Costa Rica, Part 2

And now...

The rest of the story.

You may have noticed that the ending of the Costa Rica story, the night I spent at the Del Rey Hotel/Casino/Whorehouse, was a bit vague. Reason being that shortly after my return, Renee- who I'd all but cut off my ear to be with- did a 180 and said she was ready to make a serious run.

Now Renee isn't under any false illusion of my previous hedonism. In fact most of the time she's downright amused and will come back with a few sweet stories of her own but I still didn't know if being a week off a Costa Rican whore binge might taint the deck enough to blow me out of the deal.

So I left it vague and we went on madly in love.

I can't quite remember what number beer made me throw it out there last night at O'Brien's in Santa Monica, maybe five or eight but nowhere near the last.

"I left part of the Costa Rica story out, you know."

"Really? Tell me."

"Uh.." and I get that stupid grin on my face, "the details about the night in the whorehouse."

"Well, no kidding." she smiles. "I mean, c'mon. I just assumed."

"I fucked four of em in six hours."

"Really???"

She's wildly amused and can't understand why I'd think she'd be upset. I probably thought that because of every other girl I have ever dated, married, met, seen, heard or read about or seen crudely sketched on an truck stop toilet wall. That's why.

She'd asked me earlier if I'd consider it cheating if she had sex with another woman. I wanted to wait a dumbstruck beat and then silently leap out of the moving vehicle for comedic effect. Said she'd like to find another woman for both of us, asked if I ever meet any hot, smart chicks that would be into it. I tell her she'd probably do a better job picking. Now she's enthralled in my tales of Costa Rican whores. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction and I sit there full of beer and secretly probe my body for any signs of cancer.

So here - at the prodding of my beautiful Renee - is the rest of the story.

Costa Rican Whores

Anyone who says America is the greatest country in the world has never seen the work ethic of a Costa Rican whore. These girls are all customer service oriented and glad as hell to be there.

I wandered around the Del Rey Hotel on the last day of my Costa Rica trip just knowing it was only a matter of time. Problem was that with this many prostitutes, how do you choose? Like when you go to a tittie bar and ask "If you could fuck anyone of these girls, which one would you poon?" Only here you can. I'd asked a few of the guys hanging around at the bar what the rates were and it seemed to run anywhere from 50-100 dollars depending on the girl. Some of the rough ones even less, but at those prices why would you even bother with the rough ones?

There are between 40 and 80 girls working the place at any given time but there's one in particular I'm watching for. I'd been playing roulette the night before when this really American-looking blonde sat down and started working me in bad English. She was a bit Madonna looking with pink shades on and cute as fuck. I'm being real cool and I put a huge stack of chips on 23.

"Why 23?" she asks.

"You're 23 aren't you?" I'm guessing.

"Yes, I am 23" she tells me a half-second before the dealer yells out "23!".

I shrug and try to look bored as they slide what looks like a years pay in chips over to me. I move the stack from 23 to 00 and keep staring her in the eye as though I know something and I don't flinch when the dealer yells "Double Zero!".

I told them to cash me out and the girl is wide-eyed, asking me if I want to go up to my room. I told her I don't have a room and that I am with friends but I'd be back the next night. At that point I just wanted to get out while I still looked really fucking cool.

So now I am back and playing roulette again and I'm scouting the place for her quite a while before I spot her walking past. I catch her eye and when she appraoches me I grab another big stack of chips and say "23?" and set them on the number. She smiles and says that she'll be back in a minute. She turns and walks off and doesn't even here it when the dealer shouts "23!" Motherfucker. If she'd seen that she'd probably fuck me for free just thinking I'm a witch.

I wasted little time when she came back, striking a two-girl deal for 150 bucks. I shoulda picked the other girl myself rather than letting her bring her friend but I didn't want to be rude. Besides number 23 has already paid for the doings, may as well let her keep it in the family.

The deal at the hotel is that you have to pay a little under ten bucks to bring a girl to your room. They have thick-necked lackies at both the stairs and elevators to check the girls ID's and sign them in so you don't get fucked over. You can bring the same girl up again without paying but each different girl requires another 3,000 colones.

Once in the room it's all about pleasing the customer. No rush, no looking at the watch, asking you to hurry up and come. Fuck, they didn't even ask for the money up front, showered ahead of time and told me I had a really big dick like they meant it!

I didn't do anything weird, just smiled while they took turns blowing me and then pooned the Madonna chick, knowing she'd be earning her money what with a few drinks in me and a condom on, half a tab of Viagra soaring thru me. Yes they worked but never once acted like they'd rather be doing anything else. They washed up again afterwards. Even were happy to take pictures before they left.

Downstairs again I'm surprised at the lack of any hideous guilt feelings that you get when you fuck an American hooker. I hit the tables some more and run into a guy I'd met earlier at the bar. He was from Boston and had had four hookers the night before, his first night in town. I was glad I was ending my trip here and not starting it. This poor fuck was here for 16 days.

I drank for another while just taking it all in before I decided I was ready to hit another one. There was one who had been sitting in the corner of the bar with some 60 year old dude forever and I couldn't quite catch her eye but she looked hot in the shadows. A bit later I caught her near the entry to the bar and said hello. This one spoke almost zero English so I cut to the chase.

"60 dollars" I say, figuring that if she'd just had to tolerate some retired fertilizer distributor pounding one out on her in a cloud of Aqua Velva she'd be happy to take a low offer just to have someone without wrinkles on their back. I was right and she didn't even bother to haggle.

I made quick work of it and while she was hot with a nice set of fake tits, she wasn't quite so amused with me taking her picture as you can probably see in her face.

Now I am getting pretty liqoured up on the Pilsens and my shit-eating smile is hurting my face. I wander some more, running into girls I have turned down repeatedly with one lame excuse or another.

"Why you won't take me to your room?" they bust my balls, playfully.

"You don't understand - I've alreay had three tonite - I couldn't possibly."

Or could I?

There was another that I kept seeing, very young and always with the same group of girls that looked more like 21 year old girls on their first trip to Vegas than trench-warfare whores in a depressed economy.

This one I like especially cuz she had a lot of midriff showing, enough so that I could tell she hadn't had any young come out of her or, if so, then very small or stillborn. The other ones, while cute all had a bit of the mother gut and, with the exception of the one with the implants, tits that had one too many meal taken out of em.

I tell her 60 dollars, she tells me 80. Who's got time in life to fight over 20 dollars. She's signing in and I ask to make sure she has rubbers and she doesn't so the door flunkie tells me he has them for sale for 1,000 colones, about three bucks. I realize then that all my money is up in my safe and the girl puts up the money and smiles a cute, sideways smile.

She was very sweet, Colombian like the last one had been and seemed like she would have curled up and spent the night if she didn't have to go suck anybody's dick that asked her. Tough racket for a tender young girl, that whoring. Especially now after me dumping two loads and drinking half a cooler full of beer. I was pounding away like I was safety-checking her pelvic bone for structural damage and I could tell at some points by her face that it was getting a bit wearing on her pinker parts. I eeked out the last of the moisture in my body with an imaginary high-pitched cartoon ping and lay down exhausted.

At this point any American whore is half-dressed and checking to see if there's any way she can snag your wallet while you're fumbling for your jockey-boxers. Not these girls. She gets lotion out of the bathroom, rolls me on my stomach and gives me a massage, trying to make small talk with what little English she knows.

I forget to have her hold my CD's when I take her picture and it's the last of the film. Appropriate enough as I am about all out myself. I walk her to the door and she's embarrased when she asks me for the 1,000 colones for the rubber. I give her 2,000 because I have that kinda scratch.

I got 4 hours to sleep before my flight. I spent around 300 dollars and I feel like the red-dicked King of the World

A week later I'm at the airport in Salt Lake City airport waiting Renee to step off the plane, guts full of squirm. She says she's ready to go full time.We drove that Sunday down to Vegas for the Superbowl at Tommy Rocker's. My Patriots, a 14 point dog win in possibly the best Superbowl ever played. We stay a couple days after on a bit of a runner as one tends to do in Vegas. At some point in the haze she suggests, only half-jokingly that maybe we should get a hooker so she could watch me fuck her. We went to a tittie bar instead and while I watched her off in a couch getting lap dances, I quietly slipped my hand under my shirt and probed my torso for any signs of cancer.

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's day and I am in love. That Renee finally caved in after all these months and years of chasing her and it's about good Goddamned time. It's also nice to finally have a girlfriend that's not "good for me". I always get the "she's really good for you" girlfriends, which means they give you tons of shit for all your vices and dubious side work. This girl is horrible for me in all the right ways and will go down with me in flames when I go. There's a big difference between someone who accepts you for who you are and someone who actually understands who you are. This girl has all my demons and I am happy as pinworms in a black baby's stool.

The new CD should be ready on February 25th in time for Aspen and I think it might suck. I always hate my CD's and now I already hate this one. Who fucking knows. If you think it sucks I'll dump off the first run of 1,000 as a "collectors item" and record again in May with all the new fun war shit that was just getting going when I did the CD in October. Problem is finding 1,000 people who are into my shit. Hard to sell cd's to walkouts without putting the stage in front of the door.

Again, for you cheap fucks with lots of time - download my shit off Audio Galaxy. I recommended morpheus before but evidently it's not as good at finding my shit as it is great for porn.

In the upcoming Aspen Comedy Festival, I will be doing a show "Regarding 9-11" where the question of how 9-11 has effected comedy or the recurring "When will it be ok to do comedy again?" question will be widely discussed.

I put quite a bit of thought into that question. When will it be ok to do comedy again? The best answer I could come up with was this.

June 8th.

That's when it will be ok.

Considering in the five months since the attack, the death toll has fallen from 6,700 consistently down to now 2,800. I figure at that rate on or around June 8th no one will be dead anymore.

Then, let the jokes begin.

Even today when you consider the drop - 6,700 down to 2,800 - that's a difference of 3,900 people that are now undead. We have gained 1,100 more people than we lost. And they need jokes.

Why do death tolls always start high and go lower? Because the media is a pessimist? No, because death, if it doesn't directly effect you, is entertainment. The more dead, the more entertaining, the more papers it sells. No one rubbernecks at a car wreck to make sure everyone's 'ok'.

They even add death tolls where there aren't any. They'll say so many people died from a blizzard when they collapsed of a heart attack while shovelling snow. They didn't die from the blizzard, they died from cheese.

I remember the Olympic bombing in Atlanta where they claimed two people died when one of those people was a cameraman whose heart blew out while he was running toward the blast to exploit the person who actually died from the bomb.

And if people aren't directly effected they will always try to attach themselves to the tragedy. Everyone playing Six Degrees of Separation from 9-11.

"My sister's ex-fiance went to school with a guy who almost took a job at the World Trade Center and he could have been in there so that's not funny."

It's ok to do comedy now and it's been ok and comedy has actually occured all over the place - in barrooms and at kitchen tables and in break rooms and all over behind the backs of the people who are truely affected or would just get cunty about it. Just because it doesn't fall into a network slot between Friends and Leno doesn't mean it ain't comedy. It's ok for Leno to do comedy again when the Geico gecco tells him it is.

If you're gonna be in Vegas in March come to my birthday show - Tuesday, March 26th at 8pm until we all fall down at Tommy Rocker's.