A real bunch of garbage
Thrilled that the end of the semester was mere hours away, I did what anybody who’s excited does; I put on my party hat.
Soon after that, I took a look in the mirror, appreciated my beautiful physique and wondered why my legs were so bulbous. Then, curious if my legs were in fact bulbousy, I consulted a dictionary. When only a Spanish dictionary was available, I spent several hours perfecting the language. When I was confident I had mastered the Latin dialect, I hopped on the first flight to Guadalajara. In the airport, I stopped the first Spanish-looking person I saw, who happened to be a famous Mexican wrestler known only as “The Legend,” which, in Spanish, is “El Legendo.” When I grabbed him by his arms--which were somehow larger than my own--he gave me an intimidating look. I was sure that he thought I was just another American tourist, so I slid him a sexy little snippet of Spanish:
Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños.
Some fourteen hours later, I awoke in a dumpster behind a brothel with a deep gouge on the back of my head. I touched my hand to the wound and when I brought my hand back around, I was surprised to find that I no longer had a hand, and for that matter, never did. So odd that I would think it would magically be back. Oh well, I just blame The Legend.
Needing medical attention, I went into the lobby of the bordello, hoping I wouldn’t run into a bad Corey Feldman movie. It was strange; the lobby looked exactly like a dentist’s office, complete with People Magazine and The Daily Dental. Apparently there were some fine concubines at The Tasty Fish (at least that was who the magazines were addressed to), as there were 6 people waiting to get their jollies. I took a seat and picked up a particular copy of The Daily Dental, as the cover caught my eye:
It was right then that I realized what my mistake was. It seemed I had not mastered Spanish after all, because while trying to say “Hello sir! Good day! Aren’t my legs bulbous?” I had mispronounced when saying Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños., which translates to “Hello, I found a box of your children.” I immediately called up The Legend, apologized, and agreed that the only way to settle things was in the wrestling ring at Wrestlemania XXXVI: Does Anyone Really Care Anymore?
It was after this call that Marie walked into the lobby. She was a dominatrix, and informed me that one of the ladies could see me now. Before passing the threshold, I took a quick look back at the six others who had obviously been waiting longer than I had. Everyone was too busy reading People magazine to notice, except for a seven-year-old girl, who called me something in Spanish which I’m pretty sure meant asshole. I quickly ran back to the lobby and slapped that little bitch square across the mouth. I later found out she grew up to be a successful paleontologist. Thus began my Smack Bitches phase and political slogan.
Marie walked me down a long corridor for what seemed like a long time. The walls looked wet, and for some inane reason, a voice inside my head said “Touch them.” The walls were indeed wet, and my remaining hand immediately rotted off from touching old Spanish man juice.
After a while, Marie (which she pronounced MaaLee) stopped and extended her hand, showing me the room I was to enter. I thanked MahLee, and promptly smacked her in her little bitch mouth. She then brought out a hatchet and lobbed off my third hand.
The room’s décor left something to be desired; namely cleanliness. When I turned the light on, the roaches and wildebeests scattered under the oven. While I awaited my whore, I surveyed the room, noting the flickering yellow light and the distinct smell of Lucky Charms mixed with urine. Then, to my delight, I saw a mirror. Lying on the sink below it was a rusty razor. I had been wanting to shave the whole day, but one thing led to another, and now here I was in Guadalajara. The razor didn’t look particularly good for my health, but I figured fuck it, I’m in Guadalajara, I might as well.
I turned on the faucet and out came a liquid that I can only describe as blood. Well, I wouldn’t call it blood per se, but well, yes it was blood. When I finished shaving, I noticed I had a couple nicks on my face. I figured it was due to the rusty blade, but then I saw something moving in the mirror…on my face. I leaned in a bit closer, and found, to my horror, the cause of my nicks:
Yes, there was an agitated demon closing in on my left sideburn, the good one. Determined to never let anyone mess with my sideburns again, I slapped that angry little bitch of a demon right in his mouth. Unfortunately, he saw my attack well ahead of time, and bit off the index finger of my fourth, yes fourth, hand.
Just then, a short little Mexican walked into the room. She introduced herself as “Steve” and told me I was about to experience a little piece of Guadalajara I wouldn’t soon forget. I thought she had a pretty face, but the penis scared me off. I told Steve I had better get back to America, for fear of becoming cultured, and he said he understood. I caught the first flight back to “Freeze your tits off” Michigan, got back to my house at 2:43 am, with just enough time to take a little nap before my last final.
Whew, what a day.
Soon after that, I took a look in the mirror, appreciated my beautiful physique and wondered why my legs were so bulbous. Then, curious if my legs were in fact bulbousy, I consulted a dictionary. When only a Spanish dictionary was available, I spent several hours perfecting the language. When I was confident I had mastered the Latin dialect, I hopped on the first flight to Guadalajara. In the airport, I stopped the first Spanish-looking person I saw, who happened to be a famous Mexican wrestler known only as “The Legend,” which, in Spanish, is “El Legendo.” When I grabbed him by his arms--which were somehow larger than my own--he gave me an intimidating look. I was sure that he thought I was just another American tourist, so I slid him a sexy little snippet of Spanish:
Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños.
Some fourteen hours later, I awoke in a dumpster behind a brothel with a deep gouge on the back of my head. I touched my hand to the wound and when I brought my hand back around, I was surprised to find that I no longer had a hand, and for that matter, never did. So odd that I would think it would magically be back. Oh well, I just blame The Legend.
Needing medical attention, I went into the lobby of the bordello, hoping I wouldn’t run into a bad Corey Feldman movie. It was strange; the lobby looked exactly like a dentist’s office, complete with People Magazine and The Daily Dental. Apparently there were some fine concubines at The Tasty Fish (at least that was who the magazines were addressed to), as there were 6 people waiting to get their jollies. I took a seat and picked up a particular copy of The Daily Dental, as the cover caught my eye:
It was right then that I realized what my mistake was. It seemed I had not mastered Spanish after all, because while trying to say “Hello sir! Good day! Aren’t my legs bulbous?” I had mispronounced when saying Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños., which translates to “Hello, I found a box of your children.” I immediately called up The Legend, apologized, and agreed that the only way to settle things was in the wrestling ring at Wrestlemania XXXVI: Does Anyone Really Care Anymore?
It was after this call that Marie walked into the lobby. She was a dominatrix, and informed me that one of the ladies could see me now. Before passing the threshold, I took a quick look back at the six others who had obviously been waiting longer than I had. Everyone was too busy reading People magazine to notice, except for a seven-year-old girl, who called me something in Spanish which I’m pretty sure meant asshole. I quickly ran back to the lobby and slapped that little bitch square across the mouth. I later found out she grew up to be a successful paleontologist. Thus began my Smack Bitches phase and political slogan.
Marie walked me down a long corridor for what seemed like a long time. The walls looked wet, and for some inane reason, a voice inside my head said “Touch them.” The walls were indeed wet, and my remaining hand immediately rotted off from touching old Spanish man juice.
After a while, Marie (which she pronounced MaaLee) stopped and extended her hand, showing me the room I was to enter. I thanked MahLee, and promptly smacked her in her little bitch mouth. She then brought out a hatchet and lobbed off my third hand.
The room’s décor left something to be desired; namely cleanliness. When I turned the light on, the roaches and wildebeests scattered under the oven. While I awaited my whore, I surveyed the room, noting the flickering yellow light and the distinct smell of Lucky Charms mixed with urine. Then, to my delight, I saw a mirror. Lying on the sink below it was a rusty razor. I had been wanting to shave the whole day, but one thing led to another, and now here I was in Guadalajara. The razor didn’t look particularly good for my health, but I figured fuck it, I’m in Guadalajara, I might as well.
I turned on the faucet and out came a liquid that I can only describe as blood. Well, I wouldn’t call it blood per se, but well, yes it was blood. When I finished shaving, I noticed I had a couple nicks on my face. I figured it was due to the rusty blade, but then I saw something moving in the mirror…on my face. I leaned in a bit closer, and found, to my horror, the cause of my nicks:
Yes, there was an agitated demon closing in on my left sideburn, the good one. Determined to never let anyone mess with my sideburns again, I slapped that angry little bitch of a demon right in his mouth. Unfortunately, he saw my attack well ahead of time, and bit off the index finger of my fourth, yes fourth, hand.
Just then, a short little Mexican walked into the room. She introduced herself as “Steve” and told me I was about to experience a little piece of Guadalajara I wouldn’t soon forget. I thought she had a pretty face, but the penis scared me off. I told Steve I had better get back to America, for fear of becoming cultured, and he said he understood. I caught the first flight back to “Freeze your tits off” Michigan, got back to my house at 2:43 am, with just enough time to take a little nap before my last final.
Whew, what a day.
posted by Ryan Duval | 2:43 AM
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