Dirty Sanchez Smokes Much Ganja, Drinks Many Red Stripes

Written by Dirty Sanchez on . Posted in Posts.


Supertanned Sanchez types this to you mere hours after landing at JFK, home from a jaunt to JamaicaWeakhearted Sanchez had to sit and calm himself down from a false-alarm encounter with U.S. Customs before attending to his column. For before Sanchez and his Gang of Burnt Whiteys could exit to the baggage claim, they and the rest of the passengers were lined up single file down a long hallway, and ordered to drop their carry-ons on the floor beside them. At the end of the hallway a door opened, and a tiny beagle on a leash dragged his customs-cop leash-bearer down the hall, sniffing and running around in circles. It was at this point that the droll Sister of Sanchez turned to Sanchez and whispered connivingly, “The Sister of Sanchez whispers connivingly that Sanchez needn’t worry, as she’s hid the weed in her cunt!” 


As she said this, dichotomous Sanchez wondered if he could shit his pants and burst into tears simultaneously—and every sniff the little beagle sniffed brought knowledge-seeking Sanchez closer to discovery! But hallelujah, the beagle detected no contraband substances! Quick-minded Sanchez tried to quip about the overpowering aroma of his Sister’s womanliness when the Sister of Sanchez revealed she was joking. “What a jape, what a jest, how jocose, what a knee-slapper, hisses pissed-off Sanchez,” pissed-off Sanchez hissed at his Sister while they waited in the taxi line. But his Sister, who had spent the past five days getting the living bejesus fucked out of her in the tropics, perhaps was still a little giddy on the endorphins and waved Sanchez’s rage away with a laugh.


Time-manipulating Sanchez invites the reader backward through his week, to the day that the Wiper, the Lumpy Lass, the Wookie, as well as Sanchez and his Sister, arrived at JFK, tickets in hand to find that Air Jamaica must be Latin for “how to fuck over unsuspecting vacationers by overbooking flights like they got a free burger at Wendy’s for every tourist screwed!” It was not only Sanchez and company, but at least 20 other people gathered around the same Buster Keaton-faced stewardess yelling at the top of their lungs that they didn’t find the free night at the JFK Radisson and a flight the next afternoon an appealing option! Humble Sanchez thanks the Powers That Be for the Wookie’s knowledge of airline scammery, acquired mostly through her job as an assistant to somebody in show business.


Noting that the Wiper had brought his beat-up Takamine acoustic guitar, the Wookie snapped the cell phone open, called the office and had a friend call up the airline and tell them that we were a band and that we had a planned recording session with Ziggy Marley that night. Axiom-slinging Sanchez says: It’s not who you know, it’s who you can get to fake like they work for somebody important! Moments after she hung up the cell phone, the door behind the check-in counter opened, and Buster Keaton reemerged with six boarding passes in her hand. Thankful Sanchez savored the sound of the unluckier ticket-bearers—most of them honeymooning couples aching to hump on the Caribbean sands—yelling and cursing at the Sanchez Gang as they ran toward the gate!


Sanchez was unsurprised to find himself in a middle seat between two sharp-elbowed bips. But always-prepared Sanchez had brought a copy of the new Motorbooty, and spent the three-hour flight enjoying Mark Dancey and Mike Rubin‘s followup piece to a very funny cartoon about the Insane Clown Posse that was published in Spin last year—one rife with the kind of cheap shots Sanchez loves, making fun of the stupid, the drunk, the musically derivative, the teenaged-and-prone-to-ludicrously-zealous-dedication set (not to mention the teenaged-and-prone-to-getting-too-drunk-and-puking-before-the-show-even-starts set). Of course, you could find these things to make fun of at absolutely any
event involving young people, popular music and the people who make it—but how much easier to twist the knife when it involves whitey! Ha ha, whitey, getting drunk and listening to bad music! Phooey to you, whitey, not even cool enough to know how to hate one’s own whiteness!


The followup cartoon backpedals furiously, describing the Internet and voicemail harassment hurled at Dancey and Rubin, then segues into a history of violence against critics—pleading Sanchez really wants a poster-sized blowup of the panel depicting Chuck Eddy getting icewater-attacked by the Beastie Boys, Christgau receiving an envelope full of cum in the mail or Tricky kicking the shit out of English journalist Craig McLean while a Tricky-flunky holds the poor writer down. At the end of the piece, Dancey and Rubin take credit for I.C.P. member Violent J‘s nervous breakdown—applauding Sanchez can only say: Whoo-hoo for you, victorious hipsters!


Earlier in the magazine, an article by the same self-loathing duo shows parody collectors’-cards for white rappers like Fred Durst, Vanilla Ice and the Chicago Bears. Later in the magazine, a page entitled “Great Bad Asses in American Popular Music” depicts black singer Johnny Ace, who “blew his dome off” in 1954. That feature ends with the line, “Ace was 25 and beautiful.”


And so the Sanchez Gang landed in Jamaica, and boarded a minibus bound for Negril—which, though being perhaps the most evil tourist town on Earth, sports a helluva sunset. The driver stopped near a town called Lucea and for 50 bucks U.S. got the Gang a stalk of marijuana bigger than the business end of a broom. Later in the holiday Sanchez found out they were still probably taken for 30 bucks. But even the cold heart of Sanchez was gladdened by the shriek of delight the Wookie, the Wiper, and his Sister made when they first saw the thing!


The Lumpy Lass—thoughtful as she was—pooled the party’s money, getting herself a room at fenced-in fratboy playground Hedonism II and setting up the rest of us in a shack at a place called Roots Bamboo. The Lass’ plan was that we all take advantage of her guesthood at Hedonism, crash the party and enjoy the free drinks. This turned out to mean bribing the security guards at the side fence, something within the Wiper’s means but certainly beyond those of Sanchez.


Anyway, the Sister of Sanchez wrangled her way in and made a beeline for the nude beach, and upon returning reported having seen so many very ugly penises and saggy boobs she may have to start taking antidepressants to forget those five minutes of her life.


Back down at Roots Bamboo—which was booked solid; thinking herself a genius for booking the vacation for the off-season, the Lumpy Lass had in fact selected Memorial Day weekend—lots were drawn and bunks selected. The Sister of Sanchez slept alone, while the Wookie and Sanchez shared a measly twin bed. The best part for Sanchez was when, in the middle of the night, he would inadvertently shift toward the Wookie and she would scoot away, seemingly disgusted by the thought of the tiniest bit of Sanchez’s flab touching her! Relieved Sanchez is greatly comforted by the knowledge that there’s a girl in the world more repulsed by Sanchez than Sanchez himself!


The next morning Sanchez was accosted by the owner of a glass boat, a man calling himself The Famous Rackliff. The Famous Rackliff had two Nike swooshes—they looked like a yin/yang of fishhooks—shaved into the back of his head, and vended eager Sanchez a baggie of yellow cocaine for too much money, smiling the entire time, a very weirdly genuine smile. Supersucker Sanchez very much enjoyed the Jamaican mode of negotiation, which goes something like this: “How much for X?” And the Famous Rackliff would reply, “How much yuh t’ink it worth?” So it went with every other hustler Sanchez and the girls flanking him (the Wiper daily paid the do-re-mi to the Hedonism staff and pretty much
stayed there; Sanchez, not hearing the squeaky throat noise the Wiper makes when pushing the cushion of the Lumpy Lass, was strangely unnerved for the lack of its comforting wheeze).


By the third day of the vacation, the Wookie’s sunburned nipples caused her to be constantly on the verge of tears. The ass of the Sister of Sanchez, meanwhile, became near-legendary on the beach—every third hustler asked perturbed Sanchez “Where yuh sista, mon? Where yuh sista?”


Superstoned Sanchez kept doing the yellow lines with the Wookie, and when finally the charlie was gone Sanchez went down to the beach to scare up some more—ending up paying 30 bucks for a bag of baking soda! The best part of that fiasco was that when shamed Sanchez shuffled back to the Famous Rackliff for more of his yellow wares, Rackliff became enraged upon hearing that Sanchez had allowed himself to get hustled. “Why yuh must do that, mon?” Rackliff barked. “I got me pickney to feed! A child! You do that one more time and we nuh friends no more!” 

 

Unsavvy Sanchez couldn’t find a better hook-up (the most information Sanchez could squeeze from the barmaid about the dealers around was, “Him work here,” or “Him nuh work here”). So he took up the Famous Rackliff’s offer of friendship, rented a scooter and spent the remaining few days blazingly fucked up, scootering up and down Norman Manley Blvd., the two-lane country road that comprises Negril.


The last night of his stay, party-minded Sanchez drank a lot of rum and ambled toward his scooter. It was when drunken Sanchez was fighting a comical battle with the kickstand that two hustler-type-guys came up on either side of him, pulling him away from the bike. “No, mon,” the one with the gold teeth said, “you nuh need to go to hospital on yuh vacation. Tomorrow you can ride. Tonight you nuh need get fucked up.” They persuaded Sanchez to pay them 500 Jamaican dollars—something like 20 bucks?—to share a ride with three acned Swedish girls down to a place where a punch-the-clock Bob Marley cover band played the same batch of Bob songs played by every cover band that night on the beach in Negril.


Usually unsentimental Sanchez almost sort of danced even, and when the hustler-fellows who saved drunk Sanchez from death on the road asked him insistently to buy them Red Stripes, he did. The Heart of Sanchez was free! Sanchez was drunk enough to dance publicly to rote executions of Bob Marley numbers! Ecstatic Sanchez boogied with one of the Swedish girls, who was 25 but so small it made skanking Sanchez feel like changing his name to Jah Humbert.


Finally Sanchez stumbled out to the road, where a guy in a Honda Accord emblazoned with King across the windshield offered Sanchez a ride.


“How much to Roots Bamboo?” Sanchez asked.


“How much you t’ink you pay?” the cabby answered.


NEXT WEEK:
Valiant Sanchez defeats

the forces of darkness!

..