“Getting married in Panama is easy”

That seems to be the consensus of websites topping my “how to get married in Panama” interweb search. Some of them temper the “easy” bit by adding, “provided you have all the necessary paperwork and follow the correct procedures.”

of course that’s like saying swimming lake gatun is easy, provided you’ve read up on crocodiles, and can swim really fast.

except for finding corrupt officials, growing pineapples, or getting hit by a killer bus, nothing is easy in panama. say you really are foolish enough to get married. and you’ve come all this way to meet the love of your life: a simple chola with dirty feet and scary sex drive.

this is a happy time for you. you’ve got your script for blue pills, paid off her burro, bought her mama new teeth. you’ve even remembered to bring certified and stamped court documents of your birth and divorce. now all you need is a judge or priest to say a few meaningless words at your funeral blessed union and you’re ready to pound wally pound.

not so fast pendejo. read more»

i talk a lot of smack about Colombians, particularly Colombian hookers. but if you ever get to spend time with one you might find yourself intoxicated. love, lust, morbid curiosity, mortal terror, whatever you want to call it, the women of Colombia can get under your skin and stain you soul.

or at least get it all sticky. i had a relationship with a Colombiana. this was years ago, long before i went mad from syphilis. the girl had a wild temper. but i’m happy to report she did not kidnap, shoot or stab me. read more»

Having testicles is like being chained to the village idiot. Sad, but there it is. Harry Hutton

I’d just finished ghosting an article for another crap e-zine, and was resolved to spend another quiet night alone playing poker in my el Cangrejo apartment when the phone began to vibrate.

“Hi,” a female voice said.

“Hey”

“I hope you don’t hate me.”

“Hate you?”

“That was just an opening line. I was nervous about calling.”

Christ, I hadn’t heard from Lizi in 6 months. She’d stopped taking my calls around the time the heavy rains of Panama’s winter had returned.

“So, how are you - como estas?” I said.

“Good, I was over in Patilla tonight with this hot guy.”

“Oh sure,” I said laughing, “and now you’re calling me, leaking fluids like an old Ford pickup.” read more»