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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Chapter 297 (Chocolate, Coffee & Monkey's)
This is going to sound crazy. This is going to sound ****ing insane. And if not for the pictures that I post daily as proof, no one on this planet would believe what i'm about to reveal: I have now lost 25lbs from being on strict dark chocolate & coffee diet.
It sounds too crazy to be true. Listen to my story.
I have now lost 25lbs in 9 weeks. I estimate that I’m now eating about 2lbs of chocolate a day--not including approximately a half gallon of coffee. Now, I’m not good at math…and I never have been, but I’m averaging about 14lbs of dark chocolate a week, or 60lbs of dark chocolate a month, or over 720lbs of dark chocolate a year.
Willy Wonka would be proud!
I eat more chocolate then Willy Wonka & Veruca Salt combined. I am a certified chocolate-holic. I have never met a person from this planet that consumes anywhere near the amount of chocolate that I consume. Everyone around me are amateurs. This whole ****ing island is filled with nothing but chocolate amateurs. I eat chocolate all day long. I fall asleep with chocolate inside my mouth. I wake the next morning and finish what I have stored in-between my cheeks for breakfast. For all intent and purposes, I’m like a chipmunk or squirrel. I even have a Camel Pack next to my bed filled with 4 liters of coffee that I drink throughout the night…you know, to wash down the chocolate. I kept the Camel pack nozzle inside my mouth. I fall asleep with the nozzle hanging outside my mouth. It’s attached to 4 liters of ice coffee that sits in a bladder underneath my bed. I use it like a hospital IV.
I have never met anyone on this planet who has a chocolate aura around them like I do. I radiate chocolate. I used to have blue eyes; now they are dark brown. My eyes are now a 70% dark chocolate brown color. I have a constant brown hue or tint to my skin as well. I'm Mocha color.
I reek of chocolate, my pours sweat Coco Butter from deep down. This makes stray dogs and fat girls want to lick me whenever i walk past. Dogs are always following me home, and so are the big girls. So i got that going for me.
Initially, the Redhead was so suspicious of my chocolate diet that she contemplated calling either the police or a psychiatric hospital. But then, she started noticing my weight lost. Suddenly, it was undeniable that my chocolate & coffee diet was working beyond deniability.
The Redhead began studying my chocolate diet very closely. At the beginning, she said, "This is ****ing crazy!" But then she started seeing a slow transformation in front of her very eyes.
She still cannot believe how much weight I have lost. No one can believe how much weight I have lost. The Redhead is not stupid. Not by a long shot. She put our monkey on the same chocolate & coffee diet. In the process, she developed some ingenious math skills that rivaled any Economist:
The monkey had issues with her weight. After only a couple of weeks of a strict chocolate & coffee diet that would rival both Willy Wonka & Folger’s Coffee House, she told me that the monkey had lost 4 pounds. A couple of weeks later, she told me that the monkey had lost an additional 5 more pounds. At the end of twelve weeks, she said that the monkey had lost an additional 52 more pounds, for a grand total of 61 pounds. 61lbs!!
This was perplexing because, despite what she told me, the monkey looked as if she had actually gained weight. A lot of weight! The numbers just didn’t add up. But then the more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. If you knew at which age the monkey was potty-trained: 4yrs; and the age at which the monkey started throwing poop at strangers in the parking lot: 5yrs; and then you added these two numbers together: 4 + 5 = 9, and then if you added 9 to the number of cards in a deck, 9 + 52; you arrive at 61…which was exactly the number of pounds she claimed the monkey had lost.
But then I realized there’s an even easier way to figure out the “Secret Formula" for weight lost: if you take the monkey’s birth date numbers: 4/01/04 (April 1st, 2004), and then added them together: 4 + 1 + 04 = 9 (9 + 52 cards = 61lbs).
That's genius…pure and simple.
This is going to sound crazy. This is going to sound ****ing insane. And if not for the pictures that I post daily as proof, no one on this planet would believe what i'm about to reveal: I have now lost 25lbs from being on strict dark chocolate & coffee diet.
It sounds too crazy to be true. Listen to my story.
I have now lost 25lbs in 9 weeks. I estimate that I’m now eating about 2lbs of chocolate a day--not including approximately a half gallon of coffee. Now, I’m not good at math…and I never have been, but I’m averaging about 14lbs of dark chocolate a week, or 60lbs of dark chocolate a month, or over 720lbs of dark chocolate a year.
Willy Wonka would be proud!
I eat more chocolate then Willy Wonka & Veruca Salt combined. I am a certified chocolate-holic. I have never met a person from this planet that consumes anywhere near the amount of chocolate that I consume. Everyone around me are amateurs. This whole ****ing island is filled with nothing but chocolate amateurs. I eat chocolate all day long. I fall asleep with chocolate inside my mouth. I wake the next morning and finish what I have stored in-between my cheeks for breakfast. For all intent and purposes, I’m like a chipmunk or squirrel. I even have a Camel Pack next to my bed filled with 4 liters of coffee that I drink throughout the night…you know, to wash down the chocolate. I kept the Camel pack nozzle inside my mouth. I fall asleep with the nozzle hanging outside my mouth. It’s attached to 4 liters of ice coffee that sits in a bladder underneath my bed. I use it like a hospital IV.
I have never met anyone on this planet who has a chocolate aura around them like I do. I radiate chocolate. I used to have blue eyes; now they are dark brown. My eyes are now a 70% dark chocolate brown color. I have a constant brown hue or tint to my skin as well. I'm Mocha color.
I reek of chocolate, my pours sweat Coco Butter from deep down. This makes stray dogs and fat girls want to lick me whenever i walk past. Dogs are always following me home, and so are the big girls. So i got that going for me.
Initially, the Redhead was so suspicious of my chocolate diet that she contemplated calling either the police or a psychiatric hospital. But then, she started noticing my weight lost. Suddenly, it was undeniable that my chocolate & coffee diet was working beyond deniability.
The Redhead began studying my chocolate diet very closely. At the beginning, she said, "This is ****ing crazy!" But then she started seeing a slow transformation in front of her very eyes.
She still cannot believe how much weight I have lost. No one can believe how much weight I have lost. The Redhead is not stupid. Not by a long shot. She put our monkey on the same chocolate & coffee diet. In the process, she developed some ingenious math skills that rivaled any Economist:
The monkey had issues with her weight. After only a couple of weeks of a strict chocolate & coffee diet that would rival both Willy Wonka & Folger’s Coffee House, she told me that the monkey had lost 4 pounds. A couple of weeks later, she told me that the monkey had lost an additional 5 more pounds. At the end of twelve weeks, she said that the monkey had lost an additional 52 more pounds, for a grand total of 61 pounds. 61lbs!!
This was perplexing because, despite what she told me, the monkey looked as if she had actually gained weight. A lot of weight! The numbers just didn’t add up. But then the more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. If you knew at which age the monkey was potty-trained: 4yrs; and the age at which the monkey started throwing poop at strangers in the parking lot: 5yrs; and then you added these two numbers together: 4 + 5 = 9, and then if you added 9 to the number of cards in a deck, 9 + 52; you arrive at 61…which was exactly the number of pounds she claimed the monkey had lost.
But then I realized there’s an even easier way to figure out the “Secret Formula" for weight lost: if you take the monkey’s birth date numbers: 4/01/04 (April 1st, 2004), and then added them together: 4 + 1 + 04 = 9 (9 + 52 cards = 61lbs).
That's genius…pure and simple.
Folks, I'm very worried about Frank. That crazy numerology is a cause for alarm. Because he is incapable of mendacity, I am absolutely convinced Frank has lost 25 lbs on the dark chocolate and coffee diet. However, as we know, dark chocolate has a huge amount of calories. Here's the real reason for the weight loss. With all the caffeine in the coffee and chocolate, he is probably averaging only twenty to thirty minutes of sleep per night. The rest of the time he is either climbing the ornamental railing with the monkey or pacing frenetically to and fro, gibbering formulas like the ones above. We need to organize an intervention. It may be necessary to force feed him with some binder - medium rare bacon cheeseburgers, maybe - to counter the excessive amount of fiber he's been ingesting with the chocolate.
Frank is failing to tell the other sordid side to this story... Now, if any of you folks are like myself, upon between ingesting my first to second coffee in the morning, a crazy thing happens. This crazy thing is that my intestines suddenly kick into Overdrive and, like magic, within mere minutes, I am in the can. Now, I am not a chocolate eater, so therefore can't speak to it's effects, but, if it also remotely reacts like the coffee, there's gonna be a rumble in the Jungle!!!
My money is on the idea that Frank is rocking some serious explosive diarrhea and is losing water (and maybe even some blood) like a bathtub faucet, hence his 25 lbs, just my theory...
My money is on the idea that Frank is rocking some serious explosive diarrhea and is losing water (and maybe even some blood) like a bathtub faucet, hence his 25 lbs, just my theory...
Not just mayo - it has to be Hellman's. I caught a sale on the 32 oz for $2.99, got 5 of them packed in the boxes being shipped to DR.
Sorry for the OT Frank
to bring it more on topic, when i was in bravo in santiago few weeks ago they had a wide selection of lindt and milka chocolates. milka was 99 pesos each, lindt had various prices, between 200 and 300 pesos. best selection i have seen in DR so far. amazing that this country produces cacao used by chocolate producers all over the world but good chocolate as such is not that easily available in stores.
Hellman's, the real kind, not the low-fat stuff and beer are responsible for my inability to get much below my top of the chart bmi weight. Have to agree with Meemselle & Dv8, just add in some good old DR parasites and next thing you know you're at the bottom of the chart for your bmi weight. Been meaning to mention how much I enjoy reading Cabarete Diaries. Thank you Frank. Thank you also to our budding blogger Meemselle. Keep it up.
Chapter 298 (The Heat & Insanity)
It’s scorching outside. It’s burning. It’s Dante’s Inferno out there right now. The asphalt is on fire. Women’s wigs are spontaneously combusting. I cannot believe this heat right now. It’s nearly mid-November and the heat is nearly 1000F outside.
It’s not supposed to be this way. Not now. Not in November. It’s supposed be cool. It’s supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to be breezy autumn weather. I should be able to sit outside on my veranda and sip cool mint Julips and watch motoconchos fist fight over whose turn it is to rip off the next na?ve tourist walking down the street. Instead, I’m sitting here with my legs spread so far apart that they’re nearly in different time zones. I got my legs spread so far apart I look like Nadia Comaneci. I got my crotch pushed up as close to the A/C as possible. I’ve got my crotch touching the A/C fan. To get into this position, I had to push my butt right up to the A/C unit. My crotch is nearly sitting on the plastic fan blades.
Now this is heavenly. This is true bliss. This is freedom. This is the way life is supposed to be. No one should be made to have a sweaty crotch. No one should be made to suffer the indignity of perspiring in-between your butt-cheeks. This violates Geneva Convention laws for inhumane punishment. Your crotch area and butt cheeks are meant to be cool, dry, and comfortable. Your genitals should be relaxed. Not all tensed up and swollen. I’m sorry, your genitals are not meant to be all red and swollen and catching on fire. Nor should one’s genitals be resembling a Baboon's rear end in heat. That’s for National Geographic. That’s for the Animal Kingdom. That’s for Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom shows.
I’m sorry, this scorching heat is not meant for sane, dignified human beings. The scorching heat is not meant for people with big, puffy hair either. My hair is nearly touching the ceiling fan blades. I had to turn the ceiling fan off. This scorching heat is not meant for people who are trying to keep their crotches cool and dry and unswollen. I’m trying to maintain some semblance of sanity here. I’m trying to maintain some dignity. Instead, I’m walking around with a hot, sweaty crotch and shoving paper towels and napkins down by pants and trying to dry the perspiration away. I’m nearly wringing out the sweat from my crotch. I could fill an 8-ounce glass up right now. Maybe I should do that and then give it to Alabama Gary to mix with his Jack Daniels. Wouldn’t that be funny?
Sex in this kind of heat is totally out of the question.
Sex is not possible in this kind of Dante’s Inferno heat wave. This heat is biblical. This heat is not from this world. It comes from a coal furnace deep down below the earth’s surface. It comes from an asphalt pit in the middle of Hell. It comes from the Pits of Hell. I don’t care if the most beautiful redhead in the world walked up to me right now and took her clothes off and begged me to make love to her, I would simply say, “No ****ing way!” There’s no way in hell I am going to risk heat stroke in this kind of heat...not unless you are willing to go into the walk-in freezer with me at work. Maybe there I might be willing to try something. Only there would i even attempt something on top of some frozen hamburger buns or ice cream. Maybe that would keep the swelling down.
https://youtu.be/en1uwIzI3SE
It’s scorching outside. It’s burning. It’s Dante’s Inferno out there right now. The asphalt is on fire. Women’s wigs are spontaneously combusting. I cannot believe this heat right now. It’s nearly mid-November and the heat is nearly 1000F outside.
It’s not supposed to be this way. Not now. Not in November. It’s supposed be cool. It’s supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to be breezy autumn weather. I should be able to sit outside on my veranda and sip cool mint Julips and watch motoconchos fist fight over whose turn it is to rip off the next na?ve tourist walking down the street. Instead, I’m sitting here with my legs spread so far apart that they’re nearly in different time zones. I got my legs spread so far apart I look like Nadia Comaneci. I got my crotch pushed up as close to the A/C as possible. I’ve got my crotch touching the A/C fan. To get into this position, I had to push my butt right up to the A/C unit. My crotch is nearly sitting on the plastic fan blades.
Now this is heavenly. This is true bliss. This is freedom. This is the way life is supposed to be. No one should be made to have a sweaty crotch. No one should be made to suffer the indignity of perspiring in-between your butt-cheeks. This violates Geneva Convention laws for inhumane punishment. Your crotch area and butt cheeks are meant to be cool, dry, and comfortable. Your genitals should be relaxed. Not all tensed up and swollen. I’m sorry, your genitals are not meant to be all red and swollen and catching on fire. Nor should one’s genitals be resembling a Baboon's rear end in heat. That’s for National Geographic. That’s for the Animal Kingdom. That’s for Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom shows.
I’m sorry, this scorching heat is not meant for sane, dignified human beings. The scorching heat is not meant for people with big, puffy hair either. My hair is nearly touching the ceiling fan blades. I had to turn the ceiling fan off. This scorching heat is not meant for people who are trying to keep their crotches cool and dry and unswollen. I’m trying to maintain some semblance of sanity here. I’m trying to maintain some dignity. Instead, I’m walking around with a hot, sweaty crotch and shoving paper towels and napkins down by pants and trying to dry the perspiration away. I’m nearly wringing out the sweat from my crotch. I could fill an 8-ounce glass up right now. Maybe I should do that and then give it to Alabama Gary to mix with his Jack Daniels. Wouldn’t that be funny?
Sex in this kind of heat is totally out of the question.
Sex is not possible in this kind of Dante’s Inferno heat wave. This heat is biblical. This heat is not from this world. It comes from a coal furnace deep down below the earth’s surface. It comes from an asphalt pit in the middle of Hell. It comes from the Pits of Hell. I don’t care if the most beautiful redhead in the world walked up to me right now and took her clothes off and begged me to make love to her, I would simply say, “No ****ing way!” There’s no way in hell I am going to risk heat stroke in this kind of heat...not unless you are willing to go into the walk-in freezer with me at work. Maybe there I might be willing to try something. Only there would i even attempt something on top of some frozen hamburger buns or ice cream. Maybe that would keep the swelling down.
https://youtu.be/en1uwIzI3SE
Chapter 300 (Saints & Sinners)
I?ve been without the ability to ?withdraw? cash from an ATM machine for over a week now. Luckily, I have my Norwegian debit card which I use in emergency situations whenever I get very low on cash and my primary debit card protests my abuse by refusing to exit the ATM machine.
Basically, my Norwegian debit card is only for emergency food purposes. So, it?s sort of like having a key to Alice in Wonderland?s Rabbit Hole.
I also have a normal debit card (Dominican) that I use day to day to pay my bills and withdraw cash in order to feed my stomach ridiculous amounts of fried rice and chocolate. This card keeps me in check. This card keeps me from going crazy whenever I get the urge to free-fall into a river of Chocolate fondue like Augustus Gloop (See Willy Wonka).
I use this primary debit card to budget how much I eat and drink every day; I usually hit my ceiling threshold on my primary debit card sometime around 2pm in the afternoon. After 2pm, I basically starve myself for the rest of the day. Basically, for all intent and purposes, this card keeps me skinny. This card is like having a nagging wife around so that whenever I get the urge to go out and splurge, the card says to me, ?Calm the **** down!?
So, last week sometime, I hit my ceiling threshold for the month of November on my primary debit card after I ate enough chocolate to kick-start Willy Wonka?s Chocolate factory back into production. After that happened, my primary card basically told me, ?Stay home and shut the **** up!?
Well, I wasn?t hearing any of it. I hate listening to reason. But I hate listening to reason even more when they put restrictions on my "See-food" diet. I tried for a couple days to stay home and eat light and healthy. I tried to survive on salads. I tried to survive on nuts and seeds. I also tried to stay within my chocolate budget. But then my alter-ego woke up and said, ?**** this, you need meat! You need Sushi! You need dark chocolate mousse...you need a lot of dark chocolate mousse right ****ing now!?
I normally try and tune-out this alter-ego, because, first, he is a glutton for punishment. He is the devil incarnate. He does whatever he wants and gets me into trouble. Big trouble! Whenever he wakes up, he tells me things like, ?Go out and eat something. Do something crazy. Go **** something. Get wild! Get crazy! Do something crazy that?s lands you in jail for the evening.?
?But then, my other alter-ego springs up on my other shoulder?she has a stack of halos above her head; they're stacked up on top of each other like pancakes. She is always dressed in white chiffon and resembles a drag queen. She always reasons with me. She gives me a reality check. She will say things like, ?Don?t go out and projectile vomit onto small mammals and infants. Don?t go to the Russian brothel and lock yourself in a room for three days. Don?t do something you will regret. Don?t be a dickhead!?
I think everyone has these alter-egos that are constantly jostling for power and influence over their host. They're like a virus; they're with you for life. Everyone has a Devil and Saint inside them pulling them this way and that way. It?s like a tug of war on some days. Some days you listen to the Devil, and some days you listen to the Saint. Some days the Devil wins, and some days the Saint wins. The problem is that it?s so much more fun listening to the Devil. The trouble starts when the Devil sits on my shoulder for several days and camps out. Basically, he brings his sleeping bag with him and just camps out near me right ear.
Whenever this happens, the **** hits the fan and I get a certain look in my eye that even the Redhead and monkey recognize. Basically, I go into a Devil-induced trance. It?s a lot like being on LSD, only the ride is much more wild and crazy. There is no getting off the ride until it either comes to a full stop or I land in jail?whichever comes first.
So, there I was, sitting in my office at the Chocolate Bar a few days ago, trying to behave myself. I had no money. I had no access to money. My primary debit card had hit its limit and refused my advances. My Norwegian debit card was also protesting as well. Basically, I was forced to behave myself. And then, suddenly, a Norwegian man walked past me with an infant in his hand and I started yelling at him to stop. (I can recognize a Norwegian from a 100 yards away by their mannerism and nuances...and oh yeah...by the smell of fish that radiates from their pores)
He didn?t stop. Which meant that I was forced to leave my ice-coffee behind and chase after him. Now normally, I would never do this. This is sacrilege for me to leave ice-coffee behind, but this was a matter of life and death. I ran to catch up to him. He was walking very fast. When I finally caught up to him, I was ready to both vomit and have a coronary. Finally, after catching my breath, I said, ?Excuse me, are you Norwegian??
I was out of breath and could barely speak. I could see he didn?t understand a single word of what I was saying to him. So I repeated it in Norwegian. I said,
?Unnskyld meg, er du Norsk??
?Ja.?
?Snakke du Engelsk??
?Ja.?
?Cool. I need a big favor.?
He took a step back and shielded his infant son's eyes from my dry heaves and spit, ?Hva er det??
?I have a Norwegian debit card that refuses to cooperate with me. It refuses to listen to logic, and will not disperse any Money to me. I?ve tried reasoning with it. I tried sweet talking it. I?ve tried bargaining with it. But it refuses to take any money out. Basically, this card is a female.?
?What do you want me to do??
?Can I transfer some money from my Norwegian account into your Norwegian account, and after the money has cleared, could you give me the money?it?s for medicinal purposes. Basically, it?s a medical emergency!?
?What kind of medical emergency??
?I suffer from a Theobromine deficiency.?
?Huh??
?It's a chemical found in dark chocolate."
"Really?"
"Look, there are several reasons why people need dark chocolate in their lives, besides having a pulse.?
?Like??
?Like Cocoa reduces memory loss. It reduces stress, acts as a natural sunscreen, prevents diarrhea, makes you smarter, cures chronic coughing, cures high-blood pressure, improves your sex drive, prevents cheating on ones taxes, and cures penile erection issues! Oh yeah?chocolate also makes you sexy?can I get a hallelujah!??
?Uh-huh.?
He wasn?t impressed.
I studied this Norwegian guy. He was very skeptical. I could tell that much, but he was also open-minded. That was a good a sign as any that he understood logic. Now, any smart person would refuse to do this kind of favor. I would refuse to do this. I?m not going to go to any ATM machine and withdraw a bunch of money and give it to a stranger that I have never seen or met before. But Norwegians are trusting people. The next day he called me and said, ?I got your money!?
?Really?! I was shocked! ?OK, I?ll be right there!? I told him.
I was in Sosua. I did 300km from Sosua to Cabarete in like 1.5 minutes. My motorcycle never touched the ground. If you were one of the cars I passed a couple days ago, I want to apologize. All you would have seen is an orange blur passing you at the speed of sound. By the time you heard me, I would have already passed you and been a kilometer down the street, all you would have heard was the Doppler effect of my exhaust passing you.
When I got to Cabarete, I had pretty much traveled back in time. I was actually younger then when I had left Sosua. True story. If I could afford to do this every single day, I would not age. I would get younger and younger while people around me got older and older. (See Einstein?s Theory of Relativity).
When I got the money from him, I immediately went to the sushi restaurant and ordered everything on the menu. I ordered 1 thru 25 and then I proceeded to projectile vomited on everyone. After I finished that, I went to the chocolate bar and ordered every piece of chocolate they had.
Life is good.
I?ve been without the ability to ?withdraw? cash from an ATM machine for over a week now. Luckily, I have my Norwegian debit card which I use in emergency situations whenever I get very low on cash and my primary debit card protests my abuse by refusing to exit the ATM machine.
Basically, my Norwegian debit card is only for emergency food purposes. So, it?s sort of like having a key to Alice in Wonderland?s Rabbit Hole.
I also have a normal debit card (Dominican) that I use day to day to pay my bills and withdraw cash in order to feed my stomach ridiculous amounts of fried rice and chocolate. This card keeps me in check. This card keeps me from going crazy whenever I get the urge to free-fall into a river of Chocolate fondue like Augustus Gloop (See Willy Wonka).
I use this primary debit card to budget how much I eat and drink every day; I usually hit my ceiling threshold on my primary debit card sometime around 2pm in the afternoon. After 2pm, I basically starve myself for the rest of the day. Basically, for all intent and purposes, this card keeps me skinny. This card is like having a nagging wife around so that whenever I get the urge to go out and splurge, the card says to me, ?Calm the **** down!?
So, last week sometime, I hit my ceiling threshold for the month of November on my primary debit card after I ate enough chocolate to kick-start Willy Wonka?s Chocolate factory back into production. After that happened, my primary card basically told me, ?Stay home and shut the **** up!?
Well, I wasn?t hearing any of it. I hate listening to reason. But I hate listening to reason even more when they put restrictions on my "See-food" diet. I tried for a couple days to stay home and eat light and healthy. I tried to survive on salads. I tried to survive on nuts and seeds. I also tried to stay within my chocolate budget. But then my alter-ego woke up and said, ?**** this, you need meat! You need Sushi! You need dark chocolate mousse...you need a lot of dark chocolate mousse right ****ing now!?
I normally try and tune-out this alter-ego, because, first, he is a glutton for punishment. He is the devil incarnate. He does whatever he wants and gets me into trouble. Big trouble! Whenever he wakes up, he tells me things like, ?Go out and eat something. Do something crazy. Go **** something. Get wild! Get crazy! Do something crazy that?s lands you in jail for the evening.?
?But then, my other alter-ego springs up on my other shoulder?she has a stack of halos above her head; they're stacked up on top of each other like pancakes. She is always dressed in white chiffon and resembles a drag queen. She always reasons with me. She gives me a reality check. She will say things like, ?Don?t go out and projectile vomit onto small mammals and infants. Don?t go to the Russian brothel and lock yourself in a room for three days. Don?t do something you will regret. Don?t be a dickhead!?
I think everyone has these alter-egos that are constantly jostling for power and influence over their host. They're like a virus; they're with you for life. Everyone has a Devil and Saint inside them pulling them this way and that way. It?s like a tug of war on some days. Some days you listen to the Devil, and some days you listen to the Saint. Some days the Devil wins, and some days the Saint wins. The problem is that it?s so much more fun listening to the Devil. The trouble starts when the Devil sits on my shoulder for several days and camps out. Basically, he brings his sleeping bag with him and just camps out near me right ear.
Whenever this happens, the **** hits the fan and I get a certain look in my eye that even the Redhead and monkey recognize. Basically, I go into a Devil-induced trance. It?s a lot like being on LSD, only the ride is much more wild and crazy. There is no getting off the ride until it either comes to a full stop or I land in jail?whichever comes first.
So, there I was, sitting in my office at the Chocolate Bar a few days ago, trying to behave myself. I had no money. I had no access to money. My primary debit card had hit its limit and refused my advances. My Norwegian debit card was also protesting as well. Basically, I was forced to behave myself. And then, suddenly, a Norwegian man walked past me with an infant in his hand and I started yelling at him to stop. (I can recognize a Norwegian from a 100 yards away by their mannerism and nuances...and oh yeah...by the smell of fish that radiates from their pores)
He didn?t stop. Which meant that I was forced to leave my ice-coffee behind and chase after him. Now normally, I would never do this. This is sacrilege for me to leave ice-coffee behind, but this was a matter of life and death. I ran to catch up to him. He was walking very fast. When I finally caught up to him, I was ready to both vomit and have a coronary. Finally, after catching my breath, I said, ?Excuse me, are you Norwegian??
I was out of breath and could barely speak. I could see he didn?t understand a single word of what I was saying to him. So I repeated it in Norwegian. I said,
?Unnskyld meg, er du Norsk??
?Ja.?
?Snakke du Engelsk??
?Ja.?
?Cool. I need a big favor.?
He took a step back and shielded his infant son's eyes from my dry heaves and spit, ?Hva er det??
?I have a Norwegian debit card that refuses to cooperate with me. It refuses to listen to logic, and will not disperse any Money to me. I?ve tried reasoning with it. I tried sweet talking it. I?ve tried bargaining with it. But it refuses to take any money out. Basically, this card is a female.?
?What do you want me to do??
?Can I transfer some money from my Norwegian account into your Norwegian account, and after the money has cleared, could you give me the money?it?s for medicinal purposes. Basically, it?s a medical emergency!?
?What kind of medical emergency??
?I suffer from a Theobromine deficiency.?
?Huh??
?It's a chemical found in dark chocolate."
"Really?"
"Look, there are several reasons why people need dark chocolate in their lives, besides having a pulse.?
?Like??
?Like Cocoa reduces memory loss. It reduces stress, acts as a natural sunscreen, prevents diarrhea, makes you smarter, cures chronic coughing, cures high-blood pressure, improves your sex drive, prevents cheating on ones taxes, and cures penile erection issues! Oh yeah?chocolate also makes you sexy?can I get a hallelujah!??
?Uh-huh.?
He wasn?t impressed.
I studied this Norwegian guy. He was very skeptical. I could tell that much, but he was also open-minded. That was a good a sign as any that he understood logic. Now, any smart person would refuse to do this kind of favor. I would refuse to do this. I?m not going to go to any ATM machine and withdraw a bunch of money and give it to a stranger that I have never seen or met before. But Norwegians are trusting people. The next day he called me and said, ?I got your money!?
?Really?! I was shocked! ?OK, I?ll be right there!? I told him.
I was in Sosua. I did 300km from Sosua to Cabarete in like 1.5 minutes. My motorcycle never touched the ground. If you were one of the cars I passed a couple days ago, I want to apologize. All you would have seen is an orange blur passing you at the speed of sound. By the time you heard me, I would have already passed you and been a kilometer down the street, all you would have heard was the Doppler effect of my exhaust passing you.
When I got to Cabarete, I had pretty much traveled back in time. I was actually younger then when I had left Sosua. True story. If I could afford to do this every single day, I would not age. I would get younger and younger while people around me got older and older. (See Einstein?s Theory of Relativity).
When I got the money from him, I immediately went to the sushi restaurant and ordered everything on the menu. I ordered 1 thru 25 and then I proceeded to projectile vomited on everyone. After I finished that, I went to the chocolate bar and ordered every piece of chocolate they had.
Life is good.
I have the video
I got the video from the sushi place - got to love my Chinese cousin - he can hack anything, anywhere!!
Frank U can't hide - we're watching U!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aczPDGC3f8U
I got the video from the sushi place - got to love my Chinese cousin - he can hack anything, anywhere!!
Frank U can't hide - we're watching U!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aczPDGC3f8U
Chapter 303 (Some people, you just can't reach)
Every once and a while, a tropical fever hits a stray tourist or expat that has visited the island and they are overcome with an over-whelming desire to open a bar or restaurant. It’s a fever so grand in scale, so over-whelming in nature, that when it infects its host, it infects every cell in their body and they are succumbed to illusions of grandeur, wealth and success.
The fever has been compared to both Malaria and Dengue Fever. There is no known cure, no anti-virus, and no amount of reasoning or logic seems successful in swaying or persuading its host to reconsider their decision to open yet, another restaurant or bar on an island completely saturated with them.
Unfortunately, every now and then, the restaurant/bar insanity needs revisiting for its absolute sheer depth of madness and insanity it inspires in unsuspecting individuals infected with the virus. And, yes, it is a virus. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Once infected, no amount of logic or reasoning can persuade the host to give up their dream to open a bar or restaurant.
The urge to open a restaurant or bar is unlike any virus known to mankind. But down here in the Caribbean, it takes on a whole new level of euphoria related Reefer Madness and Mad Cow Disease. Down here, the virus mutates, and like all mutations, no amount of medicine or reasoning seems capable of eliminating the disease.
If I had one dollar for every time I’ve told someone to please refrain from the insanity of opening another restaurant or bar, I would be a millionaire right now, and hence, I would not be writing this insanity right now. If I had one dollar every time I’ve told someone to please re-consider throwing your hard-earned money into an open pit of debauchery and madness, I would be a double millionaire…in which case, my secretary would be writing this for me and i would be sitting on the beach sipping Pina Colodas out of pine apples. Alas, I have no monies, so I must ring the sirens of danger and warn people to please do not wade into dangerous waters and risk being caught by the undertow.
Unfortunately, people are remarkable in their capacity to deceive themselves. And no one is better at deceiving oneself better then me. I’m a professional. True professional in every way. I am the reigning king. I am the mother of all self-deceivers. It took years to learn. All this means is this: I’m good at dispensing advice, but not so good in heeding it. I’ve thrown a lot of hard earned money at things on this planet with the only thing to show for it is several cases of gonorrhea and chlamydia.
But I digress. Today, we’re going to talk about restaurants and bars in the DR.
It seems that no matter how many times I tell people, “Please, please, for the love of everything holey, do not touch the hot stove of the restaurant/bar business in the Caribbean. Don’t do it!”
People do not listen. People cannot listen. And let’s be honest here for just a second, some people you simply cannot reach. Ask Cool Hand Luke.
People are not stupid, however. They really do want to hear all about what is wrong with the restaurant/bar business in the Caribbean. Smart people want to be talked out of it. Smart people want information. The irony is that most people really do know better. But there are forces here greater then reason. There are forces here greater than logic. There are forces at work here that align the stars and moon in such a way that make people follow their heart and not their reason. And again, i'm a professional at this, which is why no one has caught more venereal diseases than me.
Instead of heeding my warnings about “Do not touch the Hot Stove (metaphor for the volatility of the restaurant/bar business), people will instead walk over to the Hot Stove and lay their dicks on top of the scorching hot burners where their dick's get stuck and blister up to the size of watermelons. Some people insist on sticking their entire head inside the gas stove and lighting a match inside just to check out how Hot the oven really is.
Which leads me to my case and point…
Last weekend, a retired banker—who just happens to have recently retired from the Department of Defense—asked me and Big Frank (we were sitting together watching football at the bar), “So, I was thinking of buying and opening a restaurant on the north coast…and I was wondering what you guys think of this?”
I spun my head around 360 degrees like Linda Blair in the Exorcist and projectile vomited directly into his mouth. I let out a long stream of green profanity so vile, so off the charts, that I left him in shock with his mouth open...which i vomited a chicken quesadilla & guacamole into. What else could I do? What would you do? I screamed, “Are you ****ing insane, George? Look around the beach, man, the North Coast is completely saturated with restaurants and bars right now. Almost all of them are for sale. We need another restaurant or bar like we need another case of venereal disease!”
Big Frank rolled his eyes into the back of his head and called upon the Irish coffee spirits to speak. He asked, “Did you see something missing on the North Coast, George? Do you see something lacking here in the market? Where exactly were you thinking of buying this restaurant/bar?”
“I can get a killer deal on a building on highway 5, at the entrance of El Choco. It used to be several other restaurants in the past. Alas, none worked.”
“And just why exactly do you think it’s going to work this time, George?”
“I don’t know. To be honest, nothing has ever worked in that location.”
“And why do you think that is, George?”
“I don’t know…not run right. Not offering the right food. Too expensive. Bad management. It could be a number of things.”
“George, George, George…listen to me: look around the ****ing beach. What do you see, man? There are lots of places run right. There are lots of places offering good food. There are lots of places nearly giving Happy Hour drinks away for free. Everyone is just barely holding on here. The only place really making on the north coast is Papi’s and Gorditos. Everyone else are just getting by...just paying the rent. Yes, most people are paying their bills, but no one here is getting rich. If anyone was getting rich, they would not be trying to sell their business, now would they? They would not be looking for partners, would they?
When you make money, you do not look for partners. You do not sell a cash cow. Ever.”
To be continued…
Every once and a while, a tropical fever hits a stray tourist or expat that has visited the island and they are overcome with an over-whelming desire to open a bar or restaurant. It’s a fever so grand in scale, so over-whelming in nature, that when it infects its host, it infects every cell in their body and they are succumbed to illusions of grandeur, wealth and success.
The fever has been compared to both Malaria and Dengue Fever. There is no known cure, no anti-virus, and no amount of reasoning or logic seems successful in swaying or persuading its host to reconsider their decision to open yet, another restaurant or bar on an island completely saturated with them.
Unfortunately, every now and then, the restaurant/bar insanity needs revisiting for its absolute sheer depth of madness and insanity it inspires in unsuspecting individuals infected with the virus. And, yes, it is a virus. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Once infected, no amount of logic or reasoning can persuade the host to give up their dream to open a bar or restaurant.
The urge to open a restaurant or bar is unlike any virus known to mankind. But down here in the Caribbean, it takes on a whole new level of euphoria related Reefer Madness and Mad Cow Disease. Down here, the virus mutates, and like all mutations, no amount of medicine or reasoning seems capable of eliminating the disease.
If I had one dollar for every time I’ve told someone to please refrain from the insanity of opening another restaurant or bar, I would be a millionaire right now, and hence, I would not be writing this insanity right now. If I had one dollar every time I’ve told someone to please re-consider throwing your hard-earned money into an open pit of debauchery and madness, I would be a double millionaire…in which case, my secretary would be writing this for me and i would be sitting on the beach sipping Pina Colodas out of pine apples. Alas, I have no monies, so I must ring the sirens of danger and warn people to please do not wade into dangerous waters and risk being caught by the undertow.
Unfortunately, people are remarkable in their capacity to deceive themselves. And no one is better at deceiving oneself better then me. I’m a professional. True professional in every way. I am the reigning king. I am the mother of all self-deceivers. It took years to learn. All this means is this: I’m good at dispensing advice, but not so good in heeding it. I’ve thrown a lot of hard earned money at things on this planet with the only thing to show for it is several cases of gonorrhea and chlamydia.
But I digress. Today, we’re going to talk about restaurants and bars in the DR.
It seems that no matter how many times I tell people, “Please, please, for the love of everything holey, do not touch the hot stove of the restaurant/bar business in the Caribbean. Don’t do it!”
People do not listen. People cannot listen. And let’s be honest here for just a second, some people you simply cannot reach. Ask Cool Hand Luke.
People are not stupid, however. They really do want to hear all about what is wrong with the restaurant/bar business in the Caribbean. Smart people want to be talked out of it. Smart people want information. The irony is that most people really do know better. But there are forces here greater then reason. There are forces here greater than logic. There are forces at work here that align the stars and moon in such a way that make people follow their heart and not their reason. And again, i'm a professional at this, which is why no one has caught more venereal diseases than me.
Instead of heeding my warnings about “Do not touch the Hot Stove (metaphor for the volatility of the restaurant/bar business), people will instead walk over to the Hot Stove and lay their dicks on top of the scorching hot burners where their dick's get stuck and blister up to the size of watermelons. Some people insist on sticking their entire head inside the gas stove and lighting a match inside just to check out how Hot the oven really is.
Which leads me to my case and point…
Last weekend, a retired banker—who just happens to have recently retired from the Department of Defense—asked me and Big Frank (we were sitting together watching football at the bar), “So, I was thinking of buying and opening a restaurant on the north coast…and I was wondering what you guys think of this?”
I spun my head around 360 degrees like Linda Blair in the Exorcist and projectile vomited directly into his mouth. I let out a long stream of green profanity so vile, so off the charts, that I left him in shock with his mouth open...which i vomited a chicken quesadilla & guacamole into. What else could I do? What would you do? I screamed, “Are you ****ing insane, George? Look around the beach, man, the North Coast is completely saturated with restaurants and bars right now. Almost all of them are for sale. We need another restaurant or bar like we need another case of venereal disease!”
Big Frank rolled his eyes into the back of his head and called upon the Irish coffee spirits to speak. He asked, “Did you see something missing on the North Coast, George? Do you see something lacking here in the market? Where exactly were you thinking of buying this restaurant/bar?”
“I can get a killer deal on a building on highway 5, at the entrance of El Choco. It used to be several other restaurants in the past. Alas, none worked.”
“And just why exactly do you think it’s going to work this time, George?”
“I don’t know. To be honest, nothing has ever worked in that location.”
“And why do you think that is, George?”
“I don’t know…not run right. Not offering the right food. Too expensive. Bad management. It could be a number of things.”
“George, George, George…listen to me: look around the ****ing beach. What do you see, man? There are lots of places run right. There are lots of places offering good food. There are lots of places nearly giving Happy Hour drinks away for free. Everyone is just barely holding on here. The only place really making on the north coast is Papi’s and Gorditos. Everyone else are just getting by...just paying the rent. Yes, most people are paying their bills, but no one here is getting rich. If anyone was getting rich, they would not be trying to sell their business, now would they? They would not be looking for partners, would they?
When you make money, you do not look for partners. You do not sell a cash cow. Ever.”
To be continued…
Perfect description of weekly encounters we have with tourists. Our favorite is "I have $50k and want to buy a bar/restaurant on the beach with an attached villa with a heated pool, do you know of any like this for sale?" They always bring me back to Herman Wouk's timeless cautionary tale "Don't stop the carnival"