Discussion Post July 25, 2005 at 3:42 pm

Soccer,

I'm formulating a Master Plan for my next trip and I'm telling Miss Bubble Lips that I'm arriving on August 17 instead of the 14th when I actually land. Felix is thoroughly convinced that I'll fuck up somehow and is trying to start a pool on when I fuck up. He has absolutely no faith in my ability to lie to her on the phone. I'll show him!

This trip I want to go to Centro to experience some of the cut-rate termas and maybe another visit to vila mimosa to try to get some photos to give you guys some insight into what this place is really like. No, I don't plan on dinning there again, once was more than enough.

A vital element missing in my reports is pictures of hot girls without their heads cut off. Hopefully, I can rectify that in the next one. Keep your fingers crossed and pray that no one steals my camera.

Don't get me wrong, I still plan to spend a lot of time with Miss Bubble Lips because of that little problem, but this time I want to fuck more than one woman. I'm not going to get handcuffed the first day like last time.

The Dummy has Landed—Part One

As you know, planning is not one of my strong points, but with the above well crafted fundamental blueprint in place, I was confident that I would meet every challenge with success. Because I’m not particularly good at self assessment amongst other things, I’ll leave it up to your judgment as to whether or not I accomplished all my goals.

Five weeks before I left, my neighbors chipped in and bought me a Spitfire Key Ring pepper spray unit because they were sick and tired of watching me cut myself with their last present, that fucking SOG knife. This unit is somewhat unique in that it has replaceable pepper cartridges and, for a few bucks more you can buy inert cartridges filled with CO2, which can be used for practice. Since they were intimately familiar with the contorted slope of my learning curve, they decided to buy a half dozen practice “rounds” for me to play with before I left for Rio. What could go wrong, absolutely nothing as long as I didn’t temp fate, which of course, I did within days.

If you will recall in my last trip report, one of my good friends gave me a fire extinguisher size pepper spray unit. Because I didn't it bring on that trip, I gave it to my youngest daughter for her to keep in her car to use as protection. It was so large and in the door pocket of her car, it wasn't a practical self-defense device in that she really needed it when she was walking around campus and around the city. Furthermore, she was going abroad for the summer to study and I felt safer knowing that she could defend herself. All she would need is a Spitfire and a little instruction from me, or so I thought. Consequently, I decided to buy her one and, so they would be no confusion, I ordered hers in red (mine is black). As fate would have it, hers arrived within a few days and, rather than red, it too was black. Maybe I did check the wrong color box when ordering, but probably not. I don’t make mistakes like that. This is precisely where things started to go terribly wrong!

Before I go any further I have to describe the approximate size of these units and how they operate so that you better understand how the ensuing disaster could easily happen to anyone. As I said, they are designed to fit on a key ring and are approximately the size and shape of a large man's thumb. There's a little button in the middle that is typically operated by one's thumb in one swift movement downwards and forwards at the same time. This is a childproof mechanism that prevents a child or even your attacker from operating this dangerous device but, unfortunately, it's not quite Jaguar proof.

Since I've been practicing for days with the inert rounds, my confidence level was extremely high and my proficiency was approaching an "expert" designation or so I assumed. What could go wrong? I decided to give my daughter a lesson in its use and we went into the kitchen where both of them were lying on the counter, I grabbed my unit, which was loaded with an inert round, and told her to come out in the backyard with me for a demonstration. "Daddy, are you sure you have the right one," she asked innocently enough. "Of course I do, I know which one is mine. It's the one with a practice round in it," I assured her and wondered why she always questions everything I do. I realize that all of you reading this are way ahead of me and know what's going to come next, but I didn't have a clue until it happened.

The first thing I told her was to always treat this dangerous defensive device as you would a loaded gun. “Do you know how many people have been killed by guns they thought were unloaded? Treat every weapon as if it was loaded. This is not a toy,” I admonished her. In other words, never aim it at any one other than an intended victim, even in jest. My demonstration started with showing her the childproof safety feature and informing her that by only pressing the button down or just pressing it forward, the unit would not work -- you had to press it down and forward the same time for it to work.

Since I'm a typical dad, it is my firm belief that my children should "do as I say, not as I do, I aimed the device slightly to her left and with one swift downward and forward movement heard that familiar sound --psssst. Strangely, instead of the usual almost clear cloud of gas coming out of the unit, a slightly reddish orange cloud just missed my daughter -- then the breeze came and the shit hit the fan. Unfortunately, she was standing just east of the cloud when a westerly breeze hit with a vengeance. Shouts, screams and an occasional curse word came out of her mouth as I dragged her over to the garden hose and turned it on. I quickly ran inside, grabbed a gallon of milk and a 2 pint container of sour cream, ran back outside, poured milk all over her and then started rubbing sour cream all over her face. If she didn't think I was nuts before, she did now.

"What are you doing to me Daddy," she asked in a quivering voice? "I'm trying to help you, just let me rub this on your face and in your hair, it will counteract the effects of the pepper spray," I said in the most convincing voice I could muster. Miraculously, within seconds her pain eased dramatically and I told her that she had to leave it on for a few more minutes and then she should go upstairs and take a shower. You know how girls can be, her first concern was whether or not this injury was permanent and her second concern was if she looked all right. I comforted her by telling her that there was no permanent injury and, as always, she looked beautiful.

After a few minutes of waiting she did as I said, went upstairs to take a shower and all of a sudden I heard more screams from upstairs. What the fuck could be happening now, I wondered as I ran up to her bedroom. She screamed at me, "Daddy how could you do this to me?" "It was a slight accident Honey, I'm sorry," was my short, sweet and humble apology. She screeched, "I don't mean the pepper spray, I mean why in God’s name did you rub that shit on my face, look at me?" She did look pretty comical with about a half-inch of sour cream all over her hair and face and neck, but I didn't dare let her know that the tears rapidly forming in my eyes were from trying to keep back laughter, not from the effects of the pepper spray. If she ever found out, she would kill me.

After about an hour of cleaning herself up, she came downstairs to have a very long serious talk with me. "Daddy, you don't plan on taking that stuff with you, do you? I replied, "I most certainly do, the neighbors bought it for me so I could protect myself and, if I didn't bring it with me and got hurt, the neighbors would feel guilty." "Daddy, look at what just happened -- you better think this whole thing through again," was her terse response. I tried to explain to her that it's never windy down in Rio so nothing like that would ever happen again, but she didn't buy it. I was afraid that she would talk on and on like she has done since she was a kid.

I remember once when she was about 4 years old, she went to see Muppet Island with her mother, the Bitch. When they got home she sat down next to me and started to tell me all about the movie, talking incessantly for 45 minutes until her mother stopped her and said,” She’s only described the first 10 minutes of the movie.” She then asked, “Does she remind you of anyone?” “No, not that I can think of,” I replied. As the Bitch walked out of the room I heard her say something under her breath, but I couldn’t quite catch it. I still wonder to this day to whom she was referring. I’m sorry for digressing, where was I? The pepper spray incident, if I remember correctly.

Then she asked me, "How did you know what to do, did somebody spray you once before?" "No Sweetheart, remember when I had that little incident at that spice store about five years ago; well, that’s when I learned how to use sour cream," I calmly told her. She interrupted me by saying, "you mean that spice store at the mall, that you can't go back into?" "No, not that one, the one next to the railroad station," I sheepishly replied. "What happened, tell me the whole story," she said. I suddenly felt like I was being interrogated by Miss Bubble Lips all over again. What is it with women, why do they have to know everything and why do they like asking silly questions?

I tried to make the story as brief as I could. It essentially involved some idiot in the store dropping a 3 gallon glass apothecary jar full of cayenne pepper, which broke and produced a rather large red cloud of powdery cayenne pepper that rapidly engulfed the store. The owner of the store reached below the counter, opened a small refrigerator, grabbed several containers of sour cream and proceeded to rub it on everybody's face. "This will stop the burning, go outside and leave it on for a few minutes, then wipe it off and you'll be good as new," the owner told all of us. Sure enough, it worked and, as the owner was wiping the sour cream off of each customer's face, she asked who was responsible for the disaster inside her store. For some odd reason all the women pointed towards me, probably because I was the only man inside the store and as a result of that little episode, I was banned for life. Not to make excuses or anything like that, but I'm sure that I was holding the paprika when the accident occurred. Fucking feminists!

You're probably wondering what this disastrous incident cost me and I have calculated the total damages. New pepper spray cartridge-- $9.00, sour cream-- $2.00, 1 gallon of skim milk-- $2.79, trip to the fucking hair salon to repair the damage that she claims the sour cream did to her hair--$160 and, oh yeah, she didn't talk to me for the next five days. When she finally started talking with me, I asked he to keep this little incident as “our little secret.” “Oh you mean like that little secret you and Austin have?” Oh, Shit! As you can see, this trip is shaping up just like all the others.

One week prior to leaving I’m in Costco buying food for my son to eat while I’m in Brazil and who do I run into, none other than the bitch. No, I don’t mean my ex wife, her name is spelled with a capital B, I’m referring to Wolf’s wife from across the street. She’s by the meat counter and she has two whole fillets in her cart along with a year’s supply of toilet paper. “When do you leave for Rio,” she asks. “I leave on the 13th,” I reply. “Great, why don’t you come for dinner on the 12th, we’ll give you a little going away party,” she calmly said. “Sounds great, I’ll be there,” I said as I walked away thinking about how do you get away with serving fillet and toilet paper at a party?

I guess I should explain about Wolf. He’s the shrink that lives across the street from me and I call him Wolf because he has gray hair with black streaks in it and he has a hair line like Jack Nicholson. To complement his ugly face, he has a full beard with the same black streaks and he wears thick black glasses. Come to think of it, he looks more like a raccoon than anything else. I better stick with Wolf, a nickname like Raccoon is fraught with dangers for me. Any way, I’ve been calling him Wolf for the past 15 years and he thinks it’s cool. Boy is he lame.

Well, it’s August 12th and I’m all ready for my “going away party.” The bitch told me to get there around 7 pm and as I arrive several other neighbors converge on their doorstep at the same time. Drinks are served along with chips and some shitty dip. I can’t wait for the fillet so I don’t eat many chips. Finally the bitch calls us all into the house for dinner and there on the dinning room table is a pile of crummy hotdogs, stale rolls, coleslaw and potato salad. Where the fuck is the fillet? I casually ask Wolf about the fillets I saw the bitch buying last week and you’ll never guess what he told me. “Oh, that’s for when you’re gone, all the neighbors are getting together to celebrate.” What the fuck does he mean by that?

Departure Day

I'm almost finished packing; have my son lined up to drive me down the airport, now all I have to do is figure out where to put a few precious items in my suitcase. Specifically, I'm referring to a sexy fishnet bodysuit, vibrator and two inexpensive dresses for MBL, the damn pepper spray, that fucking SOG knife, a box of 24 Durex rubbers for myself and a large tube of Capsaicin, which Brazilspecialis requested. Finally, I'm all packed, my son takes my luggage down to the car and as I'm leaving the house I take all the change out of my pocket and tell him to take it. He asks, "Why are you giving this to me?" "Because I found that not having loose change in your pocket makes it a lot easier to go through airport security, so take it," I snapped at him. Why do all my kids constantly question my motives for doing things? I sense it has you troubled too, am I right?

He gives me a great big hug goodbye, doesn't mention anything about Fawn, Lurch or MBL, which definitely pleases me, reaches out and says, "Can I have some money Dad?" "I just gave you all my change," I replied. "I was thinking more of folding money, if you know what I mean Dad," was his prompt reply. Without really thinking, I reached in my pocket, pulled out a wad of bills and said, "Take what you need." I forgot that the wad consisted of mostly $100 bills -- he quickly took five of them, jumped into his car and waved at me as he roared off down the road. I took out my cell phone, speed dialed him and when he answered I told him that I wanted a full accounting of all the money spent. I closed with, “And, don’t fuck up the pool like last time.” “Anything you say Dad,” then the connection was broken. I immediately called him back because the call was dropped and you know what he said, "No, I was done talking to you Dad, I hung up." Obviously he was distraught at me leaving him alone for almost 2 weeks; that’s why he was so brief. He’s such a good kid.

Typically, the first thing I do when I go to the terminal is go upstairs to check out the security line before I do anything else. Fortunately there was no line upstairs and none to speak of at the Continental counter, so I figured that I enough time to go outside and finish my cigar, which was waiting for me on the ledge surrounding the garden. On my way out I saw a soda machine and thought that might be nice to sit outside with a bottle of chemicals (I drink diet sodas), my favorite cigar and enjoy the beautiful summer afternoon. This is where things started to snowball on me, it was a very subtle snowball effect at first, but one that would slowly accumulate to create a disaster and put me in a sour mood.

Sodas cost two dollars in this fucking machine, so I slide in two singles only to have both rejected, then put in a five dollar bill only have that rejected also, and finally I slide in a $10 bill because the machine says it will take all three denominations, watch my soda fall down inside the machine and slide out of the chute. Then I wait for the machine to dispense my change. I'm expecting paper money to come out of the slot, but all of a sudden I hear clink- clink- clink- clink, it seems to go on forever, then it stops. I say out loud, “What the fuck is this,” as I reach in to grab my change, and open my hand to find it filled with eight gold colored coins. Now I have a pocket full of those God Damn heavy Indian princess dollar coins that are really pissing me off. I grab my Diet Pepsi, walk outside to where I left my cigar only to find out that the cleaning crew had just come by, thought it was trash and put it in their little cart. I wanted to kill the bastards, but I thought that would only needlessly delay my trip to Paradise. As you can see, things are definitely not going my way.

I go upstairs to find that suddenly about 50 people have decided to go through security at once. I get in line and, as my briefcase, eight coins, shoes and camera case go through the x-ray machine, I walk barefoot through the metal detector only to have the fucking thing go berserk. Oh yeah, the 12 brass buttons on my trademark blazer have triggered the alarm, so back I go, take it off and put it on the conveyor belt like I should have done in the first place. As I stroll through the metal detector again I just hope no one is going through my checked bags too thoroughly, I certainly don't want them to find those presents for MBL.

The wait till boarding isn't very long, only about 15 minutes, so I sit down, open my briefcase and take out the book that my daughter recently bought for me at Costco. It's a Clive Cussler novel called "Lost City" that I'm anxious to read. The book is on my lap as I grab my soda; twist off the cap only to find out the vending guy must've dropped the case before he loaded the machine. The bottle instantly became a foamy frothy liquid volcano that squeezed about six fluid ounces of Diet Pepsi out of the bottle onto the book and then my lap. Now I'm really pissed. It looks like I just peed in my pants like I did that time at the circus. Why do these things always have to happen to me?

A little kid offers to go into the bathroom, which is across the corridor from my gate, to get me some paper towels and I tell him that that would be very nice and I appreciate his kindness. Unfortunately, he was not quite tall enough to reach a paper towel dispenser and didn't think to ask for help, so he went into one of the stalls and grabbed a handful of toilet paper to bring to me. My back is to the bathroom so I couldn't see what's going on, but all of a sudden everyone in the waiting area starts to laugh and as I turn my head I see the little kid running towards me trailing behind him about 20 feet of TP. He helps me clean off my book and I gingerly blot my blue jeans, which doesn't have any effect whatsoever. Now I have this ugly light brown stain on my pants with a strange outline of the book on my lap. So much for not attracting attention to myself!

I open the book to find that it's a little different from any other paperbacks I've ever read in that it's somewhat larger in size, has larger print and is essentially double-spaced -- what the hell's going on, I think to myself. It's then I notice that on the cover it says, "New comfortable format." Remember the books you had when you were in second and third grade, you know the ones that were double-spaced with large type -- well, that was what this book was like. The only difference was this book didn't have any pictures like the ones in elementary school; otherwise there was very little difference whatsoever. Christ, 50 years ago I was reading books in this format and now that I'm considered pre-senior citizen, I'm back to reading books in the exact same format. Isn’t it strange how we start off one way as a child and end up doing exactly the same thing at the end of our lives? As I'm pondering that fact, a young family goes by pushing a stroller and right behind them are two little old ladies in wheelchairs queuing up to pre-board. Perhaps I'm lucky that it's only a book format that's pissing me off because clearly other things await me as I age!

Boarding the plane is uneventful for me until I approach my seat and notice that there are two women sitting in the window and center seat of my row and something strikes me as odd about them, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. That's it, they're both wearing similar Hawaiian print shirts, but of slightly different colors. I wonder, what kind of women wear Hawaiian shirts like this -- well, within three minutes I would find out. Wouldn't you know it, the skinny one is sitting in the window seat and a fat one is in the middle seat right next to me. Oh shit, I had to do something to get rid of them quickly because the fat one in the middle was definitely about to utter those three dreaded words everyone hates to hear on an airplane, "seatbelt extension please."

I politely sit down next to them, slide my briefcase under the seat ahead of me, open my camera case and as I'm doing so, I asked them, "have you ever been to Rio?" "No, we've never been there," was their polite response. That's when I realized that the camera brought on this trip was my new Casio EZ- 750 and I didn't have any pictures of Rio on it. Shit, now what could I do? Ah hah, I remembered that I took the chip from my last trip to a local camera store and had them print out about 85 photos for me to take to Rio and show MBL. The Asian kid who works there absolutely loves me. Every time I walk in the door he asks me the same question, "More pictures from Rio?" I'm sure the little bastard makes his own set of copies, but I don't care just so long as he prints all of them out for me. I reach down, extract my briefcase, open it and find two full boxes of wonderful photos, many of which I couldn't post on Club Hombre because they're a little too graphic, if you know what I mean. I can hardly contain myself; this is going to be soooo much fun.

I opened the first box and start showing them the pictures. It started off innocently enough with a few beach shots followed by several of Sugarloaf and finally Corcovada, but then we got into the more serious photos. The first one they saw is of Miss Bubble Lips dancing around the room bare assed naked with her breasts cupped in each hand. I am practically drooling in anticipation of both them reaching up simultaneously to hit the flight attendant call button, but instead something strange happens. The fat one gently grabs the photo out of my hand and passes it over the skinny one and says, "Isn’t she beautiful." The next picture is of MBL lying on the bed in a spread eagle position and she grabs this one too and passes it over. The next one is of Miss Bubble Lips in an even more provocative position that she politely takes out of my hand and passes over to the skinny bitch next to the window. What the fuck is going on? Before you know it the bitch over by the window has all the pictures in her hand and she leans over and says, "What’s in the other box?" At about that point, I realized that they were lesbians and here I was sitting next to them providing them with pornographic entertainment. I was fucked and I knew it, so I handed the second box to them and said, “Have fun.” The fat one hit the call button and when the flight attendant appeared, asked her for the fucking seatbelt extension. When will my misery ever end?

The flight was full so I was stuck next to them and decided to make the best of it. It actually worked out pretty well because they never got real touchy-feely or anything like that during the flight and, after all, they did enjoy my photos. When we reached our cruising altitude of 31,000 feet, I went back to the lavatory to take a piss and make an attempt to try and clean up my pants. I was the first to use the bathroom on this flight and after I took a leak I went wash my hands only to find that the paper towel dispenser located under the mirror had somehow become dislodged and was jammed against the faucet. It made getting the paper towels much easier because when it’s open like this all the towels are easily accessible, but it was extremely difficult to operate the water in the sink. As I was leaving the bathroom, I told the stewardess about the problem, she said she was aware of it, was told by the ground crew it couldn't be fixed and asked if it was possible for me to try to fix it. Of course, I'll give it a try! After all, what could possibly go wrong?

First, I decided to survey the problem then develop a quick and easy solution that obviously had eluded their staff of crack aircraft mechanics. This was going to be a piece of cake. I left the door open to get more light in, put down the toilet seat so that I could sit on it to give myself a better angle on the unit to see if I could figure out precisely what was keeping it from closing. Unfortunately at that very same moment the forward Flight Attendant walked to the rear of the plane, and thought she saw me taking a dump on the toilet with the door open and screamed bloody murder. I reacted in a typical fashion for anyone with cat -like reflexes such as mine by leaping upward and outward striking my forehead on the mirror. How could things get any worse, just continue reading?

Where was I? Oh yeah, recovering from a minor brain concussion in the lavatory. The next time you’re in a 737 you’ll find the paper towels under the mirror and if you feel with your fingers, you’ll find two little buttons that release the unit and it slides down and hits the faucet. It operates this way so the ground crews can easily refill the unit. The buttons on this unit depressed all right, but for some unknown reason it wouldn’t slide back into place. Hmmm. I think the solution is in sight. Sure enough, there are two thin metal strips behind the unit against the wall that are slightly bent and are impeding upward movement. All I have to do is reach in and---ouch, God damn it, they’re as sharp as razor wire. Two fingers cut on the first attempt, and now two more on the second and final attempt, but miraculously it slides upward and into place. Just a little cleanup of the blood spots and the job is finished.

As I emerge, the Flight Attendant is extremely thankful and offers me a beverage of my choice. The word Scotch entered my mind and suddenly I was asking for Dewar’s. “No problem, do you want backwater with it,” she asked. “What the Hell is backwater,” I asked? “Just plain water, but that’s what we call it in Fort Worth,” she said. “No, just on the rocks, but do you happen to have any band-aids,” I meekly asked as I held my hands up to show her the damage to my fingers. Within seconds she was applying band-aids to four of my fingers then she told me to go sit down and she would bring me my Scotch. As I walked down the aisle I couldn’t help but think that anyone her age, who is dumb enough to still live in a fort, would also be dumb enough to call ordinary water backwater. Shit, I stopped living in my fort by fifth or sixth grade—what’s wrong with her?

Within seconds of squeezing in next to the plumb dyke, the Flight Attendant appeared and handed me six Dewar’s. I looked at my watch and figured I had about one and a half hours to guzzle all of them down---I can do that I thought. I am feeling no pain as we touch down in Houston, I bid the dykes adieu and shuffle off the plane. My favorite restaurant in the airport is Pappadeux and I want to find it quickly so I can sit down and stop wobbling. Shit, it’s the only one I’ve ever been in there, but the food is pretty good and it’s located right near my gate. I stumble in and grab a seat at the bar.

The bar maid says, “Your usual.” To which I reply,” But of course.” I didn’t have a clue what she meant, but what the hell, I was on vacation from being a Historian Emeritus and I richly deserved this break. A minute later a half bottle of Coppola Chardonnay miraculously appears in front of me just begging me to drink it. That’s what I had the last time I was in there, so I start to rack my brain trying to remember what stupid thing I did in here on my last trip to make her remember me so well. After about 15 seconds I gave up because my mind wasn’t cooperating and figured it couldn’t have been too bad, after all they didn’t throw me out when I walked in the door.

Ten minutes later a steak is placed in front of me, cooked just the way I like it, medium rare. As I’m eating it I spot three hot ladies sitting at a table in the back of the place. Two are brunettes and the other is a good looking Blonde. Maybe I’ll get lucky in here I think as I plow through the steak. A few minutes later the ladies get up to leave and as they walk by the bar, I realize each is about my age and ugly as sin. Perhaps I should finish the wine and switch to beer, after all, isn’t that what you’re supposed to drink if you don’t want to get drunk? I drink the last of the wine and ask for a Heineken. There, another problem easily solved. Sometimes I even amaze myself.

Two more Heinekens and I’m ready to roll. I really didn’t want them, but I had almost two hours to kill and that seemed like the easiest way to do it. The bar maid brings the bill and I figure this was the perfect opportunity to obtusely ask her what I did on my previous visit to make her remember me. She said it was the tip I left and I asked her if I stiffed her, in error of course. “Oh no,” she said, “You were extremely generous.” “How generous,” I asked. “Well you left $100 on a $45 check. I inwardly gulped and cursed carrying all those $100 bills when I go to Rio. I must have thought it was a $10 when I gave it to her. “Oh, you misunderstood, I left you that $100 as a tip for that meal and for the next three when I pass through,” I said as convincing as I possibly could. “Nice try, but I’ll let you slide this time, the meals on me.” God Bless her little Texan heart. Finally something was going right for a change, now all I have to do is not fuck it up somehow. As I departed I placed a $20 bill on the bar so as not to tempt fate and thanked her for the wonderful meal.

Sunday Oct 2, 2005

Wolf just left so I can tell you what he said about my latest literary effort. First of all, he didn’t like me calling his wife a bitch. I told him that the only reasons I refer to her as that is because that what he calls her, coupled with the fact that she is a super bitch. He couldn’t argue with my logic so he went back to reading. Then he complained about my description of him. “Just go look in the mirror,” I said. When he came back he had this stupid look on his face and said,” You’re right, I look like a raccoon.” “No shit Sherlock,” I replied, “Want me to change your name?” “No, I really like Wolf.” “Then shut the fuck up and read my damn report,” I hissed at him.

Next he complained about the way I described the “going away party.” “You did serve hotdogs and everything else I described, didn’t you,” I asked?” “Yes, but you made it sound awful.” “It was, that’s why I left without eating, went home and ordered a Domino’s pizza. “You did see the car with the Domino’s sign on it pull up to my house, didn’t you?’ “Yeah, but I thought that was Austin eating in.” “It was for me, you asshole, I didn’t want to eat the shit at your house,” I practically screamed at him. He started to calm down a little and when he got to the part about eating the fillet when I was gone, he just kept quiet. Good, he’s finally getting smart, I thought.

When he was finished he said, “You’ve written nine pages so far and you’re still in Houston, this is much more verbose than your last report. At least you got to sex by page seven, but here you’re not even on the plane for Rio by page nine. You’re hopeless.” As he was leaving, he gave me one more parting shot, “I think I now know who your ex wife was referring to back on page three.” “You do, who?” “Keep writing, maybe I’ll tell you someday,” was all he said as he walked out of the door. Man, he’s fucking nuts, isn’t he?

part 1 is here! I was thinking I'd be reading it from Rio. Pappadeux is fantastic, I didn't know there was one in Houston's airport.

Jaguar good start my friend. We are all waiting for more especially about the collar and chain MBL had around you this trip. - More please and thanks - Hemp

Have you thought of approaching 'Travel Channel' with these very complete trip reports?

Jag is far more interesting to read than watch than Anthony Bourdain dude.

Come to think of it, maybe they should have a production crew follow you around video taping everthing for our viewing pleasure!

great start, can't wait to read the rest!

Jag,

Thoroughly enjoyed reading about your misadventures. Even though there is no sex by page 9. Can't wait to read more. We need something to fill the void left by RobLaw.

BT

BT,

You're absolutely right as always. There's a tremendous void with regard to Help misinformation. RL was keeping that discussion going almost single handedly.

How the fuck did you wind up here? When I first saw your post, I thought you somehow got an advanced copy of Part Two and decided to beat me to the Board.

BTW, I didn't forget about that Tomatoe sauce recipe I promised to send you. Just bear with me till I get this done.

Take care my friend,

Jag

Jag>> "but that’s what we call it in Fort Worth,” she said. “No, just on the rocks, but do you happen to have any band-aids,” I meekly asked as I held my hands up to show her the damage to my fingers. Within seconds she was applying band-aids to four of my fingers then she told me to go sit down and she would bring me my Scotch. As I walked down the aisle I couldn’t help but think that anyone her age, who is dumb enough to still live in a fort, would also be dumb enough to call ordinary water backwater."

Yeh, us Texans are a bit different, although I have never heard of Backwater before. Of course I do not drink Sadly I also call a Fort (Worth) my home as well!

Val,

So, you live in a fort too!

Texans are fucking wierd, aren't they?

Jag

Hey Jaguar, if you ever get to this Fort (Worth) place in Texas there is this resturant which takes pictures of the Bull before they butcher it for dinner. Then they hang the pictures on the walls in the dinning room. Seems very strange to me, but that's what they told me.

Jag,

Let's have a chili cookoff @ Centaurus.

BT

Anybody have a good recipe for bull penis chili? I hear it's a Texas treat.

Oh, Hunterman, that's gross, LOL

Guys,

Take it from someone who's eaten one--I don't want another one, ever.

Jag

You'll never know the difference when it's ground up and mixed with pepper and other spices. In fact, how DO you know what's in chili? It's kind of like hot dogs.

Anyway, somewhere (probably in China) they eat that kind of stuff--and like it. Anyway, the adventurer in me still would like to try it if I can find it (if indeed I didn't already inadvertently eat some in Indonesia--who knows what a lot of that stuff was?).