This is a True Story. ..Continued.
Part III of III (3 of 3)
Where was I, oh yea, driving to my personal Tijuana, Mexico Jackass Festival (aka “Burro Bash”). We parked the killer Coolio-G mobile on the U.S. side of the border (the safe side), walked over the bridge to Mexico (the ridiculously dangerous side) and strolled right through customs, con no problema! (that’s Spanish for “chingoa tu pendejo!”).
We agreed that we should prioritize our activities in order to make best use of our time in this wonderfully, exotic, foreign land. I mean we weren’t hillbillies; we had both traveled before and still possessed most of our teeth. Therefore, we were well aware of the standard tourist checklist. First on the agenda was to get blind donkey drunk. Check. Second on the list, buy alcohol (Mezcal, of course). Check. Third, drink Mezcal. Check. Fourth, buy some dynamite. Check. Fifth, drink more Mezcal and swallow the worm. I don’t remember, let’s just say Check. Sixth, get arrested…NO wait, I left something out. Rewind. Sixth, attend the Jai Alai matches and gamble. Check. Now, get arrested. Here’s the deal, getting arrested was not on the agenda so it had no business going sixth.
And that’s my story. Oh…what is that…you want to know why we got arrested? Well, isn’t it obvious? OK, goddamnit you people are demanding! So for the audience members riding in the short bus, I will continue the tale.
Coolio-G and I sat down in our “seats”, which were nothing but tiered concrete, in the Jai Alai stadium, which was the size of a high school gymnasium and was also 100% concrete. Just like a swimming pool but without lifeguards…or water. We had made our bets and my player was winning and then one of us (not saying who) decided to fire up a match (he needed to light something) and then casually toss it aside…through the air…still lit…into the shopping bag…containing the Mezcal…and the dynamite. Next thing I knew, there were several explosions – KaBOOM – and ensuing hysteria, but I had already jumped the turnstile and was headed out the front door. I escaped! But where was Coolio-G? Why wasn’t he running for his life somewhere close behind me? Maybe he pulled a hammy? And then he appeared at the stadium front door complete with two uniformed escorts armed with machine guns. S-H-I-T! Slow fucking asshole!
So I turned myself in and they threw us in a squad car and drove around the city for hours whistling at hookers. Finally, we were introduced to the Chief of Police (mayor, dictator, tobacco lobbyist, whatever – he was powerful) and he questioned us while his goons searched our bodies. I’d never been searched before and all I can say is the next time I want a female. It’s mostly a blur, but after significant interrogation, water-boarding etc. we were thrown back in the squad car and then tossed into jail.
“HOLY SHIT, I’m a TERRORIST!” I was thinking to myself, “Do they even give SCUM like me a trial in this god forsaken place?” I went to look out the window to see if they were building a gallows or sharpening a gigantic hatchet across the street…but there was no window. What there was plenty of in the cell though was shit-faced locals. Twenty-three of them to be exact. Keep in mind that this cell was about the size of a small walk-in closet but with more of an apocalyptic gas station bathroom (men’s, not women’s) flair about it. And not just because the cell contained an actual radioactive commode (which in the immortal words of Dave Barry, “would be a great name for a rock band”) . Anyway, my point is that as wonderful as all that sounds, it was definitely an undesirable situation because no one in the cell (I forget their names) could actually relieve themselves (properly) because two gentlemen were busy fighting over which one had firsties on using the toilet seat…as a pillow.
Did I mention that the entire time I was in the cell (4 hours?) Coolio-G was making his one allowed phone call. How could it possibly take four hours to dial a goddamn telephone? I started to get concerned that maybe they were brutally torturing him (again) and that I didn’t have keys to the car…so I started working on my story. “No hobo spanoli”; “What? Donda esta la bananno cocina”; “Huh? Quanto roja bibliotheca enchilada”. I was ready!!! But he finally returned unscathed and so I swear to this day that blond bastard spent the extra 3 hours 55 minutes of that time back at Carlos O’Briens. Anyway, we were released after one of his relatives in Cali paid our bribe…umm…bail and I hastily said “Adios milos mimagos” to my new friends, the twenty-one Julios, Chico and the Man (they were a couple). Half of them were passed out so they totally missed it.
I don’t remember much after that, except that we weren’t executed and were once again free to do something insanely asinine! Regretfully, I’m afraid there may have been several fatalities that day due to our unscheduled terrorism and I sincerely feel bad about it…after all, we lost our Jai Alai wagers and two bottles of Mezcal because of that stupid dynamite.
(Thanks for the bribe money, Dr. Nutz.)