Seeing as an you almost certainly wouldn’t want to read a whole week’s worth of posts about my trip to Mexico where the expressed purpose was to do as little as possible, nor would I even be able to write such a dull series, today’s feature will cut straight to the weird, good, embarrassing, or otherwise noteworthy from our recent sojourn to Cabo San Lucas.
If you enjoyed this post from my Italy series, I think you’ll find this one amusing as well. Plus, it’s Thursday. Who works on Thursdays? Everyone? Shut up. Here’s some funny shit from my trip to Cabo.
Let’s start with breweries, since that’s pretty much exactly what we did too.
Cabo San Lucas officially has one craft brewery. It’s called Baja Brewing, and according to the origin story on their website, “Inspired by a passion for beer and love of Cabo, the vision for Baja Brewing began with a bunch of Colorado boys and a sudsy dream. After lots of careful planning, hard work and a border crossing without incident, the first batch of beer was successfully brewed. We have filled a lot of glasses since.”
And fill ours they did. Since it was Friday, and since Colorado is experiencing an absolute clown orgy of new brewery openings that Kristin and I are more than happy to participate in to kick off each weekend, we figured why not sample the work of one of our Colorado brethren while South of the Border?
So we happened upon their cantina in the marina, and plopped our asses down for a micro-cerveza, or 12. You may recognize this one from Facebook, in which I’m making sort of a weird face.
I then attempted to take a photo of our beer sampling along with the menu, and produced this result:
Not bad, right? It’s got all 7 beers in it next to the logo. It’s arranged in a sort of interesting way. Actually, it’s puke, I know. I take terrible photos, which makes me all the happier I married Kristin, who actually at least halfway always seems to know what’s she’s doing.
Geez, that’s much better. It’s like you can tell we’re in Mexico. Palm trees, nice desert-looking mountain in the background, and the sunset. Good God, the sunsets in Cabo! Remember that scene in Bedazzled where Brendan Fraser wishes he was the sensitive guy, and he’s having a picnic on the beach and can’t stop crying when he ponders the beauty of that sunset? Like this:
That’s you. Every night at sunset. The sun sets over the water, or over the mountain, or fuck it… I’m moving to Cabo so I can cry looking at that sunset every goddamn night while drinking all the Baja beers. Just forward my mail 15 Cabo Street, Cabo, Mexico. I’m sure they’ll find me. I’ll be the one crying looking at the sunset. And so should you. YOU keep it together when this is the view from your hotel room:
Fuck that’s gorgeous! OK, gotta change it up a bit before I short out my keyboard from all the accumulated moisture from my tears. But let’s stay with the view from our balcony. We overlooked the pool, and one day while I was hanging out on the balcony, I looked down and spotted this woman:
Giggity! Although, she doesn’t seem like she really needs any more sun, but what the hell do I care? I’m riding the nice ass train all day just like everyone else at the pool. While her well manicured backyard was certainly entertaining on its own, even better was watching every guy in the pool area walk to the bar or the bathroom and go out of their way to pass by her lounge chair. Men are simply too fucking easy. Furthermore:
While on the booze cruise, this painted little miss is on the wall of the bathroom. How many drunk dumbasses do you think stood there and mistakenly thought this fictional bathroom art hit on them? It’s gotta be at least 5 per week, right? She wasn’t painted alone in there either. But I KNOW her friend wasn’t hitting on me.
To the people in my immediate social circle: Does that not look remarkably like someone that not only I, but two more of my friends, dated several years ago? Like, strikingly so? Except for the coy smile, of course. As memory serves, she wasn’t that big on smiling, or liking things, or doing things. In fact, I suspect this painting probably likes more of your friends than the actual girl did.
Meanwhile, on the booze cruise, I was busy making new friends.
We like to call our friend Robert “Up Top Robert” when he gets drunk because he hi-fives literally everyone he sees. It’s endearing as hell. Being drunk in Mexico will make you totally euphoric, so I turned into “Up Top Jon” on this boat. I saw this guy in the UFC shirt from across the boat, went up to him and said, basically, “Hey, you like the UFC? So do I! Hi-five!” And we hi-fived. Then I made his girlfriend, who was wary of this grinning gringo idiot, take a photo of us together. So now we’re friends. Hooray!
Here’s Kristin and I at the Arch, which was an unbelievable photo op:
I naturally have a stain on my shirt because I’m just that smooth. But we have roughly 9 zillion photos of this arch, which I won’t bore you with. I let Kristin take the photos, obviously, so I spent the time I wasn’t gazing at the gorgeous seascape waving like a goon at passing boats. Like these folks:
Anyone who’s on a boat, assuming they don’t get horrible motion sickness or something, is automatically 25% happier than when they’re on dry land. That’s just science. When you take into account the fact that probably everyone’s shitfaced too, you wave at strangers like you’re 6 months old and just learned how to do that. Hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!
One unfortunate occurrence on this booze cruise was that we got drafted by the Party Captain (or whatever the fuck goofy title he had) to represent the United States in their dance competition. And if you’ve appreciated my photo capabilities thus far, then you’ll REALLY love how I dance. During the second round, there were a couple of lifts involved.
The first one went fine. For the second one, I wanted to make it really good, so I started whispering a count to Kristin like I was calling a spot in a WWE match. I said, “I’ll count to 4, and then say ‘up!’ and you jump up. It’ll be good.” I counted to 4, said “up!” and then promptly forgot what the hell I was doing on account of being really fucking drunk. Kristin jumped into my arms, oh shit! I ended up off balance, and I staggered with her in my arms forward. Thankfully, I didn’t dump her like a jackass, I sort of fell forward and skidded on my knees. “What the hell, dude!?!” was what she rightfully said to me, and we got up sheepishly. I felt like a horse’s ass.
This will tell you all you need to know about the caliber of the other dancers on the boat that night. We still finished 2nd. And my knee looks like this more than a week later:
You should’ve seen it a couple of days ago. It was all green and yellow and scabby. It itched like a bastard too. Ah well, the price you pay for fame, right?
Why anyone thinks it’s a good idea to host a dance contest on a moving boat in the ocean after they’ve pumped you full of free booze is the real mystery however. You get on the boat and they immediately hand you a free margarita or pina colada. And then they don’t stop until you drop your wife during a dumb freaking dance off.
We certainly didn’t help our cause having visited here earlier in the afternoon:
Senor Frog’s was delightfully tacky and awful. The free tequila shot the bartender poured us tasted like pure gasoline, and there was some chick with breast implants who came by blowing a whistle threatening to pour more alcohol in our mouths. We politely declined, but the two old ass couples on the patio didn’t, going full bore on the forced party shots. I wish I had gotten video of this, but the Senor Frog’s chick poured the liquor into this old lady’s mouth, shook her head around, then jiggled her saggy old lady tits for her while her husband cheered, all while blowing her whistle. It was wild. I watched her do this four times with these people and I hoped I would be that cool when I was all old as shit. Although it made me wonder how many sets of old lady knockers that Senor Frog’s chick had her hands on each day. It was probably a lot, which makes for one of the more interesting job hazards I can conceive of.
For the sake of completeness, we also went to Cabo Wabo, which was overpriced and terrible. I didn’t take any pictures because sweet Jesus did this place suck. Avoid Cabo Wabo. Just say you had the hot Mexican chick with breast implants jiggle your boobs for you at Senor Frog’s instead.
Moving right along! As you walk down the marina, there are dudes out there hawking silver and blankets and cigars and all sorts of shit. I passed by one guy who offered me some Cuban cigars, which I declined, but he stepped closer and said, “You smoke weed, man? I got some.” This happened to me about a half dozen times, and all I wanted to say was, “Yeah, well, weed is legal where I come from, so WHATCHU THINK ABOUT THAT?!” I never did because common horse sense tells me not to mouth off to a guy trying to sell me drugs in Mexico.
In addition to all these covert drug dealers, you also pass by a shitload of little cantinas that all have dudes out front trying to get you to come in. One such cantina was this one:
That’s a friendly looking Tequila Shark! But what struck me most was the tagline, “Let the Fin Begin.” Our cat’s name is Finn, so this immediately made me think of him. For those of you who need a refresher, this is Finn:
He’s an adorable, guileless little creature who is probably the sweetest, most innocent cat God’s ever created. Which is why, obviously, I’ve grafted a horrible Cheech Marin-style accent onto him whenever I narrate his thoughts. Particularly when he’s on his way to the litter box, I say, “Finny gotta chit, mang!” which is both horribly racist, and totally incongruous with this cat’s actual personality. Whatever.
So you can imagine my glee at seeing right down the way from the Tequila Shark where we “Let the Fin Begin” was what I first suspected was the Mang Cantina:
It took me a long time (ok, until I was just writing it now) to realize the anthropomorphic mango wearing sunglasses at the end of the first word doubles as an “o” and it’s likely the Mango Cantina, which makes me even worse.
The best part of the photo that I also didn’t notice until right now was that sticker of the mango head on Brett Favre’s Packers body on the back wall. That mango shouldn’t be smiling. Everyone knows this is what Brett Favre looks like:
That never gets old. Brett Favre is a crying baby, and always will be. Even on your Mexican vacation.
Back to Cabo. If you just want to have a ball with your tacos, then have I got the place for you:
That’s Tacos Vicky, and if you forget to order drinks with your meal, it’s okay because she’s got a beer in her purse.
Maybe two people will fully get that joke, but I don’t give a shit. It’s the Vickster! Look at all those treasures!
While on the beach, Kristin took this photo which she eventually uploaded to Facebook with some Zac Brown Band lyrics:
We actually listened to Zac Brown Band while on the beach, which was probably the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of time. Zac Brown is best listened to while on the beach, intoxicated, or, preferably, both. While we attempted to take these photos of our feet, I grabbed the camera and I made my own try. I failed, as usual.
You like shin porn, gang? I got you covered. Seriously, how can one person take such shitty photos? You can see my little knee wound starting to develop though, so that’s a plus.
Joining us and Zac Brown Band on the beach was Pacifico Light.
Pacifico Light contains 3% ABV. That’s less than the beer you buy in the grocery store in Colorado, which at first offended me. My resentment quickly melted away as I realized how great it was to be able to drink all day without getting my ass kicked by the alcohol. Pacifico Light, man! Brilliant.
On our last night in Cabo, we walked to the other end of the marina and got sushi for dinner. It was excellent. As we walked back, we talked about how amazing it was that we were in yet another country so soon after just being in Italy. Although we’d dealt with a lot of disappointment throughout the year, we still lead unbelievably privileged lives. Because these were two remarkably different trips taken within a short time of one another and… holy shit look who it is!
It’s the laserface motherfucker who tells you where you can and cannot go throughout Italy! HOW YOU DOIN’? Holy shit, it was like seeing an old friend. Kristin was so excited, she made me take a picture of her with him. Look how thrilled she is!
This happened on the marina by the way, so I’m pretty sure all the weed dealers looked at us giddy over spotting what’s basically a “Do Not Enter” sign and determined we didn’t need anymore weed.
On our last day in Cabo, I woke up nice and hungover just like the last day of, well, EVERY vacation I’ve ever taken. Kristin wanted one last selfie on our balcony, and here’s what she got:
Good enough, but she ended up taking like 8 of them in a row. I didn’t want to be standing there any longer than I had to, but I endured about 5 before I could stand no longer and started to walk away. Kristin, I have no idea why, just kept right the fuck on taking these things long after I lost interest. Here’s one of the ones from after I gave up:
She seems amused by it while I’m on my way out. “How the fuck many of those were you going to take?” I asked her. “I don’t know. Until I got the right one,” she replied.
And that’s sort of the perfect way to wrap up this piece. I imagine you’re now as ready to leave Cabo as I was ready to stop being hungover in that selfie. So we’ll end here.
Happy Cabo, mang! See you next week.