I’ve always enjoyed Thanksgiving in Panama: the music tipico, “chicha fuerte”, and those funny conquistador hats. I remember one year we cooked up a conejo. Another time we broiled an iguana.

At least I was told it was iguana. It could have been monkey balls for all I know. Not that I’m complaining. Everyone knows Panama has some of the finest monkey balls in the world.

The best thing about Thanksgiving in Panama is that I don’t have to do too much. You know the culture. The women do all the cooking and cleaning. The men do all the drinking and complaining. And everyone’s happy as long as there’s enough to eat.

Unfortunately, I was in Arizona this year. And I was invited to dine with Mormons; or as I like to call them, my vaguely racist relatives. Now my family is too old to cook. They mostly sit around in their magic underwear watching Fox news and complaining about liberals, illegals, and activist judges.

In other words, my family has outlived their usefulness to society. read more»

Peering through the locked windows of the Arizona Addiction and Recovery Center while rolling a fat blunt and waiting for a call back from one of my favorite phone sex operators, it hits me that if I’m going to start fresh there are some things for which I need to atone.

Once, while sitting in Manolos waiting for my sancocho to arrive, I got bored and began counting ants. The ants were getting stuck on the dirty table top making it easy to get an accurate count. On my way out I smugly informed my waitress there were exactly 11 ants on my table.

It wasn’t until after I got home I realized I’d added 2 flies and 1 silverfish into my calculation, thus inflating the number of ants I’d claimed were stuck to my table. I would like to apologize to my waitress and the owners of Manolos for any confusion or embarrassment my remarks may have caused.

Another time, I flippantly told my girl baked plantain looked like monkey penis. I understand now this was culturally insensitive. I would like to publicly apologize to Panama’s plantain growers, and my girlfriend’s brother, who, it turns out, needed a monkey penis transplant after he was attacked by a vengeful Colombiana.

Speaking of Colombians. read more»

When I step out of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport it’s so hot it feels like my eyeballs are cooking in my head.

“It’s been 110 degrees for 3 days straight,” the van-man says.

That would be perfect if I was in town to cure meat.

“Take me to the bone yard my good man - and step on it.”

He shoots me a confused look.

“We only go to Sun City,” he says.

“Close enough. But hurry man. I have delicate skin.” read more»