A Mexican Invasion Part 3

I'm not the type of person who feels the need to violently attack a hooker after I've tied her to a radiator in a cheap hotel and forced myself on her.

It's true. 

I'm not compelled to subjugate women from third-world countries due to some deep-seated insecurity that manifests itself in notions of superiority. And I also don't have a raging cocaine addiction guiding my immoral behavior as I storm through the city like Pac Man gobbling up everything in sight.

I drink enough to make uniformly terrible decisions that result in one or more of the following: embarrassment, loss of pride, alienation, low self image, loss of bladder control, continuous feelings of inadequacy, enhanced self hatred, protracted masturbation sessions, the inability to decipher who I am, where I am, who I'm talking to, or how I intend on getting home.

Adding a cocaine addiction to all that would be counterproductive.

I bring all this up because when I last left off my friends and I were at a bar called the Newport talking to hookers. And many of these women have to deal with foreigners and locals mistreating them. It's one of the many occupational hazards people face when they decide to put their vagina on the open market. But I am consistently surprised at how many women down here don't let the idea that they have sex for money define them. In all honesty, I actually really enjoy talking to the prostitutes here. They're awesome!

The conversation didn't last too long, though, because once they found out we weren't spending any money other than a few rounds of beer they moved on to greener pastures (i.e. money, penis). Sergio and I stumbled out of that bar around 3AM and were pulled up a few flight of stairs into what appeared to be a large strip club. It was black-lit with stripper poles and filled with about two dozen more hookers. At this point it was overload. I would have never believed it myself but as it turns out, there really is a limit as to how many fake tits can be shoved in your face during the course of one night.

We got a cab home and passed out the second we stepped through the door. The next day we bought some churipans and fried eggs from the parilla next to my building. A choripan is an Argentine sandwich that consists of a french roll and a large grilled sausage. It's simple, delicious, and when paired with fried eggs you have a perfect hangover food that is guaranteed to highly offend the delicate sensibilities of any cocksucking North American idiot vegan stupid enough to spend time in this country. 

Friday night was fast approaching and since this was the only weekend the guys would have in this country, I really wanted to do it right. We had a busy night ahead of us. We were going to a bantamweight title fight at Argentina's main sports arena, Luna Park, to see a native Argentine defend his championship against a Mexican. On paper it looked great. As a group Argentines are fiercely nationalistic when it comes to their sports. Riots breaking out is a common occurrence whenever one of their two main soccer teams (River, Boca Juniors) play Locally. These people are so crazy I'm sure that if an Argentine were competing against a British person in a televised ping pong tournament, the locals could find a reason to punch white people.  So the idea of my three Mexican friends in an arena filled with a few thousand rabid Argentines, all rooting for an local boxer who was facing a Mexican, was very exciting to me. If for no other reason than because if shit did go down, and the Mexican won, I could easily disappear into the crowd and watch as a spectator as my three buddies got torn to pieces (There was absolutely no fuckin' way in hell I was going down with that ship).

I'm a huge boxing fan and for my first live prize fight it was a little bit of a letdown. To avoid complete chaos they don't sell alcohol at sporting events in this country, so I couldn't start boozing. This really got me. Throughout the duration of the night I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I was watching a title fight live...without beer. It's sort of like getting to fuck Angelina Jolie...but only for four seconds...in total darkness...and with her upper torso wrapped in an electric blanket and a potato sack on her head.  Another interesting thing about the match was that the fighters in the main event were bantamweights. That means they are really fucking small. So small that, were they not fighters, the only work they could find would be as jockeys or department store elves. 

After about three hours of undercards we finally reached said main event. I outed my friends when, after the Mexican was introduced, I stood up and pointed down at Sergio's head for about three full minutes. The stage was set. We were ready for action. The bell rang signalling the start of the first round, and with that the little bastards went at each other.

 It was eerily quiet most of the fight, with only sporadic insults blurted out during the rounds. I couldn't make out most of the swear words but I'm relatively certain that at one point a man from the stands called the Mexican a chupacabra. A fictional creature which is, if my knowledge of folklore is correct, a spiny bearlike creature that drinks the blood of goats. Based on where I was sitting I could not confirm whether or not the Mexican was, in fact, a chupacabra.

The fight ended with the game little Mexican warrior getting knocked out in the ninth round, thus denying me the chance to see Sergio get thrown around the arena like a human medicine ball. Afterward we grabbed pizza and then headed off to a club in Palermo called Ink. It's a nice place filled with amazing looking locals. But that night it was a little too crowded for our tastes so we headed back across town to the Shamrock. We had many pints of beer, Juan told everyone how much he loved them, and we went home around four. It was an event-filled Friday night, but not quite as crazy as I would have liked. 

As far as I'm concerned, for a Friday night to be considered truly awesome someone has to at least get kicked out of a bar, throw up, contract an STD, physically fight their own friend, yell racial obscenities at total strangers, get their dick sucked in a panel van, or some combination of the above.

Next post, the final installment