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Ernest Does Mexico, and John Wayne Rides Shotgun
I wrote this piece on a cruise from San Diego to Mexico, and this is pretty much how I saw it:
We delve deep south of the boarder in search of new ´free' lands; in search of that rushing adrenaline of all you-can-eat imperialistic lust that makes the deep dark heart of our American Dream beat. We go searching on charging 21st century floating, yet digital, mega-tonne Carnival cavalry, with us, riding shotgun, is John Wayne re-incarnate, wide eyed and sadistic as ever. Together we beam out big bloated smiles, the colonial twinkle in our eyes never shining brighter and the angst of irritability in our voices never croaking louder. But these war cries are muffled, the turbines are too turbulent and our mouths are just too full-- because, after all, our time here is limited, we have just eight days- which could never be enough- and if we don't eat our weight in the all-included lobster bisque and lobster tails there is no doubt that we will go broke and go bust. We would return home failures. So we can't stop the rock, we can't stop the shoveling, not even for Heinz and French's-- the price is just too high. We eat for honor. We eat for the dignity of the Empire... which will strike back. We eat to defend our weigh of life. Because if we stop the gluttony, even for a moment, we will have lost and the enemy will have won. Who is the enemy? Fuck if I know. Maybe the cruise-ship people, maybe even the Mexicans… I don't think its still the commies. Bastard commies. We won't lose though, we're way too successful and evenly tanned to be losers.
The float-boat-cavalry on which we charge on is big, big gulp big, and the proverbial cup holders have all been up-sized for us, the seas deepened and the channels widened. We are #1. Fuck yeah! And as the #1 we can, and will, do as we feel, do as we want- after all there are 900 foreigner janitors sleeping downstairs, all living and dying to clean it up. And so they should.
But now I’m bored, maybe even sober, we had better rotate bars fast. I think the one on deck 7 has an Oriental theme. But I don't really feel that Oriental today, in fact I don't even feel sober, not even all that bored. It's hunger. Of course! I can feel the waist-line receding and the looming onset of what some might call hunger. Shit. How could this have happened? And why? I need to find a grill, a restaurant, a buffet, and fast. But wait. I can't move my legs. I can see my legs, most of them, the better, healthier part of them. But I can't feel them. I can see the food, shining and glistening in the warm supple light at the end of the tunnel, but I can't feel the food. Where are the tray laden foreigners? Where are my tray laden foreigners?!
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