Friday, October 01, 2010


I noticed that when you get back from a vacation you usually need another vacation. The reason is? Now you actually need some rest and relaxation. Basically when I got back from Puerta Vallarta my liver needed to either hibernate or at least take a hiatus.

I did get sick one night in Mexico. And for once in my life I didn't completely blame it on the food. I knew booze actually did play a part in it, but not a huge part.

Have you ever noticed that people usually don't do acknowledge that alcohol may have been part of the problem? They never act like booze may have helped to get them sick. You can be out, have fifteen beers, a martini, a gin and tonic and four shots of tequila, and then later have two pieces of pizza and end up getting sick. But of course you always say to your friends, "I think that pizza was bad. I don’t think that place uses fresh pepperoni. Something was funky because that slice made me vomit. And I never throw up from pizza. Even from that frozen Mama Celeste shit that you can get ten for ten bucks at the market."

You never say to yourself, "Hey, asshole, it wasn't the pizza! It was all the fucking booze you drank and mixed!"

In Mexico I deserved to get sick. After lots of Coronas and a few Tequila shooters, I actually bought a, as we call them in L.A., a Ghetto Dog off a little cart on the streets. Actually, I bought two of them. Now if you don't know, a Ghetto Dog is a hot dog wrapped in bacon, then topped with tomatoes and onions, with mayo, mustard and some other spicy sauce. They are the ones sold after sporting events. They are usually cooked on a shitty little flat grill that is placed on top of a shopping cart. Oh and there are always a bunch of little Mexican kids running around as their mom hawks them.

It is not a good idea to eat them in the United States, and ordering them in another country that doesn't ever have health ratings on restaurants, is pretty fucking stupid. And I found that out later. I woke up with what felt like a block of Ball Park franks wrapped in bacon laying in my stomach. But hell, I must admit they were so good, actually they were amazing. I felt like Anthony Bourdain on an episode of No Reservations, so a little late night agony was worth it.

I did notice a few other things when on vacation in Mexico. One thing is, they have really small napkins, and it drove me crazy. These things were the size of one piece of toilet paper. Shit, you couldn't even wipe half your upper lip with one. It drove me up the fucking wall! I finally asked a waiter one night why they were so tiny. His answer was that they make bigger ones, but they are more expensive so they don't get ordered. That totally cracked me up. When I use a regular sized napkin, I only use one. But with these shitty little things I'd go through eight or nine at a sitting, and then would use a few more just on the principle that they were so fucking small! Oh well, so much for making the customer happy.

I also noticed in the town I stayed in, called Bucerias, which is twenty minutes from Puerto Vallarta, there are a ton of homeless dogs just walking around town. They aren't aggressive, they mind their own business, but it's just a weird site to see. Hell you'd never see a dog walking the streets in Asia, because if he did, he'd be gone in a minute, and end up being part of a Number 9 combo is some eatery. But damn, these dogs would walk around, and their dicks would just be flopping in the wind. Huge dicked dogs everywhere you looked. I mean, shit, these guys made Ron Jeremy look like a third grader. And the dogs would just walk into restaurants and lay down on the floor, and no one gave a shit. In fact, most of the staff would know who these canines were. It wasn't in every restaurant. Some places did have a sign that said, "No Dogs Allowed." Which didn't make sense to me because, dogs can't fucking read!

I also noticed that there was a ton of Canadians in Mexico. How could I tell? Just look at them. They looked fucking Canadian. The guys were chubby with sleeveless shirts, shorts, dark socks and sandals. Oh and when on the beach, their beer guts hung over their tight speedos, a.k.a. grape smugglers and their hairy backs were in full view.

The Canadian women I saw were all over 50. And they were wearing bikinis, which is really disgusting to see on their out of shape wrinkled bodies. And these women had corn rows in their hair. Hello, wake up and smell the Molson. Corn rows, unless of course you are a NBA star or a rapper, went out of style years ago. About the time, gee, I don't know, what year was Bo Derek in the movie 10? And all of these Canucks walked at a real slow pace, like they were window shopping. But the one problem was there weren’t any fucking windows around! It was at the beach. (I know that glass comes from sand, but come on folks.)

OK, OK, maybe I am being a little harsh on Canadians, but it was just an observation. And to be honest, the ones I did talk to were very nice, and I never even heard one of them say the letter "A" after a comment. (So the hell with that stereotype.)

Mexico, damn what a fun time.

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