What's Spanish for Pepto Bismol?

We arrived in Mexico Saturday afternoon with a song in our hearts as the brightly shining sun lifted our spirits to even greater heights. I didn't even mind being subjected to the tourist shakedown outside Customs, where in return for signing away 2-4 hours of my precious vacation time, I'd get all sorts of free, useless crap.

Afterwards, we scampered on the bus and waited for awhile, and then we hit the resort. And for a day and a half, all I did was eat, lie by the beach, or drink Pina Coladas by the pool. Being surrounded by your girlfriend and good friends is a great tonic for the spirit; doing so while at a resort is like some sort of renewal.

Of course, sometimes, to build something up, you need to do a little tearing down.

For some reason, I decided I needed a big breakfast Monday morning. Generally, I don't eat big breakfasts. A bagel and/or a piece of fruit is perfect, but Monday, the pancakes looked fluffy, the bacon called to me and the sausage was especially spicy and sweet.

And so my stomach rolled and rumbled all day and all night.

Now, while I'm not going to get too graphic here, some of you might not appreciate what I say in the next two paragraphs. Just a little warning.

By about 7:30, I knew we had a problem. One doesn't shiver in 70-degree weather. It just doesn't happen - unless you grew up on the sun. But there I stood shivering and shaking. I crawled into bed after sending Darcy off to enjoy everyone else's company; why ruin her night entirely? And I woke up with about 14-seconds' warning. And I made it too the toilet just in time.

Until last November, the last time I had a really close view of the inside of the toilet bowl was when I caught a monster stomach virus back in '95. I laid on the couch for four days, praying for death while enjoying a 102-degree fever. Last November, I really enjoyed remembering that time as I made it to the toilet just in time to taste breakfast once again. And now, in Mexico, known for its world-class doctors, hospitals and prisons, I was enjoying the three plain flour tortillas a second time, along with the mint tea. Good times, good times.

It's safe to read again.

I enjoyed an evening of fever-induced delirium, radiating heat like a furnace. But at least my stomach was no longer flipping. And by Tuesday morning, I was fine. We even walked into town for a few hours.

Overall, it was a great trip, but I'm happy to be home. At least I know where to find the Pepto.

And We're Out . . .

Anyone find it somewhat ironic that the "What's wrong with Blogger" page doesn't display? Just curious.

I'm leaving. Saturday morning. On a jet plane. Headed to sunny Mexico. Until then, keep it real kids. And remember --- don't shop at the Galleria, or I'll have to add you to my revenge list, where you'll sit for the rest of days, along with John Quincy Adams, McDonalds and the Dewey Decimal System, waiting my righteous retribution. Or something like that.

Boycott!

You know, it's bad enough that that asshat, Jimmy Fallon danced around the field at Busch Stadium after the Red Sox kicked the Cardinals' asses.

And it's even worse that ESPN has completely bought into the idea that the rest of the country actually gives a damn about the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry (and they hold the other 48 states hostage with unending footage of their games).

Worse yet, Johnny Damon "wrote" a book, where apparently he brags about all the chicks he's bagged since leaving his wife and daughters. Nice.

But I'll be damned if I'm going to go to a local mall and see posters for that fucking Fever Pitch movie wallpapering the place. No. I'm calling for a Galleria boycott. Who's with me? They injured our pride last October, now they're just slapping us in the face!

Well, Galleria, you're going to have to do without the roughly $50 I spend there every year. Just remember that, punks. We'll show them what it means to keep forcing more Red Sox propaganda down our throats. Power to the people!

Rage

There was once a time where I sat in my car and twitched like a caged animal. Traffic lights caused me to growl. Slow cars ahead of me caused me to alternate between whimpers, screeches and howls. OK. It was last Tuesday.

But I've been trying to work on it.

Take today, for instance. I'm driving home, headed down Kingshighway, when I glance up in my rearview mirror, and all I can see is ECONOLINE. If this car was any closer, we could have discussed the baseball game together.

Once upon a time, I would have flipped him off and started raging. Or I would have taken a handfull of funsnaps from the glove box and tossed them out the window (I have done that to a friend when he wouldn't stop tailgating me), but not the new me. Instead I slowed down.

He finally roared around me and flipped me off. Because, apparently, I'm supposed to want him climbing up my ass. My base instincts screamed "RUN HIS PUNK ASS OFF THE ROAD". So I waved at him, pissing him off even more.

Then I realized that he was driving a contracting truck, and he was probably headed back to the office. Since there was nothing written on the side of the truck, I considered following him back to home base so I could compliment his boss on the quality of employee he's hired.

But that would be crazy and vindictive, so I let him go on his way.

It's hit me lately that life is too short to be driving around pissed off and raging at the world. Besides, it's easier to laugh at jackasses when the jackass isn't looking back at you from the mirror.