Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Two & Three: Pot, Kool Aid Man, and a Belly Flop Competition

Two great things we learned Thursday morning:

1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and

2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")

Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.

Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.

Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.

"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.

"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."

"Fine. Lets do it."

We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.

And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.

Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.

Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.

While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.

And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.

Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.

On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.

Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.

I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.

Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).

And participate Josh did.

He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.

But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.

His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.

After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.

The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."

I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.

As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.

Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath

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Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Day One: Fun in a Fountain

I woke up around midnight Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning to The Wife banging around in our other bedroom, trying to weigh luggage or something. I really don't know what the hell she was doing, but it was loud. And annoying. She couldn't sleep and was doing counter-productive last minute packing. We had a taxi coming at 4:30 to take us to the airport and if she didn't get any sleep (I had been assed out for about four hours at this point), she'd have been a big bowl of suck traveling.

After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.

I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.

From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.

I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.

Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)

We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.

And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.

Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.

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Miscellany: Mexico/Book Review/Mizzou/Playlist

The trip to Tulum was muy fantastico. I am overjoyed to report that The Lady Friend (henceforth known as The Wife) actually said "I do" and we are now happily married. In fact, as I write this, it's 9:15 on a Saturday night and she is already passed out on the couch. Married life is as exciting as I expected.

I'll be doing a series of day by day recaps of the trip as the week goes on; look out Internets.


I read a copy of Bryan Burwell's The Best St Louis Sports Arguments while on holiday. While I will never claim that it is the greatest book ever written, it did serve it's purpose, as I found myself passionately agreeing and disagreeing with many of Burwell's arguments.

Mark McGwire not belonging in the Hall of Fame? Disagree, to the millionth degree. Took a drug which nearly everyone else (pitchers included) was taking and finished with a 10.6 HR/AB ratio? In.

Not blaming Don Denkinger for the 1985 World Series. Completely agree. Blaming him for '85 is as dumb as Cubs fans blaming Steve Bartman for 2003. And the rednecks who sent Denkinger death threats are absolutely shameful and makes me agree with Burwell's assertion that St Louis is not the best baseball town in America; it may be a great baseball town in which we live, but until fan support can be adequately quantified, the random fandom ranking of "best" is absurd.

And of record keeping, Burwell's lean on Gold Gloves when ranking players disappoints me. Gold Gloves, and, really, all BBWAA awards, are a farce. The time has come for SABR or another organization to give out likewise awards so we no longer have to live in a world where Jimmy Rollins is considered the best player in the National League in 2007.

At times it seems as if Burwell is almost too ingrained into the mind of not the St Louis sports "fan" but the "fanatic." The average Cardinals fan does not want Tony LaRussa fired after every bad decision, but the normal message boarder or sports radio caller-in may. There is a big difference. I consider myself way too invested in the St Louis baseball Cardinals -- like Nick Hornby Fever Pitch invested -- however, I compare as nothing to the "people" who populate Cardinals, Rams, and Blues message boards (the moment I realized Viva El Birdos, a site I participate in frequently, had metamorphised from a blog to a fan message board was an odd moment; I loathe fan message boards, yet, I stay on).

This problem, of course, comes entirely from the anonymity which both radio and message boards provide. I may write articles and blogs and post (grudgingly, now) on message boards about my favorite team, but I do so using my own name. Anything which I may write, drunkingly, upsetly, ecstatically, comes back to my name. I must take, as does Burwell, complete accountability for my words. "G0CARdZZ190," "Pujo1s 1s a G0D," and the like do not. They are not real people, only counter identities of people who generally don't like themselves and/or refuse to be accountable for the actions which they take. Their voice is nil and should not be included in this book.

(Sweet fuck, I really get worked up about this. Anonymity has ruined the Internet. It could have been something.)

Arguments left me with two major bones to pick with Burwell. One is not even mentioning the 2000-2005 Cards as one of the best Cardinals eras in St Louis baseball history in chapter 14, but then saying that Tony LaRussa is the best Cardinals manager in history (which I agree with) in chapter 28. Somehow, that just doesn't add up.

My other point or ire, in another argument he makes which I agree with "Should the Cardinals Retire Willie McGee's Number" (yes. Yes they should), he writes:

"He (McGee) may not be the greatest redbird, but he is arguably the most beloved. So beloved, in fact, that Tim McKernan, morning talk show host on KFNS radio, started an online petition last year that now includes more than 7,500 signatures. McKernan's grass-roots movement seemed to have a big impact initially, when a city full of McGee lovers kept logging on to McKernan's InsideStL.com website and pledging their allegiance to the heart and soul of those 1980s championship teams by purchasing "Retire 51" T-shirts and joining the petition."

The problem here is that the movement was promoted by McKernan, but was the original idea of my Joe SportsFan cohorts Pat Imig and Josh Bacott and the shirts were designed by handsome man Matt Sebek. They pitched the idea to McKernan since he had the platforms, both radio and local web, to promote it and it was ran with back in that odd Cardinal summer of 2006. Now, I'm probably the only guy on Earth who knows this information, but it seems like an oversight Burwell could have easily avoided with a simple phone call to McKernan and he could have been able to give the original idea for the push to it's rightful owners.

Or perhaps I'm being too anal (that's what she said).

And, like most great bar arguments, there are many others which I ardently agree with (does Stan Musial deserve a better statue? Yes. The current statue encourages bad posture and makes it look like Stan's hands were three feet long. Should the Rams wear their throwbacks? Every Sunday) and forcefully disagree with (Old Busch beats New Busch, in the words of Lt. Sam Weinberg, everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Get back to me after forty years of tradition and perhaps I will agree with you).

However, the last time I was in a bar argument and everyone agreed with each other I was strung out on mescaline in an opium den somewhere in northern India. Believe you me, that was no fun.

Arguments are the tequila shots of bar discussion.

Arguments does what it sets out to do: encourage debate and foment discussion. In that it succeeds. Is it a great book? No, but I doubt Burwell, whom I am sure did plenty of research and spent countless hours writing, set out to win a Pulitzer with this; In the end, it is, in all actuality, just a dude, sharing his opions.

However, Arguments is a nice light read and something which just about any hardcore St Louis sports fan would enjoy having on the top of their toilet.

And The Father In Law will be getting a copy of it for Christmas.


If I had to rank my favorite collegiate athletic programs it would go something like:
1. University of Illinois
2. University of Notre Dame
3. Bradley University
435. University of Missouri
9,000,000. University of Kansas

So while I am in no way, shape, nor form a Mizzou fan (in fact, come Dec 22nd, I will spit on my own sidewalk before a certain basketball game), driving around today in the Lou, running errands and getting lunch, the electricity in the air was palpable. As I wrote earlier, before tonight's kickoff, on the one message board I can stomach, if not enjoy:

"In four years of living in St Louis, I've never seen the town have such anticipation about any football game, let alone a college football game. This is a baseball town first, a hockey town second and a soccer town third. Football? Its off the map. Years of the football Cardinals ruined this town for pigskin. Hell, it took one of the most prolific offenses in NFL history for people to give a shit about the Rams.

College football seemed non-existent when I moved here in '04, which was a huge change from the four years prior when I was living south of the Mason-Dixon. Down there, it seemed religion, here it was about as popular as a pine wood derby boxcar race. While I'm sure I'm overstating this and probably offending some ol' die hard, when I got to St Louis, the overwhelming feel at the bars, on the radio, on the message boards, was that nobody here really gave a shit.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say people in these parts haven't cared this much about college football since the forward pass was invented a few blocks down the street. Or twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Not sure, really; I wasn't a history major.*

It's giddy out there. It is new and fresh and foreign. Nobody knows really what to do or think or say; die hards and wagon jumpers alike. They just hop on and hope to enjoy the ride. A chance for Mizzou to play in the BCS Championship Game? Mizzou? In football? Really?

This is great for the city, for the metro area, and for the state which Abe Simpson will be dead in the cold, cold ground before he recognizes. This feeling, around town, is, as far as I know, completely and totally unprecedented.

And awesome.


Sticking by that. Great win over Kansas tonight. Although I remain, through and/or through, an Illinois fan, it is cool to see, in this city of bad vibes and constant highway construction, people, not just the old timers but the band wagoners, excited about anything, especially anything college football related.

Missouri is a 17 year old at prom, and we are about to be deflowered by the chance to play for the national title. It's exciting, confusing, surreal. And nobody -- nobody -- would have it any other way.

So, for once in my life, I will say: Go Mizzou. Good luck against the Sooners, Tigers. From your neighbors to the north-east, the guys who own rights over you this decade, with breath stinking of rightly earned Busch gold tops, we say:

Play for the title. I dare you. M-I-Z.

I made an imix of my wedding music*; walking down the isle (first two), into dinner music, into the first dance (La Cienega Just Smiled) slash parentsy dance (I've Been Loving You Too Long>You Are So Beautiful), into the r(c)ock out. If you want to listen, here ye be.

If you want to feel like you were at the wedding drink 12 mojitos and do 8 tequila shots while listening to it.

[see you all later this week with glorious tales of debauchery from south of the border.]

*Well, nearly all of it; some tunes just aint available on the itunes. It's a missing about eight.

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Come on...

Like you were really expecting anything out of me. 27 hours from right now, I should be on the beach with a frosty beverage in my hand, not worrying about commutes, or internets, or pants for the next ten days.

Barring some sort of bizarre accident involving a manatee, a rickshaw, and an eight year old named Hector who teaches me to love again (?), The FYC will return the week after Thanksgiving, with a thorough recap of all hijinks which will inevitably ensue on the drunken white beaches of Tulum, Mexico.

Also, I will be married, and, just to shake things up, The Lady Friend will be a robot.

Adios, amigos.

[have a great two weeks, earth. enjoy the leftovers.]

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Illini v. tOSU


I was tempted to start livebloggin' it at halftime, but didn't want to mess with whatever in the universe that was working.

Biggest win in the programs history? I vote yay.

And holy god shit, what a fantastic payback for tOSU fucking up Illinois' perfect basketball season of 0'4-'05. HUGE win!

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It's Fakesgiving Time

The Lady Friend and I now have a tradition of being out of the country for Thanksgiving the last two years in a row -- which seems odd to me as Thanksgiving Week in Peoria was my favorite week of the year for about five years running; things change, people move, etc. -- however, we established last year the holiday of Fakesgiving the Sunday before we hopped our flight. I grilled up a spiced turkey breast, she did up some potatoes mashed style, we had some wine and all was well.

And, based on precedent, that means two days from now, this Sunday, is Fakesgiving.

This year, since even more folks will be joining us outside the borders this Thanksgiving, we decided to up the Fakesgiving festivities. It will be a real, huge Thanksgiving style meal, but on a fake day. Fakesgiving, indeed.

This will be my first attempt at roasting a whole, twenty pound bird (wish me luck) (I'm really fucking sick of that bird taking up half of my fridge for the last week. Thaw already!), and we've got a menu of potatoes, stuffing, salad, berries cranned, casserole, jello, and pumpkin trifle to go along with it.

That may sound like a lot of food (and it is), but we've got twenty or so feisty Fakesgiving-ers coming over. Top times and a heck of a way to end the last weekend of The Lady Friend and I's singlehood.

Enjoy yourselves a nice Fakesgiving, too, will ya? It's turkey, it's wine, it's friends and family, it's football; why not do this twice a year from now on?

[enjoy veterans day and the marine corps birthday, too, kids. america, fuck yeah! and go illni.]

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Reason #1 Why I Love Mexico: The Company

Yes, it may sound cheesy, but my favorite part of going to el mejico is the people. And not just the friends I get to hang out with, but also the bartenders and staff which not only put up with my broken spanglish and incessant pointing in a fruitless attempt to communicate with them, but do so with a smile. Incredibly patient and friendly people. Except when waiting on douchebags.

But then there is hanging out with my friends; be it posing as a boy band, getting a drunken four dragons pose, being oddly seduced, wearing sombreros, playing around with and/or inside of storage equipment, or just maxing and relaxing outside of the pool.

And later on, heading back to someone's room at two in the morn', ordering 12 hamburgers, six order of fries, some quesadillas, a few club sandwiches, tacos, 24 beers, and 24 waters and having it all arrive in twenty minutes. It is then fun to watch your friends pass out while eating a 'dilla.

Hell, in Tulum, even hanging out with my alcoholic stuffed dog (or other fake dogs) is nice.

Everything is better in Mexico. Seis más días.

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Reason #2 Why I Love Mexico: Bidets

I'm not a fan of poop. I've never had sex with a girl in her two hole, nor have I come anywhere near a tossed salad, because, well, that's where poop comes from and that's fucking disgusting. I don't enjoy pooping, and I enjoy cleaning up after pooping even less.

But while I'm in Mexico, all my worries are over. Sitting next to the toilet in every bathroom is a bidet. You do your business in the loo, give yourself a quick wipe, then hop on the old bidet and let the water do the work for you.

When my friends and I were first in Mexico, we debated about the proper way to use the bidet. I assumed that sitting on it the way one sits on a toilet was correct, while others thought you should straddle it, facing the faucets.

The main problem with the second approach is that you have to go completely bottomless to pull that off, which really isn't much of a problem unless you're in a hurry. The second problem with the face the handles approach, which I found out the hard way, is that it's very easy to lose one's balance. During my rather scientific testing of this method, I used the towel rack above the bidet to steady myself.

The towel rack quickly was ripped out of the wall. And that is how I came to find myself laying naked on a bathroom floor in Mexico, covered in a towel and a towel rack, with a poopy butt.

Anyhoo, after getting used to the bidet, it's hard to go back to the American way of wiping ones ass with toilet paper. It's quite humiliating, really. What are we, animals?

You're telling me that I've got to wipe my own ass? Let us evolve, people. Lets bring bidets to America!

But, until that glorious day arrives, I will just have to count on my yearly trips outside of the country to get the easy cleanliness that only a bidet can provide. Thanks for having them, Mexico. And thanks for cleaning my poop, bidets.

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Reason #3 Why I Love Mexico: The Miami Vice

(I love you)

The bars in Tulum serve up a generous amount of specialty cocktails -- the leaping lizard, electronic lemonade, a host of others -- but the real star of the show is the Miami Vice. It's half strawberry daquiri and half pina colada.

At first it starts off like a Steak n' Shake side by side milkshake turned upside down, but as the warm Caribbean sun beats down on your glass, the two sides of freezy goodness begin to melt together. That's when the good stuff happens.

If ever there was a perfect drink to compliment playing pool basketball or boccee on the beach, it's the Miami Vice. The only problem is you may get full after taking in four or five of them. My suggestion? Go to the restroom and make room for more. Quit being such a fucking pussy.

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Reason #4 Why I Love Mexico: Mojitos

"I was uh... very pleased and surprised, I was really not expecting an open bar. Top shelf booze, I tell ya. This guy knew his stuff. Made me a mojito. (sips) I don't think its a gay drink. Mojito..." - Brian Griffin

It's five simple ingrediants: rum, sugar, lime, carbonated water and mint; Things which, on their own, are rarely very appealing. Together, however, they form one of the greatest beach cocktails of all time. Once the mint is muddled with the sugar and the lime, the rum is added, and it's topped off with a splash of soda water, all is right with the world. It's the combination of all of it's ingrediants which make it work, the sum of it's parts, if you will. It's perfectly socialist.

Plus, as fake Samuel Jackson would say, "It'll get ya' drunk!"

(note - Mojitos would be higher up on the list, but I once yakked after drinking them for ten straight hours and it looked like I puked up a head of romaine and a citrus stand. Not appealing, that.)

[have a great weekend, everyone. enjoy the sweatshirt weather.]

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Reason #5 Why I Love Mexico: Sushi

Up here in America, sushi is still looked at, in some corners, as an exotic dish. It shouldn't be. It should be thought of as an awesome dish, nothing more, nothing less.

First on this meandering blog post of mine, let us learn a little bit about sushi, no? Yes. Jerk.

The following is from a speech I gave freshman year at SIUE about how to make sushi. As you probably expect, I took it about as seriously as I take everything in my life, that is to say with the passion of Kip Wells on downers. Somehow, I got an A on this -- and the whole course -- and I'd like to think it was from a combination of my wit, Midwestern sensibilities, and keen body language, but I think the truth of the matter is the speech teacher -- a little 23 year old blondie pants grad student -- wanted some of my sushi.

And by sushi, I mean cock.

My cock, wrapped in rice and seaweed. That's exactly what I mean.

Anyhoo, what we now know as sushi was first invented by Hanaya Yohei in the end of the Edo period, I'm going to guess in the year 1830. It was essentially what the Japanese used to counter European's sandwiches during the great intercontinental hand food war of 1831. Suck it, Duke.

This isn't actually Yohei, but we can assume he looked like this because, admit it, Japanese people all look the same.

Many people enjoy eating sushi, and not just the Japanese. Look! White people eat it with Pringles!

There are many types of sushi, including:

Now if you want to make your own sushi, the first thing you'll need is some rice, veggies and or fish, and some seaweed and a sushi mat. Take your seaweed and sushi mat and stand in your kitchen, grinning like one giant fucking moron. There you go:

Next, you'll spread your rice on the seaweed which you have placed 3/4's up on your rolling mat. Push a little divet in your rice and fill with your ingrediants:

Now roll that sucker up like the worlds biggest blunt:

Once you're all rolled up, slice that bitch up like a prison yard snitch:


And serve to your Dennis Quaid look-a-like friend:

Look! He likes it!

In conclusion:

Since we all now have a firm grasp on just what sushi is, let me state this now: I fucking love the stuff. It's like crack, if crack was raw fish and not cocaine and baking powder and hobo's ashes as our 5th grade D.A.R.E. officer told us.

And since I live in St Louis, the only way I could get real fresh sushi is if they made it out of disgusting channel catfish or rainbow trout (they don't). So what I'm left with is sushi which is fresh as a week old shit sandwich. It's still good, don't get me wrong (I'm looking at you Sekisui), but it's not Tulum.

The sushi at the sushi bar in Tulum is fresher than fresh. Fresher that DJ Jazzy Jeff. It's so fresh that I once bit into a roll and come up with a tongue full of fishing hook, and it wasn't even disgusting, it was enderaing ("Awwww, I'm going to need a tetanus shot! How authentic!") The sashimi melts in your mouth and the spicymaki still gives me unexpected boners. It's just that good.

And that's why you, sushi, are the number five reason that I want a time machine to fast forward two weeks and get my chubby ass down to the sweet, sweet beaches of Tulum. Until then, you will be in my wet dreams, giving me boners.

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"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."