God, it seems like a long time ago when I put Part Seven to rest and flew down to Rio for more misadventures with MBL and Felix. Now, where the fuck did I leave off? Shit, I have to go back and reread Parts Five, Six and Seven, so I don’t repeat myself. God damn it, after reading all those parts I have to go back further so I don’t duplicate any of the bathroom stories. I’m doing this for you guys because I’m sure you don’t want me to repeat any of them either. By my count, I’ve told you a total of five potty stories so far and that means there’s only one more to go. Whew!
One day MBL and I were walking along Av. Atlantico by Terrasco and suddenly someone calls out my name. Sure enough, I see Sweetmesquite sitting at a table with a ubiquitous bottle of wine in front of him surrounded by several other guys. As we approach the table, I hear someone say, "That’s his maid with him." If that individual only knew that’s what I tell my neighbors about Princess, but that’s a story for a little later. Sweetmesquite makes the introductions and I find out that the individual who made that comment is none other than Catacony. We all know that Catacony is a lovable irascible curmudgeon of the first order, who is extremely well acquainted with Rio and the Portuguese language. He is a veritable fount of information compared to me. I can’t wait to hear what he says to get either of us pissed off.
Also at the table are Kenmore, his beautiful girlfriend, Stayawayjoe and Downandup. Miss Bubble Lips sits across the table from Catacony and he starts talking about the various termas he has recently visited and what talent is available at each. Poor MBL had a slight headache before she sat down and listening to Catacony talk about termas sends her directly into severe migraine territory. She gently rubs her temples as she glares at Cat and I offer to go get her some aspirin to ease her pain. No, she informs me with facial expressions that she would much rather sit there and give Cat the evil eye than ask for relief.
Cat decides to ratchet up the conversation by asking me to go to Solarium with them and that’s when MBL decides to give me the evil eye. What the fuck did I do other than sit down at the table with some friends? Regardless of what I did or didn’t do, MBL is getting more pissed by the minute; Cat knew it and went for the jugular. He does this subtlety by changing topics and launches into an in-depth report on various sexual acts available in Canada. Yeah, I agree with you, why Canada of all places? I would find out in only moments. Well, as I quickly learned, Cat designed this subtle shift in locations from Brazil to Canada to distract MBL and lull her into complete complacency.
Now picture this, MBL is sitting there surrounded by a group of strange men graphically talking about sex, she’s rubbing her temple furiously and then Cat highlights the difficultly of getting good anal sex in Canadian bordellos. MBL probably doesn’t even know where Canada is located, but as soon as she hears anal being mentioned she’s ready to rip out Cat’s throat. Obviously, Cat must have read the about the headache and ass-ache she experienced after that tequila incident involving the breakup of Felix and the Bimbo last June. He correctly assumed that it was one of her hot buttons. If she had only relaxed a little, it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Needless-to-say she hasn’t had tequila since! Unfortunately, the only way I could quiet him down was to take my napkin and tie it over his mouth. I could still hear him laughing under his breath. Why does everybody have to fuck with me? I’m sure it puzzles you too. Luckily for me, Hemp joins us and the boys settle down a little.
Kenmore proceeds to tell us this fantastic true story illustrating how intelligent, conniving and deceptive Brazilian women can be when given the opportunity. Before I go any further, you have to understand that I have checked this story out completely and have verified all the facts. It revolves around love and a tattoo. Essentially what happened is Kenmore's long-term girlfriend got a tattoo signifying her love for him with his name in bold letters tattooed just above her ass. To ensure anonymity and protect the innocent, I've changed his name here, so for the sake of the story, Kenmore's name is Arthur or Art for short. For awhile they were madly in love and he liked the fact that every time he did her doggy style there was his name, ART, emblazoned on her lower back. As I told you all once before, everything happens quite rapidly in Brazil and this love affair is no exception. In other words, it’s definitely destined not to last.
After the inevitable break up, Kenmore is a little upset that everybody's going to see his name on her ass when they fuck her doggy style, so he decides to do something about it. He looks into having the tattoo removed and finds out that it's going to cost him at least R$5000 to have the procedure performed by a plastic surgeon. Since he definitely wants all evidence of their relationship totally erased forever, he bites the bullet and agrees to give her the money necessary to pay the doctor. Needless to say, she's about as upset as most Brazilian girls get when they break up, which means her terribly hurt feelings last for about a nanosecond or until she goes shopping. She kisses him gently goodbye and takes the R$5000 with a huge Brazilian grin on her face.
Weeks later they get together for old times sake and as he is fucking her doggy style he notices that the tattoo is still there, but instead of saying ART it now says BART. In other words, he paid R$5000 to have a "B" tattooed above her ass, which probably cost approximately R$20, and she pocketed remainder. Now he’s out R$4980, but at least his name isn’t on her ass like they agreed. Finally, I found someone in Rio who makes more costly blunders than me. Thanks Kenmore.
After I finish laughing, I see that Catacony has remained silent for a while, and figure that this is the perfect opportunity to ask Miss Bubble Lips what she wants to do for the rest of the afternoon. "Go home and go to bed," is all she can manage to say through her Catacony induced migraine haze. I walk her back to the apartment, put her to bed and go over Alcazar to see what Don is doing. By the time I get there, Hemp has joined him and we all sit back have a smoke; Don and I enjoy a beer while Hemp has a Coke. After a few beers, I decide to saunter back to the apartment, but as I pass that little combo bar convenience store outside of the favela, I can't resist going in for one more beer. After all, what could possibly go wrong?
I was just like walking into Cheer’s; you know that bar where "everyone knows your name" because as soon as I approached they all called out "Gringo Loco." Apparently, that's their affectionate name for me. Once again I ordered drinks for everybody, put a R$20 note on the bar and ordered myself a grande skol. Imagine that, I travel 5000 miles to the other side of the equator and find a group of characters just like in a TV show back home. There's a guy who acts just like Norm, a "Mr. know it all" like Cliff and the bartender reminds me of the first bartender on the show who was named “Coach.” Man, did that guy make a mistake or what, by dropping out of the show after two seasons just before it became real popular and the money started to pour in? Regardless of his reasons for leaving the show, Woody never seemed quite as good in the role. Funny, I never saw that Coach guy again on any other series, I wonder why?
After about two grande skols I light up a cigar, which as I look back on it was not the best course of action because after a few puffs, one of the characters at the bar grabbed it and started puffing away. Suddenly it was being passed from filthy favela dweller to a more disgustingly filthy favela dweller, almost like a peace pipe. Apparently they all enjoyed the cigar and I was glad to let them smoke it, but suddenly it was put back in my hand and everyone stared at me. Now I had a terrible dilemma my hands, what do I do and how do I do it? Everyone's eyes were on me and I knew that they expected me to take a puff signifying my friendship but that was the furthest thing from my mind. It reminded me of that scene in the movie Pappillion, where Steve McQueen has to share the cigar with that leper who’s falling apart.
I tried a feeble attempt at subterfuge by placing it next to my mouth and pretending to puff but apparently that didn't pass muster. Then I saw my salvation sitting on a shelf behind the bartender. I quickly ordered a whiskey, figuring that I could use the alcohol in it to kill the germs on the cigar, but the bartender had other ideas. Instead he reached below the bar and pulled out a bottle of this amber liquid that had several tall reeds in it and poured me a glass. The bottle was unmarked so I didn't know what I was about to drink, but as I started talking and waving my hands around for emphasis and to distract them, I deftly dipped my cigar butt in the liquid. To further distract them and as a sign of friendship, I handed one of the fine patron a fresh cigar. Gingerly and with trembling hands I brought the cigar up to my lips to take a puff and the wet liquid, what ever it was, burned like hell. I figured that was a good sign because it meant that none of the germs on the cigar butt could possibly survive such a strong antiseptic and I would be free from contamination.
They all smiled, yup, all seven of them with a total of approximately 19 teeth in their combined smiles. Well at least now I’m off the hook or so I thought, till one of them handed me my glass full of the amber liquid. Oh shit, now I have to drink the stuff that I just dipped my cigar butt into. God, it burns like hell as I take the first small sip. This stuff is so strong I can’t even tell what it tastes like, it just burns. As I put the glass down, I get disapproving looks from everyone and then someone gestures for me to slug it down, not sip it. Here goes! Holy shit, I never drank anything like it. Pure grain alcohol is more soothing and tasty! After I swallowed it down and gulped for air, I pointed at the bottle and shrugged my shoulders in a feeble attempt at asking what it was that I just drank. Tequila, everyone said in unison. Who ever heard of putting reeds in Tequila? Perhaps that worm they add is the missing ingredient that turns it into a soothing liquor. As you can tell, I know nothing at all about Tequila, but I don’t think the reeds add anything to it to enhance its flavor.
MBL’s migraine headache (thanks Cat) persisted into the evening so we couldn’t go out. That was just fine with me because it meant I couldn’t get into anymore trouble. The next day started like all others and by the time I got back to the apartment MBL was wide awake and horny as hell. Maybe she should get headaches more often. After she’s finished ravaging me, I decide to cook her a great Irish breakfast, but when I look in the refrigerator there aren’t any eggs. She’s dying of hunger so I tell her I’ll run to the supermarket to buy the necessary ingredients.
As I go down the stairs, she hands me three little trash bags to dump in the orange garbage cans on the street. I don’t know if I told you or not, but the fucking building manager took away my garbage chute privileges for some insignificant transgression on my part. MBL tells at me to also buy toilet paper while I’m at the store. What the fuck do women do with all the toilet paper they use anyway? Oh well, I’ll buy her four rolls just to make her happy; I’m happy because I don’t have to buy those God damn pads with wings again. When I try to go out the lobby, I see that the iron gate is closed barring my path, so I go out through the garage. The outside gate is closed as is usually the case, but strangely the doorman is standing right next to it.
I wonder what the fuck is going on as I approach the doorman. He signals me to look up and that’s when I see one of the other doormen washing the windows of the first floor apartment, which is right under ours. Ah ha, that’s why they closed the interior gate, so no one would get wet from the dripping water as they walked through the lobby. Suddenly I hear someone whistle at me and I look back up to see the window washing doorman give me the “thumbs up” sign. I nod and smile at him and that’s when something unusual happened. At exactly the same moment, MBL opened the drapes one floor above and blows me a kiss; I put my fingers to my lips and blow one back.
Only after I had done this did I realize the doorman was still in the window below ours and when I looked at him, I watched his facial expression rapidly go from surprised to confused and finally to totally disgusted, all in the matter of seconds. Oh shit, he now thinks I’m queer and probably won’t let me back in the building again. In an effort to rectify the situation, I point upwards so he could see MBL in the window. Wouldn’t you know it with my luck, by the time he looked up, she was gone. Shit, I can’t even go to the supermarket without fucking up. Now that I think about it, I better keep my eyes open for that little old lady; don’t want to fall for that scam twice.
Speaking of scams, I would like to enlighten many of you to some of the more prevalent and successful scams on the beach. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking, dumb old Jag must have fallen for each of these, but you would be wrong in making that assumption. You know how I often miss the obvious because I have a tendency to focus on the insignificant, well; this is a perfect case in point. Each time I went to the beach, I tried to figure out why the vendors select certain targets like me. No, it has nothing to do with how stupid you look, but rather how you react to the people who pass out literature on the beach. There appears to be a direct correlation between those individuals who take the literature and those approached by vendors. Simply put, don’t take literature from anyone on the beach because it indicates you’re approachable. I figured that out after eight trips to Rio. Hey, don’t give me any shit; I never claimed to be a quick study, did I?
The next scam was in full swing during August because of all the fucking Italians in town. They fall for this scam in droves. You’ve all seen the ugly women selling thong panties on the beach, well; I uncovered their dirty little secret. It essentially goes like this: A young women approaches some dumb guy on the beach, makes contact and after about twenty minutes of conversation along comes the “panty lady.” For only a small price, he believes he can buy her companionship for the cost of several pairs of panties. So for R$45 he can purchase three pair of elegant and sexy panties thus ensuring her attention for a few more hours. All the beach girls participate in this scam, so don’t think you’re immune.
Usually within fifteen minutes of making your purchase, they express their appreciation for your gift and quickly move on to greener pastures, which in August is the next Italian on the beach. If you watch closely, you will find that the girl invariably meets up with the “panty lady” later in the day and sells the panties back to her for R$5 each. You can often watch them settling up on the sidewalk between Help and Meia Pataca. In other words, the panty lady makes a R$10 profit per pair without ever depleting her inventory. This is the only business model I have seen that’s remotely similar to E-bay’s and more successful. Okay, it took me eight trips to figure this one out too. Quit busting my balls!
The third scam involves those fucking Samba bands that roam the beach extorting money from innocent and unsuspecting tourists. This scam I figured out on my fifth trip because one of my friends became a victim of it. What the band counts on is an attractive woman nearby who starts dancing to the music to draw attention to the Samba band. Sometimes it’s an accomplice, but often they rely on some hot Brazilian babe to start shaking her ass to the rhythm of the music. For some strange reason, Brazilian women start dancing as soon as they hear music just like that dead guy, Bernie, did in the movie Weekend at Bernie’s II. I can’t explain it; just believe me when I say it happens.
This is what happened to us last March, so pay close attention. I was down at the beach with Fawn and two friends from New England when one of those fucking bands came along. Fawn was topless and started to dance around moving her ass in the most suggestive and fantastic ways that Brazilian girls do. One of my friends had taken off his running shorts, he had a bathing suit on underneath, left them on his chair and then proceeded to take photos of Fawn dancing. I suddenly noticed several six to eight year olds boys hovering around, which seemed odd to me, but not significant enough for me to pay close attention to them. After about twenty photos and R$10 for the band, he went back to his chair to find that his shorts were stolen.
Man, he was really pissed and I tried my best to gently calm him down. “What was in your shorts and how much did they cost,” I asked? “They cost about $20 and I don’t remember what was in the pockets,” he replied. “Well, at least you have your camera; you’re wallet wasn’t in them, was it?” “No, my wallet’s in my room,” he answered. Then he remembered that he had his small Portuguese dictionary in his shorts and suddenly he became real mad. “Why the fuck are you upset about loosing a dictionary,” I asked? “Because I feel stupid for letting it happen,” he honestly replied. Trying to put a positive spin on an upsetting situation, I told him, “Well, if you feel stupid, imagine how stupid that kid is going to feel when he’s expecting to pull a wallet out of those shorts and only finds a dictionary.” Fortunately, he laughed and started to relax a little, but from then on, I’m on my guard whenever the bands come around.
That night MBL and I went to Help and you’ll never guess who we ran into. Nope, not him or him either. Okay, I’ll tell you—it was the Egghead Professor. The first thing he asks me is, “Have you figured out that cat riddle yet?” “No, and fuck you too,” was the most intelligent comeback I could manage at spur of the moment. I wanted to get away from him for fear that he’d start bringing up other obscure French literary figures to make me look even more stupid. Cleausou, whoever heard of him? Fortunately we were able to get away and MBL announced that she had to go to the bathroom. Wouldn’t you know it, within fifteen seconds of her going into the ladies room, Lurch comes down from the balcony and saunters into the ladies room? So that’s where she was hiding. Oh fuck, right about now I’m dying to go over and join the Egghead again just to avoid the confrontation I know is coming. MBL comes out about ten minutes later and is all smiles; me, I’m weak kneed with butterflies in my stomach and feel like throwing up. Why do these bitches toy with me? Yeah, I know—because they can! Instead of asking me questions, MBL just smiles all night long. God damn it, the silence and suspense are killing me and she knows it, but she enjoys fucking with my mind more than anything else, including getting even.
The next day I convince MBL to go to that Arab restaurant that I fucked up on my last visit. Some of you didn’t believe that an architect would design a bathroom so poorly and questioned the accuracy of my reporting. I had to dispel the doubters. After we sat down our waiter came over, gave me an accusatory glance and said, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” “Nope, this is my very first visit to your fine establishment,” was my quick deceitful reply. “Are you sure, you look familiar,” he answered. “Yep,” was all I could manage to say under such intense questioning. MBL suggested we get out of there before they found out who I was, and what I did to their men’s room, but I insisted that we stay for lunch.
Now, I really put myself in a spot because the last time I was there, I broke their toilet, flooded their bathroom causing incalculable damage to their basement and then ran out without telling them about the problem. What if they realized that the guilty culprit was sitting right in their midst? Would they treat me like the prisoners in “Gitmo” or one of those secret prisons in Eastern Europe? God, I hope not. Regardless of the consequences, I have to get pictures of that poorly designed bathroom or my investigative piece is a complete and utter failure.
When he comes back, he explains that they have a buffet and then asks me what my favorite dish is. “I like the skewered chicken,” I replied without thinking. “I thought you said you have never been here before,” he stated. Oh shit, what do I do now? Think quickly, I said to myself as I looked over at MBL who is just sitting there smiling and watching me squirm. “Every Arab restaurant has that on its menu,” was all I could come up with under the enormous pressure he was surreptitiously applying. He looked at me closely and once again asked, “You have never been here before?” “No, why would I lie?” “Because we’re looking for someone who looks like you,” he replied. “You are, why?” “It does not interest you,” was all he said, immediately cutting off any further discussion. Whew!
I was safe or so I thought until I got up to go to the men’s room. Every employee’s eyes were on me, including the kitchen staff behind the buffet, as I walked across the restaurant. Man, I remember thinking that I’m going to get caught, but I had to proceed like everything was normal or my cover would be blown. My camera was out within seconds of entering and I could hear someone outside the door. Click, click, click! I took three rapid photos with the flash going off. The door suddenly opened and my waiter gave me a nasty look and said, “What are you doing?” “Just testing the flash unit on my camera,” I said, “because I want to take some photos of your fine restaurant for a magazine in the United States.” “You do, please take photos of our elegant buffet,” he suggested. After eating our meal, I took about twenty shots of the place and told them to look for the pictures in next month’s nonexistent “Upscale Restaurant” magazine. We practically ran out of the place and I intend to never visit there again even if someone claims I doctored the photos. Uncovering and confirming God damn fucking background material is going to get me into serious trouble someday.
When we get back to the apartment MBL and I have a long drawn out fight over something as simple as toilet paper. Have you ever noticed that guys usually leave the toilet paper off the rack with an empty cardboard core still on it? This simple inaction on our part invariably drives women crazy. They like order, we like convenience! When we do put it in the holder, we always put it in differently than the way women do and this pisses them off. I simply call this difference in male-female behavior my “Over—Under Rule.” This is what caused the argument between us, but it had its genesis a month ago in the States and involved two people I absolutely hate with a passion. I’ll tell the story exactly as I wrote it down last month.
Over—Under Rule
Two of my neighbors recently ganged up on me in some twisted effort to fuck with my demented little mind. How you might ask? Well, just read on. First of all, one of them is Wolf that fucked up shrink that lives across the street from me. You know, Wolf is the one who bought me that dangerous SOG knife and that Spitfire pepper spray for me with the hope that I would injure myself. The other one is a tall former SAS officer from the UK; I affectionately call him "Limey." He works for one of the many pharmaceutical companies in the area and if you ask me, I think they test experimental drugs on him because he has a slight problem with anger management. For some odd reason, I seem to exacerbate his imbalance.
I met him at a cocktail party welcoming his family into the neighborhood about a year ago. Apparently someone tipped him off about me because he kept avoiding me all night till I was able to corner him. My first question was, "Why have I only met former SAS members, never anyone on active duty?" He told me that most active duty officers do not identify themselves for security purposes and to protect their anonymity. I thought, yeah, I'm in an organization just like that called Club Hombre!
His anger management issue came to light when I asked my next question. "If the SAS is such a tough group, why hasn't Charlie Sheen or Chuck Norris made a movie about them?" That stopped him dead in his tracks and before you know it he was yelling and screaming at me. Wolf interceded and told him that I was what they called "multi-challenged." In front of everyone, he said that the multi-challenges include; emotional, physical and mental issues. At that point, several of the other neighbors chimed in with, "he's an alcoholic, he's nuts," and my favorite, "have you seen that black slut who spends the night?" Obviously they were referring to Princess even though I told them she was my maid. She just likes to clean it night! Wolf told them that all their problems with me were simply subsets of the previous mention three categories. This explanation had a calming effect on the SAS asshole till I said, "Well, at least I didn't go ballistic like this guy." Suddenly he went thermal nuclear and I was politely asked to leave. I hate fucking snobs, don't you?
As a result of that incident the SAS dude and Wolf became best friends and were always out to get me. No, I'm not paranoid like Wolf says; I just know they're out to get me. They had the secret rule which they said often applied to me. They called it their "Over -- Under Rule." For months I thought it applied to the stunning conclusion I'd come to regarding men and women and, of all things, toilet paper. As you guys know, I have a tendency to somehow focus on the obscure things in life often totally missing the obvious. This incident is a prime example of my erratic and bizarre behavior.
Have you ever noticed that when men occasionally replace a roll of toilet paper that 90% of the time the paper dispenses "over the top" of the role rather than from "under." You probably never noticed that, did you? Women, on the other hand, invariably put the role in with the paper coming out of the bottom of the role. This simple observation enabled me to come up with my "Over -- Under Rule." You're probably wondering what about the other 10% of the guys who put the role in the wrong way -- they're fucking queer. Yup, no way around it, they’re definitely queer.
Toilet paper in the masculine format
Okay, so now you can see that we have several neighbors, both with an "Over -- Under Rule," totally ignorant of the meaning of each other’s rule. One night shortly before leaving on this trip, I invite both assholes over to my house to thank them for the pepper spray they recently bought for me. I get out my laptop, four bottles of Chardonnay wine and 3 pounds of the largest shrimp you've ever seen for shrimp cocktail. They were gigantic, so large in fact that there were only 23 shrimp in the 3 pounds. I had to give each of us an individual dish of cocktail sauce because you had to dip each one at least three times, if not four, before it was finished. I hate double dippers and I didn’t know where either their mouths had been recently.
I was somewhat aware of their "Over -- Under Rule," because every once in awhile I would hear them say "over -- under applies" in my presence and then laugh hysterically. I was bound and determined to get them to tell me what it meant and after the first bottle of wine, I powered up the laptop and teased them with some Copa Beach bunda shots. They were begging for more as I cracked open the second bottle. Slowly we progressed to the more explicit pictures; they stopped eating the shrimp and started guzzling down the Chardonnay. At one point Wolf said, "Is that your dick in her mouth?" Either he was thinking down at my level or the wine was having the intended effects, so I decided to continue fucking with him. "No, that's my body double," I replied. "Really?" Then he just smiled when he figured I was messing with him. "Hey Wolf, just a crazy question, but humor me a little; when you change a roll of toilet paper, does it dispense from the top or the bottom," I asked? Without missing a beat he said, "The bottom, of course." Holy shit!
I left them alone to go inside to get some more wine and while I was gone, Limey somehow managed to get in the wrong photo files and before I knew it there was a photo of Princess spread eagle on my bed. They both said almost in unison, "that's your maid!" "No, it just looks like her," was the only thing I could come up with without ample preparation. I then said it was taken on my trip to the Dominican Republic, but the bastards nailed me when they pointed out the picture of my youngest daughter next to the bed and that the hotel room in the DR was decorated exactly like my bedroom upstairs. I cracked, "OK, she does more than just clean." I made them promise this would be our little secret and they agreed. Quickly they peppered me with questions about her and that's when I got my last report up on the laptop and scrolled to the part about meeting her on the plane. After reading it they had a newfound respect for me. Unfortunately, that feeling was short-lived.
They started scrolling through the report and that's when I started to worry about whether I had written anything about either of them that they would find offensive. I wasn't really worried about the SAS nut because he's smart enough to stay away from me, but Wolf is another story completely. He loves to torment me every chance he gets. "Here, try this new psychotropic drug," he'll say when he stops by to annoy me. One time when I saw him walking down my driveway, I got out my grandfather's 45 automatic and left it out on the kitchen counter. After fucking with my mind for about 15 minutes, he finally asked me what the gun was doing out. "I plan to play Russian roulette with it," I hissed at him. "How can he play Russian roulette with an automatic," he asked with genuine concern in his voice? I gave him a one-word answer that stopped him dead in his tracks. "Quickly," was all I said. He left immediately and kept peeking out his front window, looking for police cars to arrive in my driveway any minute. Now, where the fuck was I in this story?
Oh yeah, they're reading the last report I wrote when all of a sudden Wolf says, "I didn't say that." "The fuck you didn't," I shot back. "Was I that harsh on you?" "Shit, yes," I said, hoping it would make him feel badly, but it didn't. The latent fairy just kept ranting on, reading the report, slugging down my wine and munching on my enormous shrimp. I hate the bastard, but he's fun to toy with. He’s like a canker sore; annoying and painful, but when it’s gone, you suddenly miss touching it with your tongue. The SAS guy, well, he's another story completely. All he wants to do is look at photos -- he's a fucking pervert! While he's engrossed in the photos, I decide to ask him my definitive question. "By the way Limey, how do you change toilet paper," I subtly ask him? "What do you mean?" "I mean over-the-top or underneath," I said totally exasperated by his stupidity. "Usually from the bottom," he answers. Holy shit; here I'm sharing porn with a couple of queers in my own backyard, serving them elegant appetizers and plying them with wine. What was in God’s name was I thinking when I invited them over? Worse yet, what the fuck are they thinking about me right now?
Within moments our little get-together disintegrated into a shouting match as I asked them to leave immediately. "What the fuck did we do," they asked? "You failed my "Over -- Under Rule," I said. "We have one of those too, what does yours refer to," Wolf asked? "Never mind, what is yours about," I asked? Before Wolf could stop him, Limey piped up and said that it means, "Overconfident and Under trained." Whew, at least I knew that their rule couldn't possibly apply to me.
I didn't want to tell them the significance of my rule because they would only make fun of me for focusing on toilet paper. "Just finish your shrimp and leave," was all I could manage to say in an effort to get them off my property. "If you don't tell us what your rule means, we are going to tell our wives about Princess and how you met her," Wolf said in a sissy-like voice. "Go ahead; tell all the neighbors, I don’t care." The next day Wolf’s wife, the bitch, stood outside her front door as I pulled out of the driveway and just stared at me. That meant that Wolf had told her about Princess, confirming to her that I was a pervert like she always suspected. Bet Wolf didn’t tell her about all the photos he was looking at last night. Maybe I should send the bitch a few copies of the photos Wolf especially liked. I hate nosy neighbors, don't you?
The next morning while at breakfast at The Office, I log onto CH and find that I have a personal message from Brazilspecialis inquiring about my well being. Holy shit, I forgot to take him that capsaicin that I brought down for him. I immediately call him and within moments I’m headed back to the apartment to pick it up. With his help on the cell phone, I find his penthouse and I’m greeted by a lovely young lady at the door. As I enter the penthouse, Brazilspecialis comes into the vestibule and asks, “So you’re the infamous Jaguar?” “Yeah, I hope you’re not disappointed,” I replied as I took two or three steps backward so that he could come further into the vestibule. Immediately he motioned for me to stop going backwards and said the following, “Don’t go any further into the apartment, I don’t want anything broken.” What the fuck did he mean by that, I wondered? I laughed nervously and figured he was probably right. With my luck, I would walk into the next room and his computer would explode. For some strange reason I just have a lot of bad luck. Perhaps MBL is right; I have a bad glow about me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay to talk or admire the two lovelies because MBL was in the lobby waiting to go to the beach. She doesn’t give me a long leash, does she?
Today was my last day at the beach and after dealing with Fernando for the last four trips, I have finally learned a valuable lesson. The lesson is this: never tell Fernando exactly how long you plan to be in Brazil. I’m convinced that as soon as I tell him when I’m leaving, he goes home and logs the date into his computer. The day before I’m to leave, his computer spits out my name and he does a full court press on me for a bonus. Shit, on my last trip he hit me up for R$50, which I stupidly gave to him. I’ve finally learned to always say that I’ll see him tomorrow, that way I can easily sneak away without enduring his attempted extortion of a bonus. Yup, I came up with that solution all by myself. Man, I’m really proud of myself for figuring out how to outwit a third grade educated Brazilian. Now, if I can only figure out how to outsmart MBL, I’ll save myself a lot of money. Luckily, just before we left the beach, Fernando had a customer to distract his attention from us. We pass him and wave as he’s lathering up some babe with that God awful bleach solution the girls use to lighten their body hair. Whew, got away Scott free!
Speaking of money, we both sit down to discuss finances. She professes her undying love for me, then explains that $100 converts into only R$240, which is significantly less than what it was the last time we were together. I countered with “No shit, and you eat like a horse.” “What does my eating have to do with it,” she replied. “Because I figured out that it costs me over R$150 per day to feed you. That’s almost what it costs to go to a termas,” I replied. She didn’t like me mentioning the termas and suddenly $100 was fine with her. As I handed her the agreed upon amount, she once again started to cry, but I didn’t fall for it this time. Alright, maybe I did just a little—I handed her another R$200 for her Academy Award winning performance. She snuggled next to me the whole way out to the airport and started crying when we got there, but stopped as soon as I told her I was out of money. The last thing she said to me as I was entering security was, “Where did you hide the extra chip for your camera?” “Never mind!”
As I approach my seat, I see that someone is in the seat next to me and it’s a guy. Obviously, showing him photos of Rio won’t get rid of him unless he’s queer, so I settle in next to him and we start to talk. He works for an engineering firm and spent the last five days at the Sheraton Rio in Leblon. I asked him what he did at night and he told me he went to the Hard Rock Café in Barra several times. “Did you ever get into Copacabana,” I asked? “No, the desk clerk suggested I go to Barra instead.” “Were there many girls at the Hard Rock,” I inquired. “No,” was all he said. “Do you mind if I show you what you missed,” I said as I was pulling out my camera? He became my best friend for the next nine hours. Newbies, don’t you just love ‘em!
. So be careful when reading Juauars reports and do not think of any details in the future.