Sunday, May 2, 2010

Life Ate Us: Latin American Edition

Forty-three days later...

Blogging is hard. And life is insane. The bitches would like to formally apologize for their absence. Although they are indeed self-proclaimed inactive douchebags, B and W have had, to their credit, a tumultuous last couple of months. And one unfortunate adventure in particular. Here is an edited version of the shit you missed, so we can all move on with our lives. Okay? Okay.
  • B endures a national media meltdown at her job. W is charged with writing nearly an entire magazine in the matter of weeks.
  • After many a sleepless nights spent slaving for work, the time for B and W's highly-anticipated and highly-deserved tropical vacation has come.
  • B realizes the bitches' destination-of-choice requires a travel visa to enter the country. And they depart in less than a week. Have they applied for one? Please.
  • By the grace of baby Jebuz in a t-shirt tuxedo, the visas make it in time, and B and W fly 4,800 miles to an unnamed South American country... only to then get caught in the worst storm the country has seen in half a century.
  • After unsurprisingly losing their travel guide book on the plane, hence causing B (the consummate planner) to suffer a minor heart attack, W (the indelible spazz) butters up a stranger in their hostel to let them borrow his. Stranger K turns out to be a perfectly lovely travel companion, albeit slightly man-whoreish... and with the emotional outpouring of a '90s teen pop star.
  • During a night out at the local bars, K drunkenly professes his lust for B. Then accidentally admits to having an 18-year-old daughter. Ouch. Mayyybe a dealbreaker.
  • Also that night, W is held bar-hostage by an overtly aggressive (code word for Latin) native. The more she asserts "tranquilo," the harder he combats "no tranquilo!!" In an effort to later escape from Horny Boy Wonder, B and W practically leap from a moving taxi into the monsoon rain and run for the hostel. Flip-flops in hand, they barrel through the floods when suddenly B steps off a curb of ankle-deep water into -- oh yes -- knee-deep water. As she pauses to drop her head in defeat, none other than an enormous commercial truck drives by, arching water over her entire body.
  • B and W realize they have no need for said travel guide book, because the city is in fact paralyzed by the floods. Rather than hang gliding and hiking to waterfalls as originally planned, B and W die a slow death of 90210 reruns, various cheerleader movies and made-for-TV Cruel Intentions sequels.
  • The bitches spend the remainder of their trip drowning their sorrows in fried cheese balls, hot ham sandwiches and a plethora of calorie-coma-inducing juices (sadly the highlight of the week).
  • The sun miraculously appears on the eighth, and final, day of their vacation. B and W flee the confines of their hostel and hope to make up for lost laying-out time, which naturally inflicts multiple-degree damage on the entirety of their sad, American skin.
  • Later that night when walking through the airport at a robotic gait, as to minimize the movement of her sunburn, W feels a wave of dizziness creep on. She enters the international security line and lumbers past the metal detectors in a style only similar to that of Will Ferrell palming the kid in Old School. She sees a bench. She sees a trash can. She projectile vomits all over said bench and trash can.
  • B and W power through a miserable overnight flight, complete with torturous vacation-themed movies (read: Couples Retreat) and a lack of sleep (read: inability to move their blistering limbs). But ultimately they arrive safely back in New York.
Life. To be continued.