# Ernest does Mexico; John Wayne rides Shotgun



## mike like night (Dec 14, 2005)

Ernest does Mexico; John Wayne rides Shotgun


          Silence.      

 No noise.  Nothing.  Nothing except the slow low-swaying lapse of a sprawling sea. Silence set in a peaceful paradise; just for me, the sole surveyor of the last unspoiled isle on the Mexican Riviera. Miles away from home, and Miles away from ordinary.

 I had seen those damn Corona commercials.     

 And so had many others, as it turns out. In fact this spring-break fantasy is actually not all that uncommon. Chances are if you —like a billion others—have ever been one to press a beer to your lip or a remote to your thumb, you too are fairly familiar with it. Consumed to the core; its authenticity’s been trademarked and the fantasy’s been landlocked. Held hostage, bastardized and slave-driven into high production (for maximum profits) its being Fried Up and Flipped Out at capacities before only conceptually possible; it’s Fast Food Fantasy for the masses, and it’s the easiest way to live your dreams.    

 With Costco’s “bigger is cheaper” philosophy, the Carnival Cruise Corporation thrives. They take every coastal-man’s dream of careening off into a warm siesta sunset in a two person schooner; then simply dilute it down—or maybe super-size it up—by adding 2,123 other assholes, twelve buffets, eight bars, two casinos, and a ship three times the size of God. 

  “Spirit” was the name given to this divinely-dimensioned vessel, and it was in San Diego that this fine hoard, and myself, amassed, and our expedition began. 

 In a single-file stream we march on board, climb up elevators and squeeze through walkway. We pulp-press ourselves into our rooms, and look onward and outward through fogged portholes; in these spatially efficient cells we wait, and we eat. The room-service works around the clock. 24 hours a day. The food is free, you understand? The showdown is between us and The Clock. It’s a race against time—absolutely none to waste sleeping or swallowing—just eight days to eat our weight in the all-inclusive lobster bisque and complementary couscous. 

  Comprende?!

If we don’t—if we slack off, if we relax, if we let our gag reflex get the best of us—we will have failed. Our captors, the Cruise Community, will have beaten us, humiliated us, and later they will be off to cackle about it in the Captain’s Quarters.

   Prisoners of the Hotel Carnival (and of our own carnivorous device) we may be, but “passive” we most certainly are not. And at the heart of this Safari, past the shimmering “look but don’t touch” veneer, and the glimmering buffet, there is Distinct Darkness. We are not just idly passing through the Kodak moment here. Oh No. Fuck No! Make no mistake man, beyond the boarder, and off this boat  We  are  at   War!—whether you people know it, or not. You’re either with us, or against us: Its Every Man for Himself, Survival of the Fattest, and an all-out haggle to the bitter death… here… in pan-continental tourism.

         “Tourists?!”

 I think not. Invaders!, we were. Riding and Raiding, Charging, and out-flanking. Take no prisoners! A dollar saved is a dollar earned!  

 Pent up under affable flannel for too long, these primal hungers begin to growl—and then Roar! as they are unleashed upon port. Thousands of wild-eyed crazies abandon ship and swamp unsuspecting streets after being landed on shore by an enormous armada of Higgins Boats. This was to be “the D-Day of our time,” and there was to be no fooling around. On shore, we duly lock, load and “stroll out.” Platoons are assembled—for there is safety, and bargain power in numbers. The whistle is blown. And the Treasure Hunt begins... Chaos! Confusion! Cordiality!... A Hurricane of tropical apparel and sun-burnt scalps rape, pillage, and stake their claim for King George II! 

Then leave.

But Manzanillo is used to it, and so are the Manzanillians. It’s become a routine: grin at the gringos… then grasp at their greenbacks. They know the drill: cut to the chase and nothing too Mexican. 

Whilst the schedule stressed that the port and its people were of the “laid-back and friendly” variety, they maintained that the timetable was not. The boat left port at 1900 sharp, and this was emphasized. Regardless, several passengers failed to heed accordingly. Nope, lazing in the welcoming outstretched arms of our Manzanillian hosts, and underneath their docile sun, the schedule was just not at the forefront of their minds.   

They had missed the point—and it was only just that they would miss the boat.

To be sure, these high seas of pan-continental tourism are an unforgiving place. They have no time for the unpunctual: its cutthroat—the way Darwin would have wanted it. And so those of us in attendance at the feast that night were the Survivors; we had made it, were Victorious, and would live to fight another day.

Come High Noon tomorrow, we would do just that.
                   Corona and Cortez be damned!


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## Mean (Dec 16, 2005)

I haven't read this yet, but I will.


I only made this post because this story has been up since the 14th and nobody has commented.


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## mike like night (Dec 16, 2005)

*then read it before you post.*

since the 14th an article with this title has been posted. what is now posted is almost* a completely different article-- but with an old title, which i chose to keep.


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