The Dummy Identity

Part One

Remember when you were a kid how much fun it was to occasionally hide from your parents, grandparents, or play “hide & seek” with your friends? Sometimes the sheer anticipation of getting caught during “hide & seek,” especially as the seeker approached closer, would cause some children to nervously giggle and give away their location. I know because I was one of them. For this upcoming trip, I planned to sneak into Rio without Lucy knowing I'm in town. That way I can have lots of fun before I hook up with her. She'll never know about it and I'll have a blast, or so I imagined. So much for my vivid imagination because all I can say is that hiding out in Rio for the past 6 days hasn’t been anywhere as much fun as I remember it was when I was a kid. In other words, I haven’t been too happy or doing any giggling lately.

As you all know, planning isn’t one of my strong points, but this time I went to extraordinary lengths to prepare. How extraordinary? Well, just read on. I even printed up multiple Continental itineraries, one showing a departure each day of my first week in Rio. I did this just in case I got tired of whoring around and wanted some good old emotional lovemaking with Lucy. Having the multiple itineraries provided me with the option of calling her any day I wanted, telling her I just arrived in Rio and showing her the proof. After all, with this intense preparation, what could possibly go wrong?

Additionally, this time before leaving for Rio, I gave myself plenty of lead time to disguise myself and allow for all possible contingencies. Weeks prior to arriving in Rio I entered into a friendly competition with several friends, one of them you all know: Latinalover. Essential it was a weight loss bet over a three week period. Whoever lost the most weight won, plain and simple. Because I was becoming a “butterball” this competition had two distinctly different benefits. First, I would lose weight and, consequently, feel better. Secondarily, and more important to me, I would look markedly different when I arrived. But how else do I modify my appearance? Wolf would help me devise another method of changing my overall appearance, but more about that later.

Latinalover came up with this brilliant diet plan one night as we were dining on the most succulent, inch and a half thick, twenty ounce rib eye steaks you can imagine. Right after finishing his last bite of steak, smothered in onions, and washing it down with the last mouthful of his Merlot, he looked at me and said, “You should go on a diet; you’re starting to put on some weight.” Slowly I turned toward him, put my elbows on the table so I wouldn’t be tempted to hit him and calmly replied, “No shit Sherlock, since you’ve been insisting we come here to Tio Pepe’s on a weekly basis for their Delmonico steak, yours truly has put on over 15 pounds. And it’s all your fault!” (I added that because my ex-wife, the Bitch, always said that to me whenever she gained weight in an effort to get sympathy and shift blame. Although it never really worked with me, I figured I’d give it a try with Latinalover.) With a hurt look on his face, but a twinkle in his eye, he said, “Looks more like 25 pounds to me.” Looks like it didn’t work with him either.

Five days after our huge steak dinner, Latinalover called to tell me that he went on the South Beach diet and had already lost six pounds. I hopped on the scale and learned I had gained two pounds. I didn’t know he had already started his diet so I was busy stuffing myself with cheeseburgers and fries until he gave the go ahead to start the competition. The bastard had sandbagged me! Three weeks later, I was to learn that this was but the first of many subterfuges he foisted upon me.

Every other day, he would call me extolling the virtues of the South Beach diet, telling me how much weight he had lost. Within the first week of going on the same diet I had lost 14 pounds but wasn’t about to tell him that. Latinalover called every other day to gloat about his progress: after sixteen day had lost a total of 22 pounds. After two weeks, I had lost only 15 pounds and was starting to get depressed. The diet book said that you might plateau, but I wanted and needed more immediate tangible results. That’s when I decided at Wolf’s urging to, in a manner of speaking, kill two birds with one stone. You see, after going over my medical records, he noticed that I hadn’t had a colonoscopy in about five years. He reminded me that the preparation for the exam had a slight tendency to clean the patient out, and this would help me lose even more weight. The next day I put in a call to my friendly Colo-Rectal surgeon, whom we affectionately call “Das Butcher,” and asked him to put me on his schedule right away.

Early the next morning I received an email from “Das Butcher” informing me that I was scheduled for an early afternoon colonoscopy two days later. Included in the email were instructions on what to buy at the local pharmacy to clean me out, when to take it, what it would do to me, when to stop eating solid food, and what to drink prior to the exam. The fucking email was two pages long and very, very depressing. Essentially, it stated that I had to stop eating the evening I received the email, only drink juice the next morning, take a Phospho- soda cocktail later in the day, then take 4 laxative pills, and kiss my asshole good-bye. Oh man, this prep seemed like overkill to me and it certainly wasn’t going to be fun, but I couldn’t let Latinalover win that bet.

All I can say is thank God for wireless phones. After taking the Phospho- soda cocktail at 5:00 PM, Wolf called me every fifteen minutes to monitor my progress. After about a half hour all hell broke loose, and I spent the next two hours on the throne with my trusty wireless phone nearby. To add insult to injury, I had to get off the throne and take the 4 laxative pills, as if what I was going through wasn’t torture already. Then Latinalover called right in the midst of my agony. I couldn’t let on what was happening to me because he would no-doubt claim “foul,” so there I sat clenching my teeth and mumbling, “Uh, huh,” to whatever he said. Meanwhile, as the waves of agony struck it felt like my entails were coming out my butt.

My procedure was scheduled for 1:00 PM the next afternoon. Upon rereading the instructions, I noted that after 12:00 AM the preceding evening I couldn’t eat or drink anything. Of course, I read this right after getting out of my sauna at 8:00 AM the day of the exam! Oh shit, I looked and felt like a prune and there was nothing I could do about it. To cheer myself up I climbed on the scale to see how many pounds I’d lost. One fucking pound! That’s crazy. I called Wolf for an explanation and he was happy to give me one. After going on and on for ten minutes, it basically boils down to this: Starving myself for 36 hours before the test caused my body to go into “survival mode.” In simple terms, my metabolism shut down and I lost practically no weight whatsoever. “You knew this would happen to me didn’t you?” I hissed at him. All he said in reply was, “Yep,” and then he hung up on me.

Following Das Butcher’s instructions I arrived at the hospital at 12 noon to get checked in. An hour later I was wearing a hospital gown and lying on a gurney ready to be knocked out and have my colonoscopy. An hour and a half later a nurse came by and gave me the bad news: Das Butcher was doing emergency bowel re sectioning surgery and would be delayed several hours. Oh my God, I’ll starve to death before that fucking test.

At 5:30 PM he showed up. Meanwhile my stomach was devouring itself, but, on a positive note, my asshole was finally calming down. That’s when Das Butcher threw me a curve ball by asking, “Who’s driving you home?” “I am,” I replied. “Oh no, we can’t anesthetize you and then let you drive home,” he practically shouted at me. I told him that his email said nothing about needing a driver and he mumbled something about maybe forgetting to include that paragraph in the email. “Okay Doc, what are our options?” “Well, we can reschedule you for next Monday morning, or I can do it without anesthesia,” he rather matter of factually stated. Since I was leaving for Brazil next Monday, I opted for the later choice. Looking back on it, Monday would have been a much better option. Have any of you had a colonoscopy without getting knocked out? Take my word for it—don’t.

Within minutes the probe was inserted and I felt a little discomfort; less so than when getting your prostate checked. Seconds later my stomach distended so that I looked like I was 7 months pregnant. “Hey Doc, something’s wrong here, look at my belly.” “He laughed and explained that he was pumping air into my bowels so he could see everything and move more freely. By this point I felt like an over inflated Boeing 747 jetliner tire and looked like the Michelin man. “Yo Doc, go easy on the air.” I pleaded. “Don’t worry; I stopped putting air in you.” “Whew, thank God for little things! Hey Doc, if you already stopped, then why is my stomach getting larger?” “Oh, that’s because I’m now adding some water up there.” “Water? Are you fucking crazy or something?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Don’t worry, we put in only a liter or two; the water acts as a lubricant. “Hey Doc, I got a great idea. Stop with the water and use some KY jelly instead, please.” “He looked over at his nurse and said, “This is why I prefer them comatose.”

Then to placate me he asked, “Would you like to watch TV while I’m doing this.” “Sure, put it on something like the Discovery channel, would you?” A large flat screen TV was moved over to my side of the gurney and the nurse turned it on. For about 30 seconds I couldn’t quite figure out what I was looking at; then I saw a plume of water and felt pain in my left side. “Whoa Doc, what was that?” “Just adding little more water so I can get around this last curve near your spleen,” he calmly stated. Clearly without my knowledge, my suggested KY jelly option was unilaterally taken off the table. In an attempt to sound intelligent and totally disinterested, I asked, “Am I watching my own asshole on TV?” “No, I’m about three feet north of there.” With that comment I shouted, “No shit!” To which he chuckled and replied, “Yup, no shit; see it’s clean as a whistle.” Don’t you just hate Doc’s and their warped senses of humor?

When he removed the probe I expected to fart for at least two minutes, but for some strange reason I couldn’t. Don’t ask me why, I just couldn’t. I tried and tried, but nothing came out. Sadly, that relief wouldn’t come to me until about ten minutes later while I was in an elevator surrounded by six strangers. To make matters worse, it was apparent that he left some water in me!

Right after I arrived home Wolf called to tell me he had a makeover planned for me the next day. He said that this was the first step in my physical transformation. As an aside, I asked him how to stop my wet farts and, in a joking way he suggested I go sit in my bathtub on top of a large sponge. Anyway, I had visions of going to an upscale spa or something like that and farting bubbles in their hot tub, but he had something different in mind. Saturday morning he came over and asked me one question, “Are you still farting? When I answered in the affirmative, he suggested we take my car to our mysterious destination. We climbed in and went to a local strip mall. He told me where to park and that’s when I found we had pulled up to the local SuperCuts—was this crazy his idea of a fucking makeover?

My day continuing in my downward spiral as some fag whose dog was run over and killed the day before, drew me as his first customer. With tears running down his cheeks, he draped me with a black smock and followed Wolf’s instructions completely, totally ignoring my input. Now, those of you who have met me know, I have a thick mop of longish hair, similar to those idiot actors on our Soap Operas. In Texas it’s called “Big Hair.” As a matter of fact, people often come up to me and ask, “Are you on Days of Our Lives?”or something equally as foolish. Interestingly, MBL’s voodoo curse, which caused some of my hair to fall out, actually stopped those comments for awhile. But as soon as she lifted it and my hair started filling in, they started again. With that thought in mind, Wolf was going to do his best to see that no one recognized me, or ever thought I was in a stupid Soap Opera.

Suddenly the fag spun me around so that I couldn’t see the mirror, grabbed his clippers, and within seconds I had whitewalls again. Shit, the last time I had whitewalls was when I was thirteen. With whitewalls and four inches off the top, I actually looked thirteen again. Oh fuck! Thank God I was going to Rio where I’d have to pay for sex because looking like this no one in their right mind would fuck me without some form of compensation. I couldn’t even get a mercy fuck looking like I was a hick right off some Alabama farm. On a positive note, as I was leaving SuperCuts, I’m pretty sure the last of Das Butcher air escaped me in a thunderous roar. Also at this point the last remaining 100ml of water evacuated at the same time ruining another pair of shorts. Wolf looked at me and said, “That’s why we took your car. Yours has leather, mine has velour seats.” Fuck him and his crappy car.

“Wolf, before we go any farther, are you deliberately trying to mess with me because of what I did to you last year? With a shit eating grin on his face he said, “Of course not, you were doing your best to help me, weren’t you?” “Well, yeah, in a manner of speaking I was.” With a huge sigh, Wolf said, “Good, now let’s get back to work.” To complete the transformation Wolf asked me one simple question: “How often do you shave?” “At least once a day, sometimes twice a day,” I replied. “Good. Stop shaving tomorrow morning. No one would ever expect you to do that and that’s what you have to count on. Everyone expects you to look exactly like you did the last time you left Rio. Right now you’re 18 pounds lighter, have a different hair style, and will have several days’ growth on your chin when you arrive in Rio. You’ll look completely different.” “But Wolf, I’m flying First Class and I don’t want to look like a bum.” With a look that could kill he said, “Don’t worry scruffy is in style right now. Just trust me.”

“One other thing, you can’t smoke cigars while you’re walking around Copacabana—they’ll give you away immediately.” “Ah come on Wolf, do I have to give up cigars, too?” I moaned. With a serious look on his face he said, “Trust me, I know human nature; it’s my profession and I’m good at it.” After all, he was making some sense, wasn’t he? With a complete change of heart, I looked him and promised, “Okay good buddy, I’ll leave them all home so I’m not tempted. Anyway, now is as good a time as ever to give them up, too. After all, I already gave up booze so how bad can it be to give up cigars at the same time?” He looked at me, shook his head and mumbled something that I couldn’t quite understand. Most likely he’s proud of the fact that I’m starting to clean up my act, but knowing him as well as I do, that might not be the case. As I was pondering his true motives for helping me, I started giggling and he wondered why. “Well Wolf, if you’re such a good judge of character and study human behavior then why in God’s name did you marry the “bitch?” Half jokingly he mumbled, “We all make mistakes.” Suddenly Wolf seemed a little more human to me.

Enough of this background material; let me get back to Latinalover. On the weigh in day, which was last Sunday, Latinalover had some lame excuse why he couldn’t show up, so we did it over the phone. He gave me his weight and according to my calculations he had lost a total of SIX pounds. Six pounds! What’s going on here? Under intense questioning he finally broke down and admitted that he went on the diet for a week, lost six pounds, and then went off it so he could go back to Tio Pepe’s for another steak.

Furthermore, he admitted to misleading me just to fuck with my mind. I went ballistic! When he heard that I scheduled a colonoscopy during the competition, he claimed “foul” like I thought he would and almost shit himself laughing. “How many times have you been back to Tio’s?” I asked. “Only four, but I kept off the six pounds,” was his short and sweet answer. Big fucking deal, he loses six pounds and eats like a king while I starve myself half to death, shit my brains out and fart all over Philadelphia and the suburbs. Just as I was thinking that life’s not fair, he added, “You know Lucy’s going to find you while you’re in Rio.” Despite the fact that he was probably right, I shot back with, “I’m too smart for that to happen.” All I heard was uncontrollable laughter and then the line went dead.

The flight down to Rio through Houston was almost uneventful except for a few minor mishaps. Since I was flying First Class, I was able to board early and enjoy a beverage before departing. This is where my diet started to fuck with me. You see you’re not allowed alcohol in any form while on the South Beach diet. Here I was sitting there able to drink anything I wanted, but if I wanted to lose weight, I couldn’t enjoy the free booze. This dilemma put me into what Wolf refers to as a “conflicted state of mind.” As I was toying with the idea of having just one Bloody Mary for old time’s sake, a mother walked down the aisle towards me carrying her three month old daughter. When they got abreast of me her daughter barfed all over my shirt. The guy behind me said it reminded him of that famous scene with Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Great, just great! After the stewardess helped clean me up, I wisely ordered a Virgin Mary so as not to tempt fate anymore. Sadly that didn’t work either.

After we took off they announced that the complimentary in-flight entertainment was the movie Speed Racer. Yep, that’s right; they were showing the worst movie to come out so far in the Twenty-first Century and had the audacity to say it was complimentary. That’s kind of like going to a restaurant, having a meal, getting food poisoning, and then having the restaurant claim that you should be grateful--the meal was complimentary. Then to insult practically everyone on board, they announced that headphones to hear this shitty movie would cost $1.00. I wasn’t affected in the slightest because one of the privileges of riding up front is that you get free earphones and drinks, which more than compensates for the $500 premium over what economy class costs that I paid for this flight segment alone. As a quick aside here, have you noticed how Continental’s pricing is almost identical to Fernando’s? Both must use the same business model, eh?

Where was I? Oh yeah, messing with my earphones. For some reason I couldn’t keep my left side of my “new, over the ear, comfort earphones” (that’s Continental description, not mine) on my head; one side kept falling off. I asked for another pair, but they were out of spares. As I continued to fidget with them, the stewardess offered some assistance. She took one look at them and said, “This pair has two right ear pieces instead of a right and left. See, both speakers have an “R” printed on them.” “What am I supposed to do? I inquired. “Try listening out of your just right ear,” was her extremely helpful answer.

Okay, so here I am up in First Class with a bad haircut, smelling of baby barf, unable to drink the free booze, tortured with the movie Speed Racer and all of this was going on while I’m wearing comfort fit earphones made for a fucking mutant with two right ears. Doesn’t like too good a start to me, does it? That’s when I thought about super operative Jason Bourne and all of his fantastic exploits around the world. Shit, if he can become a phantom at will, so can I. After all, in all three movies our crack Central Intelligence Agency couldn’t find him, so all I have to do is emulate his tactics and completely disappear in Copacabana. Then I realized that he had a lot of CIA training to draw upon whereas the last formal training I went through was Potty Training. Come to think of it, after last week’s five little accidents following my colonoscopy, I’m probably due for a refresher training course in that area, too. Oh well, as soon as I land I’ll just blend right in and become a veritable phantom. Shit, I'll name this report “The Dummy Identity” in honor of Ludlum’s inspiring book “The Bourne Identity.” That was the very last thought bouncing around my brain as I dozed off for a few hours.

The rest of my trip was relatively uneventful. However, my good fortune changed as soon as I landed. After getting some strange looks while they examined my passport at Immigrations, I went down stairs to retrieve my two bags. My hang-up bag came out immediately, but my suitcase never came out. The ladies at the lost baggage desk told me that my bag was x-rayed and there was a problem—it was over in customs. Oh shit, I started wondering what could cause this; then I remembered that I had two knives in it, one Spitfire pepper spray, a refill canister and several dildos. Then I thought about my mayonnaise size plastic bottles filled with legal prescription medicine and all my various vitamins in small plastic bags. If he pulls them out, they’ll think I’m running drugs. That’s when it finally struck me: Oh shit, I’m going to jail!

There it was sitting on a table with a not too pleasant Customs agent standing right next to it tapping his foot. This didn’t look good. I put on my stupid face and approached. “Sir, that’s my bag. Is there a problem?” He looked at me and said, “Open it.” I unzipped it and he threw back the top and there sitting right on top of everything were three TSA search cards. Trying to be helpful, I pointed out that those cards indicate that our crack America TSA Squad gave me the stamp of approval, but he didn’t buy it. Then he reached in as if he was looking for something specific. Out came two bags of cigars; he reached in again and pulled out two more boxes. “How many do you have?” “Only 127,” I replied. “Are these for your personal use or do you plan on selling them?” he inquired in not too pleasant a tone. Looking as dumb as possible, I honestly replied, “For my own use.” “How many cigars do you smoke a day?” was his next question. “Five. Okay, maybe six or seven when I go to Help,” I replied. “How long are you in Brazil?” he asked. “Three weeks,” I replied, which was the absolute truth. Then he asked to see my return ticket. I opened my briefcase to show it to him my Continental email itinerary and the other six fake itineraries fell out on the floor. Oh man, now I’m really fucked!

As my luck would have it, he bent over to pick them up and handed them to me with a quizzical look on his face. I quickly did a mea culpa and explained that I was sneaking into Rio unbeknown to my namorada and the fakes were in case I got caught. He smiled at me understandably; put my cigars back in my bag, zipped up my suitcase, and told me I was free to go. Just as I was at the exit door he called me back and whispered, “She will catch you. You know that don’t you?”

Departing Customs would be the big and final test for me. Confident that whomever Don sent to pick me up at the airport wouldn’t recognize me, I rounded the corner and immediately heard, “Oi James.” Fuck, it was Elraldo from Don’s flagging me down in a nanosecond. After some pleasantries, I asked. “Don’t I look different?” “Si, you always look strange to me,” was his too quick reply. “Elraldo, there’s a big difference between the meanings of the English words “strange and different,” and someday I’ll teach you which is which. But in the meantime, what I really need to know is do I look like I did last August?” “Oh no, in August you didn’t have bad haircut.”

Things only got worse as we headed towards Copacabana. Out of the blue Elraldo casually mentioned, “I see Lucy walk by the office before I come pick you up.” Needless-to-say that statement stopped me dead in my tracks and then evoked a rather calm and measured response from me: “What the fuck’s going on Elraldo ! You said you saw Lucy in Copacabana today? She lives way the hell out in Taquara; what’s she doing in Copa?” “Oh, she stay with Kj’s (a.k.a. Kjtrav on this site) girlfriend while he’s in Esatdos Unididos for a few days,” Upon hearing that disturbing bit of news, I decided to turn on my Brazilian cell phone and check for messages. Sure enough, there were five messages from Kj and essentially all said the same thing: “Hey Jag, Lucy’s staying at my apartment in Copa and you’re fucked!” As if that wasn’t bad enough, when Elraldo dropped me off in front of my apartment on Rua Sa Ferreira, located one block away from Kj’s apartment, he boldly stated, “I give you two days before she find you. And I don’t want to be near WHEN she find you.” Oh shit, what have I gotten myself into?

(Message edited by jaguar on September 18, 2008)

Jaquar why do these things always happen to you?
Great writing but you always have a lot of unfortunate material. - Hemp

Holy shit! I can't believe my eyes!

Jag speaks!

You pack more drama into your trips by the time you clear Customs than mere mortals like I do in a year of trips. Someday, promise me that our trips will overlap by more than a day. I really have to see the "Human Train Wreck" in action.

Usually guys are asking "Where are the photos?" but for this leg of the trip I am glad we were spared.

jag,

my dear friend. you are brilliant.

Jag...I feel for you...and forgive me but this storytelling had me cracking up big time!

So you are around Philly? I am now shuttling between there and Baltimore. Glad you mentioned a favorite eating place as I am still trying to find the good places to eat around, more recs always will be welcomed.

Good stories mate, good stories!

Jag, I look forward to your next installment knowing that things could not possibly get any worse than what you have already described.

Jag
It has been way to long since you wrote a report. I can't wait to read your next instalment. Its been said before and I am sure it will be said again you should right a book, the title "Mongering Rio for dumbies" comes to mind.

Contrary to what LaGuy hopes - things can and will certainly get worse. After Lucy has found out about Jaguars whereabouts (I think - within 24 hours) and then found him (within 1 hour) - that confrontation will make Jaguar long for the warm and friendly customs officer, whom he will remember almost as a brother. Warning: Additional painful procedures will be performed on you, Jaguar, all without anesthesia.

Tell me it isn't so Jaguar . . . tell me it isn't so

Not to give anything away, but looking back on what has happened over the last 11 days, perhaps I should have called Part One--The Happy Part.

Jag

Jaguar!? the frirst part is the happy part? omg! please fill us in on the next installment! hehe! can't wait to read it!

You could have killed a lot of birds with one stone by just getting a rectal exam from the bartender chica at Tio Pepes.

Cat,

Oh yeah, both are great, aren't they? That reminds me of when I went in there once without Latinalover, sat at the bar and watched them saunter around while working. To impress both girls, I asked one of them to turn up the sound on the soccer game that was on the 60" flat screen. She asked why and I explained that I was missing Brazil sooo much, and I wanted to hear Portuguese.

Within a few minutes of turning it up, she talked to the patron next to me in that sexy way only Brazilian woman can. I was melting by the minute, starry eyed and couldn't wait for her to come over near me again. Five minutes passed and she was back. This time she wanted to talk to me. "Do you go to Brazil a lot?" she asked. "Oh yeah, I love Brazil, its people and especially the language," I confidently replied. "So you fala Portuguese?" "Un poco, but I love the language."

"So you speak a little Portuguese?" was her next rather pointed question. While I was trying to figure out where this line of interrogation was going, I changed topics to try and throw her off by asking, "What part of Brazil are you from?" Her answer momentarily confused me: "Santo Domingo." "Don't know that city in Brazil; where is it?" Without missing a beat, and with a big grin on her face, she said, "It in the Dominican Republic. I'm from there and for your your information, I'm speaking Spanish and the futbol game is in Spanish, too.

Then as I was about to ask for my bar tab so I could get out of there quickly, she came back, put her hand on mine and said, "I like you, you're funny. That's the truth as to why Latinalover and I go there all the time: food and beautiful woman.

Jag

I couldn't stop reading this story and laughed out loud at the point where the multiple itineraries fell on the floor in front of customs.

Jag,

I'm dying to see what you look like with whitewalls and four inches off the top. CIA material maybe. Our man in Rio.

Great job. Your best story so far.

Bedouin

Me thinks the best is yet to cum.....!

How many parts is this series going to be Jag?

Gentlemen,

Thank you all for your support during this very stressful time in Rio. With regard to Sandman's post: The length of this report will be determined by two simple factors: getting caught and when that occurs.

Of course, I'm betting that I don't get caught, spend lots of time in Vila Mimosa, do several old acquaintances, and choose my own surprise date of arrival. I'll accomplish this by showing Lucy one of my false Continental itinerary that the Customs agent was so kind to pick off the floor for me.

Don't worry, I've planned this out to the Nth degree by considering every conceivable variable. However, that said, I will admit that I was quite shaken upon finding out Lucy was staying one block away from my apartment. I never even considered that inconceivable possibility. Ah fuck it, I'll prevail!!

Jag

PS--Bedouin,

Don't worry about my haircut; it should be reasonably presentable by the time I visit you next month. Thank God my hair grows fast.

Jag

"I never even considered that inconceivable possibility."

As Inigo Montoya says in "The Princess Bride," after another character keeps referring to something being "inconceivable":

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Jaguar- this is a test:

1- 100 points for each "yes" answer:


1. Have you been outside the apartment to buy cell phone credit? Yes (1) No (0)

2. Have you been to Zona Sul, buying something to drink? Yes(1) No (0)

3. Have you been anywhere near or - god forbid - ON Avenida Atlantica? Yes (10) No (0)

4. Have you been anywhere near Terraco Atlantico? Yes (100) No (0)

5. Have you gone quickly over to Senora Nossa Copacabana to hail a cab for Vila Mimosa? Yes (1) No (0)

6. Did you do above in the cover of darkness? Yes (-1) No (who cares).

Anyway - here is the result:

A: Up to 0 points: You may be OK.

B: Anything from 1-100+ points: Prepare for the pain without anesthesia, as certain as death and lower taxes (LOL!)....

(Message edited by skisandy on September 21, 2008)

Skisandy,

Fuck you and your damn test. Although, as inconceivable as it may seem, I scored ZERO, repeat ZERO on your test. I'm sooo fucking smart!!

Jag

1)-You will get caught!!
2) The severity of the consequences must be compared to the colonoscopy you endured;
3)Never give Jag a test;
4)"We will endeavor to persevere" (Old indians remark in the Outlaw Josey Wales)
5) Don't anybody feel safe hanging around Jag this next week. Brasilians are lousy shots;
6) Lucy "Jag, you some splaining to do"

I can't wait!!

Hey Jaguar - you must have taken good use of the "-1" in question number 6, in order to end up with "0" in the end. Good for you!

To stay safe - I highly recommend the "E-mail test", I used it myself last time:

Just send an E-mail to Lucy, like this: "I am here in the good old US of A, suffering under too much work, too many Sara Palin commercials, I have major saudades de voce, I am frantically trying to find availability on the next flight to Rio, I am just buying presentes para voce, and -yes- I know the gadget must be pink, um beijao, see you soon.......

Just be prepared for a response like this one, which I received last time:" Fodeu! My amiga saw you at 11.17.47 Haldron collider time, exactly 6 1/2 feet from the umbrella that leaks at T.A., eying a mulata from out of town, who arrived in Rio 3 weeks, 2 days, 6 hours 21 minutes ago...then you grabbed the bunda of a loira from down South, whom I hate, and NOW I am really concerned about your taste in women ..... etc etc.etc.... and YOU OWE ME BIG TIME!!!

Jag,
Seriously,

If you are can stay under the radar for one week, sidewalls and all, lunch is on me.

Bedouin

Jag,
Sorry for the typo.

"you are can" is merely an euphemism for " you are the man."
Good luck my friend

Bedouin

Bedouin,

I'm so far under her radar, I'm almost subterranean.

Have no fear, I will prevail!!

Jag

Bedouin: "If you are can stay under the radar for one week, sidewalls and all, lunch is on me."

I am sick and fucking tired of people copying my writing style.

Blissman,

WTF have you been? I deliberately put in that Alabama reference to draw you out and it took almost one week to get you to post. Where you been?

Jag

That's F A S T for Bliss..........

Where have I been, Jag? Most of the time at the old Same Place. Not much time perusing these boards, the entertainment and information value dropped to nearly zero for a while. When the mood gets ugly in a neighborhood, it not only discourages new people from moving in, it also makes the olbies move on. Whenever I want the experience of people belittling others in an effort to hide the fact that they have short penises and are chronic premature ejaculators...hell, I just go to work! I get paid well for putting up people like that at work. On this board, I do not get paid at all.

But there have been a few flashes of light on the board lately and I felt moved to post.

In answer to your post, I have mostly been where I usually am. Working, traveling, enjoying the ladies and visiting my mother. My inbox is the same, my email is the same and my phone is the same. If anyone wants to get in touch, I am quite reachable.

If you want more info, just let me know.


Jag, I am on the edge of my chair waiting for the rest of your story. Stuff like that might get me here more often if it is posted often. I hope things get better for you and Loosey.

you know,
who

Blissman,

For Christ's sake, her name is Lucy, not Loosey!!!!

I'm writing Part two today; should be up in a few days.

Jag

Got it! (writes "Lucy not Loosey" on forearm with felt-tipped pen.)

Blissman,

No washing or you might "Loose" it...

Jag - are you still alive?
We want to hear from you, we are worried about you....we want to know.... did you "loose" it or not.....?

Skisandy,

Thank you for thinking about my welfare during last week's financial meltdown. While our stock, bond and real estate markets have suffered significant problems lately, their challenges are insignificant compared to what I had to endure during my last trip in Rio.

To give you some indication of what happened, how about getting attacked by two types of ants at the same time. One type was the dreaded red killer ant. You know, they're the ones that kill everything in sight and strip the forest clean. But honestly they were no match for the others that got a hold of me. Shit, I'm luck I'm still alive. Despite my numerous injuries this trip, I'm managing to put it all on paper. With luck, it should be out sometime later this week.

Jag

the adventures of Jag!

Hey Jaguar - you misunderstood me! While I certainly am concerned about your (and my) finances - remember that Fernando calls me (us?) "his salvation", when we show up on the beach.. that is not what I meant.

I was inquiring about "Loosey" (yes = Lucy), if you got caught, if you got into trouble, if all your body parts still are intact, if you still are alive - after she found out about your secret time in Rio......

I do assume that she did find out - any other possibility simply is not possible in this universe - so let us know what happened after she found out.

Remember, you have the right to remain silent... but not here.... we are dying to know.

Skisandy,

I'll drink a fifth...I mean I'll take the fifth and remain silent.

Jag