PICTURES FROM THE YNOT MEXICAN VACATION

Paul demonstrates proper perot technique.	Up to no-good in En Senada.	Party on the patio.	Patric, he knows how to have a good time.
What a view!	A quiet moment of reflection while the federales run amok.	While we are not playing golf we a huge rock stars.	Scraps, the vomit eating dog.
Tucker finally give up hope on golf and aims for the biggest hole he can find.	Rare footage of the dreaded Mexican Chupacapra.	The retarded CJ Golf sponsors.	Someday this drinking is all gonna catch up to me.
The core of Operation Asparagus.	Rocking the party from dusk till DAWN.	Pauls shows off new hair care products.	WHAT'S A WEBMASTER EVENT, WITHOUT A FEW PORN SLUTS?
What's going on in the distance, while we are being handsome?	Pretty, isn't it?	I suck at golf! I think I'll kill myself!	I think that pork may have been a little raw!!

Saturday, September 28th: A Day That Will Live in Infamy

10:00 AM -- The day began harmlessly enough: shooting tequila and smoking Mexican dirtweed over steaming, nearly sanitary plates of chorizo and tacos at a local cantina in the sleepy Mexican town of La Salinas, about an hour south of Tijuana.

11:30 AM – Vomit profusely.

12:30 PM – Though perfectly satisfied by lazing on the beach all day with a with a keg of Dos Equis perched on the lounge chair beside me, I am inexplicably cajoled into donning a funny shirt and physically exerting myself on the golf course, an activity I’ve only done once before.

12:31 PM – First beer consumed on course. Spirit livens.

12:35 PM – One of our “party” steals a bottle of cheap tequila from the snack bar, “allegedly”. Much laughter and merriment ensues.

4:00 PM – Second case of beer finished. B.A.C. officially exceeds par for the course.

4:25 PM – In a two-sport super event unheard of since Bo Jackson, golf meets motocross to seriously damage the undercarriages of two $4000 golf carts. Let’s keep that between us.

5:22 PM – Vomit profusely.

6:00 PM -- Things take a turn for the ridiculous, as a member of our foursome, heretofore known as Iron Man Tucker, in a blaze of beer-assisted idiocy, jumps on to the roof of my moving cart and does his best impression of Teen Wolf, before being promptly launched 15 feet into the hard metal side of another cart. We captured the events on video, but, regrettably, our cameraman had an unexpected surge of humanitarianism, causing him to lay the camera down and miss the key footage of Iron Man colliding with the earth. Rest assured, he’ll be hogtied and beaten with reeds for that infraction. Regardless, much laughter and merriment ensued.

7:30 PM – After multiple such incidents of sporting tomfoolery, we are escorted through the last 3 holes by security. We were on golf probation – how shameful. Bring on the merriment, and yes, the vomit too.

9:00 PM – Back at the house on the beach, time is dragging, the beer is long gone, and only one last hope for a good time remains. Our errant cameraman redeemed himself in grand fashion. He had a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels, upon which he had dropped an undetermined amount of acid (how apropos) almost a year ago. Unsure of whether the tricky liquid would still be effective, we decided to eat the entire page for good measure.

11:00 PM – The mission was a failure. The acid is no good.

11:03 PM –Hmmm… I think the wall is looking at me.

11:12 PM – You know, I never noticed the how big the pores on Rick’s neck are – and why are they pulsating like that?

11:21 PM – Sweet Mother of Fuck! I’m tripping my goddamned balls off!

12:00 AM – Shit, the hallucinations must be kicking in, because I’d swear about a dozen Mexican police cars and two paddy wagons just pulled up in front of the cantina.

12:01 AM – Run. Run quickly.

12:05 AM – Ok, so now we’re hiding from the federales in a large cactus on the beach, I’ve got enough acid in my head to send Timothy Leary into a permanent psychosis, and I’m fighting the urge to blow an economy sized can of pre-mixed Nestle Quik all over the inside of my shorts. A baby bung gopher escaped, but, luckily, I managed to close the floodgates behind him. Let the gopher work his way down your leg, Paul, and make its way into the dark, anonymous cactus. Be discreet, and no one will be the wiser. Yes, you are a fucking smoothie, Paul.

1:30 AM – Feces contained, and no longer trying to communicate with the wart on my finger through ESP, we worked up the courage to trundle down the beach and see what was to be seen. Being in the middle of Nowhere, Mexico, expectations for anything other than a night of psychedelic-induced star drooling were low, which, quite honestly, I was content with. Vomit profusely.

2:00 AM - Holy shit, we just walked into a rave on the beach. No shit, thousands of Mexican ravers in sparkling pants dancing to four different pounding DJs while a $50,000 laser and visual light show blasted over our heads and out into the Pacific Ocean. I’m not much of a raver (junglist, breakbeat, electronica kid, or whatever-the-fuck they want to call themselves) but this was an impressive setup, especially with a head full of acid. I wondered if perhaps we might be able to find more drugs.

2:04 AM – Found drugs.

2:30 AM to 7:00 AM – A total blur.

7:30 AM – Leave the rave and wander back to the town we were staying in, where we proceed to plunder the last remnants of any stray liquor bottles we could find – mostly at other people’s homes. You’d be shocked how, at this hour of the morning, almost any combination of alcohol can be palatable.

8:30 AM – Vomit profusely.

10:00 AM – Drive into town with a frying pan full of weed, find a restaurant, and eat tacos and drink until passing out. Vomit profusely in sleep.

Twenty-four hours, hundreds of drinks, one soiled pair of Joe Boxers, a few hundred dollars worth of drugs, four livers, and countless lost braincells later, the circle completes itself. Viva Mexico.

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