The Soggy Peso, Isla Mujeres, Mexico

The bartender was wearing a Bruins hat. I stupidly said, "I like your hat." He replied, "Me too." Which is exactly what I would have said if some dumb ass tried to strike up a conversation with me about a fucking hat.

We stopped at the Soggy Peso on the way back from the beach. We’d heard more than one old person raving about The Soggy Peso. “The Soggy Peso! The Soggy Peso!” They love saying the fucking name. It was cool, I guess, they had alcohol, but too predictable—it looked a little bit too much like a bar on a beach. If a Disney script called for a "beach bar," they would likely model it after the Soggy Peso. Everyone really wanted it to be amazing—probably because everyone there was there only to buy a t-shirt that they could show off to their friends back home—they were concocting their memories before they even occurred. It was kind of annoying.

I fucking hate people.

And then it really was annoying: some lady stood up and demanded the attention of the entire bar. She announced her friend was in some band in Baton Rouge or something and that she is a “star.” “YOU ARE IN THE PRESENCE OF A STAR!” she bellowed. The singer feigned shyness for a minute, but that didn’t last long, and soon we were all forced to listen to her sing “Bobby McGee.” Nothing like being forced to listen to other people’s music, whether you like it or not. “This is my favorite song! Now it’s your favorite song too!” The star from Baton Rouge wasn’t bad, but she wasn’t good either. And of course she sang the whole fucking song so we all had to pretend to pay attention for about three minutes as she dragged out the ending. Na nana nana nana n-na! (The bartender recorded it on a phone and we had to listen to it again about an hour later on the stereo. Assholes.) 

Everyone is in this photo: the "star" is singing sitting down in back on the left. The bartender, in the green shirt, is standing over her recording her shitty Janice Joplin impersonation on his phone. The three retards are on the far left: closest is the dumb slut, to her left is the boat salesman, and to his left is his hog bitch girlfriend.

A fake spider hangs over the door to the bathroom operated by a string near the bar. “That would have freaked me out if you hadn’t told me about it earlier,” a woman said as she returned to her seat at the bar next to her female companion. An old man at the other end loudly bemoaned the Packers season. I read some hats on the walls: the Minnesota Monkeys love the bananas; a Flyers hat read, "Fuck the Rangers"; Kelly left her bride hat in 2011 and wrote "Kelly Kelly" on it; Gene and Toni from Austin abandoned their Mavericks hat on 07/04/11; and Henry and Robin left their "soggy love" on a Baltimore Ravens hat. And then there were the retards that sat down next to us. There were three of them: one dude, and two chicks. The dude sold boats in Virginia or some shit. Or worked for someone who sold boats. Because at first he made it sound like he was a wheeler and dealer in the boat industry, but after listening to him for a while, it became apparent that he’s just an employee of a boat manufacturer or boat broker or something. He was nothing more than a used car salesman, but he tried to sound like the kingpin of the boat world. Whatever he did, it involved boats because he would not stop talking about fucking boats. Fiberglass. Hulls. The Economy. Tania wanted to kill him. And his girlfriend. And the bimbo they befriended five days before. It was fairly obvious that the boat salesman was more interested in the new ugly bimbo than his old ugly girlfriend. The bimbo might have been the most annoying of the three. She was really slutting it up and she had her extra stupid slut voice on. As Tania said, “Every girl can do that voice, but nobody really talks like that.” You should hear Tania do her voice. Chuh, like, soshaw, awmgaaw! Rally? 

The food was actually kind of good. We had some gringo style tacos (Taco Bell hard shell style) and this shrimp ceviche. (I'm not really into Repo Man, so I'm not going to use the joke.)

“We’re looking for new talents?” the slut said to the Packers fan. “Do you have an unusual talent? We’re on, like, a mission?” Every remark ended with a question mark. Rally? And that was their thing for the night: they were looking for people with unusual talents. It was a “mission.” And they were very proud of themselves that they had created this mission. They fancied themselves a little wild, a little crazy. They had created a scavenger hunt for themselves. It reminded me of the litany of activities available to us every day on the cruise we took. “Oh look Tania: there’s a scavenger hunt this afternoon! That sounds fun! Oh, no way, there’s a potato sack race, too!” Our new friends did not, however, find anyone at the Soggy Peso with an unusual talent. Although I think they agreed that the star who sang “Bobby McGee” counted. Counted towards what, I’m not sure. 

Part of the mystique of the Soggy Peso for  people is surely its sketchy location. There's barely a sign on the road, and you have to squeeze between that blue building and the one next to it to get to what is essentially someone's backyard. "When we were in Mexico last month..."

Then they invented a tradition, a tradition they loudly proclaimed themselves the origin of. Which is kind of the antithesis of a tradition, isn’t it? Doesn’t Time decide what is tradition and what isn’t? To immortalize yourself is just stupid. It's like quoting yourself. But apparently they want to be remembered as the people that invented a stupid drink at the Soggy Peso. They were desperate for memories NOW. 

First of all, they did not invent the stupid drink they forced the bartender to make for them. I accidentally had one in Tijuana in 1987. Mark Waters ordered me a “Tequila Villa” at some sketchy bar. I had no idea what it was, but okay, sure, gimme a Tequila Villa. A few minutes later two waiters arrived and asked, “Who has the Tequila Villa?” Everyone pointed at me. They grabbed my head from behind, pulled it back so I was looking at the ceiling, opened my mouth, poured tequila and lime juice in, then violently shook my head and yelled, “TEQUILA VILLA!” Mark got me on that one. That’s the drink these idiots wanted. It’s a stupid frat boy/spring break drink. They all turned their backs to the bar, and leaned back so they were looking at the thatched hut ceiling of the Soggy Peso. The boat salesman explained to the embarrassed bartenders what to do. “You pour that, and that… IN OUR MOUTHS!” No way, man, you’re crazy, don’t do it! And then they all swallowed their medicine and pretended like they had never had a drink before and that what they just did was the most amazing thing in the world ever. Beamers.

“We invented a new tradition here at the Soggy Peso,” the boat salesman later said to some man who I presume was the owner. “Is that cool? I think it’s safe to say we invented a new tradition at the Soggy Peso. Can I say we invented a new tradition?” 

Sure buddy. A tradition is born. You’re immortal.