Posted from Cozumel, Mexico.

It’s an alcohol-iday, motherfuckers! WOOOOOOO! Shots on me. Literally. I’ve poured them all over myself. My speedo’s wet! Someone get me a new one or I’m sunning my buckeyes. And you ladies saw that yesterday.


Alcohol-iday! HT: Tressel’s World.

The last time I heard people scream like that, I was running through some back alley in Rio with a flamethrower. You know how long a cat can run after you set it totally the fuck on fire? Thirty-eight feet. I know that because I just whipped out the old twatstand and marked it off myself. Took three lengths, but that’s an exact measurement.

(Surriously: Jim Delany always travels with a flamethrower. You should have seen him at the Hotel Ipanema that afternoon. He was like Peter the Great on PCP. He scares me sometimes. He thinks Turistas is both a comedy and a documentary. His eyes are the dead eyes of a killer! Great dude.)

Jesus. Two years in a row I gotta come down here and rage just to put the beast to bed. Fucking Robiskie drops a TD. I thought about that all night last night when I was in the pit. Fighting off three dogs and a guy named Jorge all at once ain’t for the amateur, but I didn’t get to where I was in life by not being able to lose three pints of blood and still snap a man’s neck in one move. Everytime I felt the darkness coming on, I just thought about Robiskie dropping that fucking pass, and suddenly I’m all hopped up on anger-crack again and sinking my teeth into the neck of a Presa Canario while a thousand Mexicans are screaming and throwing money at you.

The sweet moments in life are never enough, man. Never…but that poor, poor man. It’s what he gets for stepping in the ring with a poet-warrior like Jimmy T. I mean, I wrote this after I woke up this morning in the can. It just flows from me like money, man.

Their once was a coach named Jimmy
Who into the title game did shimmy
His kids shat the bed
And gave the Tigers cheap head
And now he’s in Mexico drinking his liver into a smoking pile of useless ashes and fighting anyone who gets within fifty feet of him because that’s just what he wants to do, motherfucker.

I didn’t even write that down. But a man shouldn’t leave anything behind him when he goes, which is why Jimmy T’s dying with zero in the bank account and sliding into a grave surrounded by the sheet of glass he turned his surroundings into. I’ve got a bargain basement Kazakh warhead in the Tresselbunker just for this purpose. Hook it up to the EKG, and when the cock-engine goes flatline, BOOM! Me and life, tied 1-1, baby.

Julio! Yeah, you! I promise you won’t die if you bring me 72 ounces of whatever’s in that machine over there? I could watch that shit all day: the little steel wheel going around in the machine. What has two thumbs and can drink you into renal failure? Jimmy T, that’s who.

And fuck the fucking AFCA. Like I’ve got to go there and choke on rubber chicken and hide when I want to slip down to Tiujuana for some real nightlife. You can buy your own penicillin over the counter there–now that’s a town that understands the kind of freedom a lone wolf like Jimmy T. needs. aaaaa-ROOOOOOOOO!!! Wolf callin’ here, ladies!

Julio! I won’t bite. Seriously. You see this cash? Get your ass over here and get me a drink. I know I bit Manuel, but he deserved it and the infection he has will heal. I’m not a fucking Komodo Dragon, man. Okay, only on my mother’s side. That’s a joke, because you can’t really fuck a Komodo Dragon. Believe me, I’ve tried.

SERIOUSLY JULIO! NOW! THIS GUN ISN’T LAUGHING, NOW IS IT? THAT’S BECAUSE GUNS DON’T LAUGH, AND NEITHER DOES JIMMY T WHEN HE’S CRAVING 72 OUNCES OF SLUSHY MARGARITA HAPPINESS!

Now let’s get this Alcohol-iday started, Julio! Greasy watermelon race comin’ atcha, Cozumel. And by watermelons, I mean my testicles.