The FYC

[note - sorry for the extended absence, everyone. getting back into blogging after a break is generally hard to do. plus, i really need to find a job, so that is kind of taking precedence at the moment. anyhoo, here are the highlights of the trip. it's hard to give highlights to a trip to someone who wasn't there, but i did my best. i hope it's not too laborious. cheers.]

The night before I left, The Lady Friend and I were having a nice little dinner at McGurk's (well, it was nice except for the fact that "40 Years" was stuck in both of our heads and I could not keep from giggling every two minutes because of it) when I noticed that Jason Isringhausen was sitting across the room from us, also enjoying a nice little dinner.

That's when it dawned on me that in 18 months of living in St Louis, that was the first time I have seen a Cardinal out and about in everyday life. I don't know how that had happened. From what it sounds like, John Rodriguez basically pimps himself out all over this city, yet I had never seen a single Redbird outside of Busch Stadium. I had a premonition then and there, that I was in for a good trip.

(Also, although I did think about, I was able to control myself from booing Izzy as he left McGurk's, something which I would have had to have done if I saw him last October. Fucking Izzy.)
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Dennis Quaid, Injury McProne, and myself all had a 6:30 am flight out of Lambert. Which meant, of course, that we needed to be there at 4:30 in the god-damn morning. While we were waiting in the terminal, sometime around 5:15 or so, we spotted two guys in the early 30's or so, sitting around, killing time (we assumed they were reading Maxim or Stuff. They just looked like those types of guys.) A few moments later, two other guys who looked rather similar approached them. At that moment, their leader (I could tell he was the alpha male by his sweet new Razor cell phone which he continuously flaunted) cried out "The Party Crew has assembled!"

I'm not sure if I need to say (er, write) this or not, but proclaiming (at 5:15 in the morning, no less) that your group of friends (who you have entitled "The Party Crew" or just "The Crew" if you're into the whole brevity thing) have "assembled," delves heavily into the world of douchbagerry, and requires a through making fun of.

Thus, when we noticed, some 15 hours later that "The Crew" were actually staying at the same resort as us, we decided to mockingly name ourselves "The Association" and whenever we met up for meals, drinks, tennis, etc., we found the need to say loudly "The Association has convened!"

And once, while getting ready to play volleyball, I yelled out "The Association will play volleyball!" within earshot of The Crew. The Crew then began giggling and pointing at me for making such an unbelievably lame statement, making it one of the rare "making fun of a guy who is actually making fun of us" moments which will eventually cause a rip in the space time continuum.

Here's to you, "The Crew," your awkward gathering at Lambert Airport gave me an easy joke to use every moment that I was in Mexico, and for that, I am forever in your debt.
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We had not been in Mexico more than 45 minutes before I had one of the most awesome conversations I have ever had while riding on a bus:

Dennis Quaid: "I don't know if I should tell you this or not, but I just saw a truck with a monkey in it."
Me: "You just saw a monkey driving a car?"
Quaid: "No, it wasn't driving...it was sitting shotgun. But it did have it's arm out of the window."
Me: "Was it smoking a cigarette?"
Quaid: "No, but it should have been."
Me (to Injury McProne): "Hey, Quaid just saw a monkey driving a car."
McProne: (Shaking his head) "He's an idiot"

And from that point on, our trip became a trip built on nothing but lies. Every comment said or story told would eventually get topped by something more outlandish before someone would almost be forced to say "And Dennis Quaid saw a monkey driving a car!"
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Our first night at the resort, The Association were all sitting around the poolside bar, telling stories, slamming drinks and all out rocking, when perhaps my favorite line of dialogue from the whole trip came into play:

Cookman : "So, how far away is the Great Barrier Reef?"
Me : "That's in Australia, dude."
Cookman : "Well, this is like the second longest great barrier reef or something."
Chad Sexington : "I think this is called the Good Barrier Reef."
Johnny Dangerously (formerly known as Willie Tripod) : "Or the Decent Barrier Reef."
(Everyone laughing and pointing at Cookman for not being worldly enough)
Cookman : "Shutup!"
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I don't know why nobody told me this before I left, and, honestly, I'm pretty freaking upset that I wasn't informed, but apparently Boston Celtics jerseys are as good as gold in Mexico.

Which is how it came to be that I was able to trade an Antoine Walker #8 jersey for a $60 wooden mask (of course, as far as practicality goes, more can be done with a cheap Celts jersey than a Mayan mask, but I still firmly believe that I got the better of the deal. Sucker.)

Anyway, before my next trip south of the border, I'm loading up on cheap American sports jerseys, and I suggest you do the same. If a 'Toine jersey goes for $60, what, I wonder, would an actually good player's jersey would get you? Espactaculo de burro?
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I lost a lot (and I mean a lot) of brain cells during the trip. I guess drinking for twelve hours a day, five days in a row will do that to someone.

By the third night, I was having an extremely difficult time forming complete sentences and found an unbridled, almost primitive joy in making my wine glass make noise.

It was very similar to what happened to Elaine when she gave up sex on Seinfeld. I was (figuratively, of course) staring at those spinning tire, clapping my hands and giggling along.
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While coming back on a skiff from a snorkeling expedition through the Good Barrier Reef, I noticed something floating in the water about 200 yards away from us. Dramatically, I turned around, pointed out towards the object, and yelled out "SOMETHING!"

Chad Sexington, immediately after hearing my helpful cry, began laughing hysterically. "Something?" He said through his laughter. "That's the best you could come up with? Something?"

"It's better than what you came up with, " I retorted, "...nothing."

As it turned out, "something" ended up being nothing but an old gas can floating along with the waves, and our skiff captain, Diego, seemed a little pissed that he spent his time rescuing a damn gas can.

As I said earlier...I lost a lot of brain cells on that trip.
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In case anyone was wondering, there was no clear cut winner in the Great Wedding Mix Off, however, my CD was played for about an hour during the wedding reception, so I think that makes me the winner. So there.

Also, in what was one of the greatest honors of my life, I was allowed to pick the song for the bride and groom's first dance. I went with "A Minor Incident" by Badly Drawn Boy, which was lovely. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that I will never forgive myself for not dropping a "Renegade" by Styx into the CD player.

God, that would have fucking rocked.
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In case anyone was wondering, Gulia has no bellybutton.

She has a scar.

She was born with her intestines outside of her body, in a sack.

When they put them inside of her, they put her appendix in the wrong place.

If it ever explodes, she's a goner.

Seriously.

I'm sure this condition has an actual medical term to identify it, but I am way too lazy to look it up (although, according to her, this exact same thing was recently on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.)

And that's the end of that chapter.
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As for the wedding itself, it was absolutely unreal/beautiful/other cheesy adjectives. Being married on the beach has cemented itself in my mind as the best possible way to get hitched.

However, Lionel Hutz was a bundle of nerves/hangover (he had to be physically helped to his room the night before) and was forced to leave the wedding reception after about an hour to go sleep/puke.

Gulia spent her wedding night slamming Dos Equis and playing Catchphrase with Johnny Dangerously, Chad Sexington, a Bridesmaid (who refuses to take her husbands last name out of sheer laziness...I can respect the hell out of that) and myself until 2:30 in the morning.

One hell of a wedding night.
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On the final afternoon of the trip, The Association found itself sitting on the beach drinking beers and Miami Vices (50% pina colada + 50% strawberry daiquiri = 110% heaven) and discussing how little anyone wanted to leave. It was during this time that the following exchange occurred:

Dennis Quaid: "I have to pee, but I don't feel like walking to the bathroom."
Injury McProne: "You should just pee on the beach then."
Johnny Dangerously: "Why don't you go stand on that stump and piss right there."
Quaid: "Then I could just wash up in the ocean!"
McProne: "See, it's a good idea!"
Me: "Great idea!"
Dangerously: "Fantastic idea!"
Quaid: "I'll do it!"

And so it came to be that Dennis Quaid pissed his shorts while standing on a stump in broad daylight.

Twenty minutes later, a family of four came over and posed for a picture on that very stump.

That may or may not have been the highlight of the trip.

[buonas tardes]

Labels: Drunken Hooliganism, Mexico, Peeing