11/29/2007
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
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
Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
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OH YEAH! My voice was funny for at least a day or two after I got back. There's a silver lining though - I got to wear Josh's giant red polo. Score.
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