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Mexican Submarines
By Maxx Chestnutt

Los Guys salutes one of its own on the 8th year anniversary...

Years ago, a few members of the PPPC Syndicate ventured into a strange land in search of fun, sun, and an easy lay.

The flight was long, and full of cheeba smoke thanks to a gentleman in row 28. When other people began firing Marbs on the international flight, a PPPC associate--who will go un-named--sparked a j of the death. To this day, it remains one of the few documented cases where travellers brazenly burned weed in their seats without reprimand.

Upon arrival in Cancun, Mexico, we knew we were in for a good time. For three of us, the trip would end in smiles and laughter. For the fourth, the end of the vacation would be nothing but cruel remarks from his friends, a vicious hangover, and a bad rash.

You see, Cancun was, and probably still is, one hell of a place to get your beef on. On our first day, I myself was crippled on smuggled chron to the extent that I was unable to rally to go out for hours. As the days went by, we were witness to endless amounts of partying, most resulting in some kind of hilarious punch line.

I shit in the pool, for example.

But the real kicker came on our last night. The group that sponsored our trip had put together a final blowout bash: hundreds of kids in togas, five bars stocked with cheap booze, and one large dance pit filled with foam. Yeah, kind of like what you would get if you open your washing machine, mid-cycle.

The groove was hype, the mitt was in full force, and the booze, well, the booze was just disgraceful. One of the bartenders turned my buddy onto the “Submarine.” Basically, a boilermaker, with 6 ounces of beer in a glass, with a shot of tequila dropped in. Slam it.

As the hours went by, the place turned into a total mess. I saw some people shagging in the foam pit to Young MC’s “Bust a Move.” Somebody had booted (twice) in the men’s sink before 10:00. Girls were falling down left and right as they tried to dance on wet, slippery tables, and yet, through it all, no one got hurt. Well, with one exception.

As the three of us tried desperately to locate the fourth member of our party, we laughed our asses off at some drunk who had collapsed, in his toga, on the sidewalk outside the club. We even let fly with a few derogatory comments as we walked by, that is, until we realized the drunk on the curb was none other than our missing friend.

As we carried him back to the hotel, we got the news that our travel group would not be invited back again next year. Must have been the ketchup bombs that landed in the lobby about 4:20 AM. We dropped ‘em from the 5th floor and managed to hit the only sculpture in the place.

Anyway, we got our friend, Dre Rza, up to our room with the help of a very distraught counselor, whom we dubbed “9 Ball,” since he was such a kook. As soon as we got him in the bathroom, I smelled some shit. I mean, dookie, man, and a fair amount of it. As I let go of my buddy, the counselor, 9 Ball, had no choice but to remain and endure the subsequent pants-shitting. He ended up with a turd on his shoe.

Once we verified that the dude was not going to die, we put him in the bathtub with some newspaper. It was a pretty sorry sight, and I’m glad to say that this sort of thing has not happened since. In the lobby the next day, a hero was born. As we all prepared ourselves for the arduous journey home, one man stood tall, beaming with the satisfaction that, through it all, he had managed to make it out alive. We were boarding the bus, opening beers, when our buddy mumbled his first words of the day.

“Huh-huh. I shit on 9 Ball.”