Mexican Jails and Carta Blanca Beer

 

So. I just got back from being incommunicado for the week, and I will be required to be so, again, from Sunday through Thursday next week. I’m not supposed to tell you what I am doing, but I’m dying to do so.

OK, I’m squirming in my pants to tell you.

I’ve been thinking about how I can tell you what I’m doing in some fashion that won’t get me into any trouble, but will provide you with hints that will tell you what’s what. Like some kind of a word-gram dealie. You know, where I write a quick story and you find a key to know what words to write on paper to get my message.

The problem with that is I’m too tired from answering questions to write something as complex as a word-gram.

Then, I thought maybe I’d tell you some parable, you know like Jesus does in the Bible, or as I think other religious high muck-a-mucks do in their Holy Books. But I haven’t been able to think of any story to tell about a guy who spends inordinate periods of time listening to men in suits say terrible things about him while he is required to sit and, “Look confident and un-fazed at all the nastiness.”

Another option might be to do a crossword puzzle with a complex solution that tells you what I’ve been up to if you turn it a certain way when solved. But I would be bearing false witness, and standing in your judgment as a liar, if I said I was smart enough to do a crossword puzzle of any kind. Much less one that might provide clues if turned in a clockwise rotation of 136 degrees.

I did try to write a crossword puzzle this one time when I was in jail down to Mexico. I didn’t have any paper, so I was scratching it onto the walls of my cell. The walls were old fashioned stuccoed adobe with a fresh whitewashed finish. I was using a nickel I found in the lining of the jacket I was wearing when arrested to draw my boxes and to write.

My major problems with the endeavor were my ADHD and that entire obsessive/compulsive thingie. My clue questions were so long and detailed that I’d used up an entire wall of my cell by the time I got to Number 6 Across. Then, all of my erasures for corrections started to flake off the stucco, and that got me pitched into solitary for attempted escape.

I don’t like Mexican jails or the law enforcement types that run them. So I stay away from that border. In fact, I have a 100-mile rule and the navigation systems on all our vehicles have alerts programed into them whenever they get within 150 miles of Mexico.

Ever been in a Mexican Jail?

I couldn’t take the dogs with me on this mission incommunicado, and I missed them like crazy. And mostly the Squirt more than Dixie. Dixie has been spending most of her time with Streaker Jones, but Squirt has been keeping me entertained with her constant chatter.

Which reminds me. I was asked this question that made an especially nasty accusation about Streaker Jones. It pissed me off so much that I forgot my decorum and I answered, “Let me answer by saying this, fuckball. How about I tell Streaker Jones what you said and that you called him Mister Jones?”

Should have maintained my decorum.

Anyway, Squirt is asleep on the chair next to me and she is adorable. She snores like my ex-wife Ingrid, you know Ingrid right. She owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium and provides me with the ass art I use in my moon shows.

Made the mistake of telling Ingrid that she snores like a bullfrog. A few days later I asked her to pluck and dye my ass to look like George Washington crossing the Delaware River for this thing I had down to City Council.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the TV report to the Nighttime News and realized that Ingrid had instead plucked me to show two dogs attempting to couple.

My ass looked like a pink poodle trying to mount a lime green St. Bernard.

But we made up, and had Ingrid sex. And let me say right here and now, that Ingrid sex was both fun, and dangerous.

Look, I’m beat and I want a cold Carta Blanca beer. I’ll get all rested-up and try to do another bloggie posting before I re-incommunicado.

Manana, y’all.

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