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 Mexico ShittyPosted 11.07.2003 by The Big Wiper (2244)
Among the flushed bathroom memories of my Shameless, impetuous youth, none seem headier to me now from the vantage point of healthy, comfortable middle-age than a two-week high school senior bus trip to Mexico that I took with 35 other classmates (and a couple of chaperones to keep us in line). So let's rev up the Greyhound and head south of the border for a look back at a tour that made an indelible impact on my 17 year-old redheaded Southern ass. Literally.
Before the trip began, we had been meticulously warned by the chaperones that we were not to drink the water in Mexico. Instead, we would have to settle for soft drinks or even get their permission to drink beer, most of which would not be refrigerated. Warm though they were, they would be a safe way to get hydrated without being visited by Montezuma and his troops, who would be more than willing to inscribe their names in our personal G.I. guest registers if we did not pay attention closely. Nonetheless, Montezuma's first visit occurred the second night out, among the group of four guys with whom I was assigned to room. I was just winding up a shower in the hotel bathroom when there came a very insistent knock at the door. "Rob?" said my good friend, Tommy. "Are you almost through in there? I gotta go bad. Could you, like, drape a towel around yourself and let me in?" So that's how it went down. I dried off quickly, wrapped a towel around my privates, and admitted my blur of a buddy, who lost no time in tearing down his briefs, plopping himself down on the pot and playing a loud, loose-flowing, merde-filled Mexican melody on his ass pipes right there in front of me. "You got the trots already?" I said. "Did you drink the water at lunch or something?" His orchestrations, heavy on the brass and percussion, continued while he answered, "No. I think it must have been that fresh fruit cocktail we had." I had wisely declined that particular offering, having remembered the words of the chaperones that fresh fruits and veggies were not always washed as properly as they should have been. I high-tailed it out of there as Tommy's sulfurous symphony reached its greatest crescendo and final movement; and I lost no time in informing the other guys that he had "won our bet." Each of us had put up a dollar in a potty kitty that would go to the first dude to get the trots. We figured there should be some upside to having serious problems with your downside. By the next night, however, in the village of Tamazunchale (pronounced Thomas and Charlie), at the foot of the plateau we would soon be climbing to reach Mexico City, Montezuma and his warriors had managed to pull off a raid on nearly all of us. We guys decided to congregate in two of the adjoining hotel rooms, where we opened the doors between them and staged an impromptu Montezumathon in the two bathrooms. In between guzzling more of those warm beers and participating in an ongoing poker game, most of us downloaded in rather Shameless -- and perhaps slightly buzzed -- fashion. Due to the layout of the rooms, I remember clearly sitting on the edge of one of the beds while slamming back a warm Corona and being treated to a view of my buddies shitting in stereo. Here on the left toidy was Kenneth in his birthday suit, rocking back and forth in agony; and there on the right crapper was Bob, perhaps the most outstanding athlete in our school. Only -- Bob somehow escaped the wrath of Montezuma, and even announced it to the crowd milling around that night. "I'm A-OK!" he said with an astronaut swagger, relaxing with his pants around his ankles. Truth to tell, he got on my nerves that night, since most of us guys were constantly gripping our knees in agony. Perhaps it was his sterling physical condition and many workout reps that were putting those Hispanic gut-guerrillas to flight. At any rate, he seemed to be the only one amongst us who was immune. In the ancient city of Taxco, known for its artsy-craftsy street hagglers, I received proof that Mexicans themselves are also largely immune to Montezuma's antics, surely because their G.I. tracts are accustomed to the particular flora of their country. I walked into a small men's room off the public square and was treated to a no-cover charge floor show of a middle-aged man on the solitary toilet, pants puddled on the floor, in the midst of grunting out what must have been an excess of refried beans and tortillas. As I passed him on the way to the urinals, it was apparent that he was not dealing with an attack of A River Runs Through It. There was no trumpet fanfare present -- only his screwed-up face and his persistent efforts to push through something monstrousp; and as I finished up and walked past him again, I did hear his great sigh of relief as he achieved single splashdown. Perhaps the lowlight of the trip for me took place in Mexico City. Montezuma had pretty much flattened me to the point I was on meds and unable to attend a bullfight with the others (which was just as well since I didn't want to witness a bull being finished off, sword clean through the heart). I felt as if I had taken one myself, though, because I had also acquired a bad head cold that had seriously stopped up my ears. I spent that afternoon alternately festering in bed, trotting to the toilet to squirt and dribble and ask myself that age-old question: "I don't remember eating this much. Where the hell is all this unholy mess coming from?" I must have gone back and forth about a dozen times, and I got so tired of pulling my pajama bottoms down that I eventually stripped naked. I was in the midst of yet another skirmish with Montezuma's boys when the hotel maid walked in on me, yelping something in Spanish that would have challenged Ricky Ricardo, framing her face with her hands in prescient imitation of McCauley Culkin in the Home Alone movies. I had been unable to hear her entering the outside room, what with my hearing loss. I tried to reassure her in English, but evidently she was so upset that she failed to return to make up the room, and we had to make do with used towels for our showers that night. At the end of the two-week journey I was ten pounds lighter, and I think most everyone else was affected to some degree. All except Bob, who kept swaggering around in maddening fashion, telling us he was still the same ol' regular fellow. (Grrrr!) For the record, I have avoided Mexican food ever since. Post new comment
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