|
I was so distraught after my cousin Juan was taken into custody by U.S.
authorities I didn't know what to do. I mean I just stood there and
watched while the Coast Guard picked him up and didn't even say a word.
Well, that's not entirely true. If I recall, I did shake my head and
say, "What makes these poor people risk such an arduous journey?" The
whole time, Cindy Crawford was hopping around on deck, screaming at the
Coast Guard and telling me to do something. Since that time, I managed
to get several packages into the compound, but I couldn't be certain
that Juan even got them and before long, the guards got tired of making
jokes about me and told me to get lost. The worst part is, Cindy
Crawford, Juan's one-time almost-fiance won't speak to me, and that
really makes me feel bad, because I was sort of hoping to score now that
Juan's out of the picture.
But, I digress. I was so broken up about it that all I could do was roam up and down Miami Beach. Girls would pass by me wearing skimpy bikinis and I couldn't even muster up the energy to hit on them -- well, more than once or twice. But then one day, while walking along the beach, I saw what looked like an old wine bottle bobbing up and down in the surf. I rushed over and picked it up and couldn't believe my eyes when I pulled the cork and dumped the contents onto the sand. There, written in charcoal in Juan's own handwriting was the following Journal. Many of the pages were soiled and none of the entries were dated, but there is no doubt in my mind that he authored every one. Well, except for the large "Fidel Sucks!" poster it was all wrapped in. I'm not so sure about that. Now, from behind barbed wire and hundreds of miles from home base, is the report of Juan Bootsie: -- During my first day of captivity, I approached some of the guards and attempted that Robert Redford trick from Brubaker, saying I was actually the warden. Unfortunately, they'd all seen the film the night before and I was viciously taunted. -- First airlift: Cousin Armando charted a helicopter and flew several times over the compound. While he did not risk setting down in the midst of the camp, he managed to drop a large package loaded with Brut Cologne and hairspray intended for me. Unfortunately, other detainees intercepted it, and upon opening it and discovering the contents, rioting ensued. -- Using his power and influence to gain entry, Richard Gere, disguised as a Marine colonel, paid me a visit and repeatedly waved a picture of Cindy Crawford in my face while making kissing sounds. I put up with it for as long as I could, then retaliated by using the two words he absolutely cannot bear to hear: "King David!" He slinked away, a broken man. -- Second airlift succeeds in getting to me. Upon opening it, I discover that instead of the requested nachos and french fries, the box is full of feminine hygiene products. Rioting ensues. -- Third airlift largely ignored by the other detainees as they've seen the contents of the other two. I open it to discover it's mainly 70s disco clothing compliments of Cousin Armando. That night me and several of the other detainees stage a live version of Saturday Night Fever. While everyone else is distracted, I slip into a pair of 12-foot-high platform shoes and attempt to escape by stepping over the barbed wire fence. My attempt is thwarted, however, when the hem of the bell- bottoms I'm wearing gets snagged on the wire and I end up dangling upside down while waiting for the guards to cut me loose. While hanging there, enduring the taunts of both the guards and the other detainees, I make a mental note to burn every 70s John Travolta movie I own. -- My father once told me about how, sometime back in the 50s, he loaned a large sum of money to a young Cuban trying to make it as an extra in Hollyweird. That Cuban: Fidel Castro, though at the time he was using the stage name Nicky. I decided to play my trump card and snuck a note out via a South American journalist to Fidel himself, asking him to return the favor. As an added incentive, I mentioned I had a case of Brut Cologne, said to be a particular fav of Fidel. Several hours later a convoy of Cuban soldiers arrived just outside the compound. A single individual, who oddly enough looked to me like a much aged Lee Harvey Oswald, approached the fence and told me, "Fidel says send the Brut, we'll talk." Well, I'm a lot smarter than that and I told him, "Half now and I'll deliver the other half." The man considered it, then nodded. Later that day, I received a large photo of Fidel, suitable for framing, which I promptly cut the eyes out of and used to entertain the other detainees by going around wearing it as a mask and sentencing them to work in the sugar cane fields. We later put it onto a straw man and used it to hassle the guards. So far, I've received no other response, though word has filtered back to me that since then, Fidel has been making the rounds of the casinos sporting a mean pompadour. -- Fourth airlift. Apparently, Armando's money has run out as he's stopped using aircraft and has started lobbing the packages over the barbed wire with a catapult. For awhile, the Marine guards seem bemused, then mocking, but finally aim their rifles and suggest that perhaps it's time for Armando to move on. I haven't seen him move that fast since he auditioned for Sabado Gigante in the '80s. -- I'm starting to feel a little like Q on that episode of Star Trek TNG where he loses all his powers. Suddenly all my enemies are coming out of the woodwork to taunt me and exact vengeance. Madonna has showed up, as has John Tesh and Maria Shriver and just the other day a psychic showed up claiming to be channeling River Phoenix and Kurt Cobain, who I didn't even know, but word filtered back to me that he was miffed over a review I did on his wife's band about five years ago. Normally I don't worry about retribution from "beyond the grave" but this particular psychic was about 700 pounds and really meant business. Fortunately, Armando was still skulking around outside the compound and he managed to scare her off. Of course, most of those there to gawk and make disparaging remarks couldn't get in the compound -- though I saw Shriver interviewing people right at the barbed wire and upon seeing me, she mouthed several obscenities -- but just knowing they're out there, watching me, making my life a Hell on Earth is enough. A lesser man would have committed hari kari by now, but not Juan Bootsie. It takes more than a few flustered celebrities to bring me down. I must say, though, that Madonna, waving around a picture of Cindy sitting all alone at the MTV Awards comes close to deflating the old life raft, but not quite. But, finally, Madonna sees this particularly burly Marine guard standing nearby, so needless to say that's the last I saw of her. -- Ultimately, I realize that none of the "official channels" will work. There's still no word from Fidel and now a number of the other detainees have dipped into the remaining Brut supply, so that's there's not much left to bargain with. I know now that the only thing that will get me out of here is a bold stoke! Some sort of definitive act. Unfortunately, that also means I'll have to rely on my cousin -- but other than that, my plan should work. At this point, the notes ended. There was another folded up piece of paper inside, but I accidently dropped it into the water and it disintegrated. I only hope it wasn't something important. Free Juan Bootsie!!! Armando Espinosa |