some kind of alien and either something terrible was going to get shoved down my throat and take over my body or I was going to be sucked into her mouth. I should definitely give up watching horror and Sci-Fi movies, shouldn’t I?
Photo: Miss Bubble Lips 03
Around 11 o'clock I'm finally able to drag her beautiful ass out of bed so that can we go to the beach and soak up some well-deserved sun, but before we leave she clips another hair clip to my bathing suit.. As were crossing Avenue Atlantico I get the feeling that suddenly I've popped up on each and every beach chair guys radar screen. Here they come to slaughter the pigeon and I'm the fucking pigeon. I tell them that were just looking for a friend on the beach and that we don't want chairs. Guys are shouting, "I saw him first," or "he was here last week," and the best one was "they're my cousins," so we just started walking on the sidewalk parallel to the beach till we could get away from the fucking piranha. Finally we make it down the beach and that's when Jorge and Fernando approach me like two white sharks swimming to greet a lost seal pup. In my last story I didn't talk about Fernando much because all he really did was come around and sprinkle your feet with water to make a little money, but now he's moved up to the big-time -- he's become one of the chair guys. Fernando is built like a fucking Road Runner and moves just as fast. This is a significant advantage to him as he reaches me about five seconds before Jorge. Needless to say a fight ensues, not a physical one but one of those nasty, long and drawn out Brazilian verbal battle's that somehow take on a life of their own. Clearly, the battle is over me, you know, I'm that dumb fuck that is standing right there in front of them that they're not paying any attention to but point at occasionally. Apparently I have no rights whatsoever in this simmering dispute, but I believe that with my keen negotiating skills I can somehow direct things to a satisfactory conclusion. First I separate both of them, with each standing on opposite sides of me, and then I asked them the same question to get them thinking about working together rather than against each other. Aren't you guys partners? The answer I get absolutely astounds me! Jorge looks at me very seriously, nods his head up and down and says "no." Fernando looks just as serious and is moving his head from side to side saying "yes." Oh fuck, this is going down the toilet quickly so finally I say the following, "Jorge, you get to rip me off today and Fernando, you get to rip me off tomorrow, OK?" Fortunately both their heads moved in the same direction this time till the scavengers moved in. By that, I'm referring to the other beach chair guys we ran into up by the sidewalk. Now they each want a piece of me and make this known in Jorge and Fernando. Within minutes they have developed a very complicated revenue-sharing scheme that pleases each offended party at my expense. Now I know where Enron got the idea for their unique business model. It's then that I notice that I haven't seen a single seagull on the beach, as a matter of fact I never have, only pigeons -- is that prophetic or what?
After we settle into our chairs and order some outrageously overpriced beverages, I take out my notebook and start to scribble down what just happened. I know some of you might not believe these stories, but I can tell you that I'm not smart enough to make this stuff up -- this shit really happens to me. Miss Bubble Lips is curious and asks to see what I've written so far and I figure there's no harm in letting her see my notes. She reads intently for about two minutes then looks up and says, "What is cialis?" Now, how do I explain this to her and before I can come up with a reasonable explanation she says, "Similar to Viagra?" When I nod yes, she acts like she has found the key to my soul. She then tells me that she's offended that I had to take this medication before I saw her and the more I try to explain to her that it was an accident, the deeper the hole got. I told her to read on and that she would find out it was truly an accident and after a few more minutes of reading she finishes, closes the notebook and looks at me silently for about two full minutes. Oh shit, what was running through that beautiful Brazilian brain right now? Finally, her chest started to heave and then she broke out laughing and then she paid me the best compliment anybody has ever done in my entire life. She said, "You remind me of Homer." Can you imagine that, this high school educated Brazilian woman knows about Greek literature and compares me to one of the literary greats of all time -- I'm absolutely astounded at her intelligence. That balloon (my ego) would burst later along with another one that caused even more havoc, but you’ll have to read the whole report to find out what happens.