Happy Day George W

Sorry for the hiatus, but I had to TC of some B. Now that the B has been mostly TC of, I can get back to the only B that matters: funny business. Okay, not a good start. I realize now I haven't yet shared how Valentine's Day went. Well, it went awful. That is, it went awful if you hate romance and pastries! I'm indifferent towards one and fanatic about the other, so I consider the night a success. My diet of the past several days has been nothing but cookies and cake; I'm living like some morbidly obese man who's resolved to wear sweat pants for the rest of his life. Let me tell you, it's wonderful. Well, it's wonderful, aside from the fact that all of my teeth have fallen out and I've developed scurvy. If I have to suffer, it better be because of cookies.

I don't know if I've brought this up yet or not, but this weekend is George Washington's birthday. In keeping with the most dangerous tradition around, the Goulash All-Stars will be invading Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, to serve as hot dog inspectors and temporary mediators between the drug-runners and the police. Lest you think hot dog inspectors is some sort of homosexual inneundo, I mean actual hot dog inspectors. Nuevo Laredo has a lot going for it (cheap alcohol, people selling chiclets everywhere, 15 year olds wandering around with machine guns), but the true pinnacle is the hot dogs they sell on the street. It's like Kobe beef wrapped in a bun, with a slightly more rat feces. The things are so good, though, you don't even care about the rat feces. In fact, while eating them, you begin to think, "You know, animal refuse has gotten a bad wrap."

This trip promises to be a little more dangerous the previous 90000, simply because a lot of people have been kidnapped there lately. In spite of this news, I'm not scared. First and foremost, it's very difficult to kidnap someone if they're already in Mexican prison. So, I've got that going for me. Second, if anyone did abduct me, they'd immediately give me back because I have no money. They'd get me in the van, go through my wallet, and immediately write an outraged letter to the US ambassador, the gist of which would be, "Aren't Americans supposed to be rich?" What some call poor fiscal decisions, I call planning ahead.