A Testicular Taste Treat

Woke up in the middle of the night last night, and turned to the tube to put me back to sleep. Heard a phrase that made me understand the ex who once put a foot through his TV, then spent the next ten years without one. “Countdown to custody.” Jesus god. Remember when news wasn’t about Anna Nicole Smith and her sad satellite souls? I almost don’t.

Turned the TV off (but resisted the kicking thing), and rooted around on my nightstand for a Tootsie Pop I thought I’d seen there. Found something even better to stick in my face. A Cuban.

The beau and I had been to a party at a friend’s place, where one of the guests had just returned to the US with a box of Cuban cigars in their carry-on. (If the embargo police are reading this, I do not recall the name of said guest. Nor that of the party’s host. Or even what he looked like. In fact, I think he’s changed his name. And left the country. And died, maybe. Yeah.) The bold smuggler had managed not to get Homeland Securitied at the airport, and we were handed an aluminum cylinder on our way out. I’d forgotten about it. But last night, I discovered a comfort combo guaranteed to make me forget all about doomed methadone babies and Giuliani campaign coffers and Paris Hilton and Al Sharpton and Nancy Grace and all of ‘em.

<> One big-ass jumbo shrimp cocktail.

<> Frosty-cold bottle of Guinness Extra Stout.
<> A flamin’ Montecristo, and no one you have to share it with.

I’d read about the anointing of the “smooth, brown thighs of young Cuban girls” (Hiaasen, maybe? Elmore Leonard? Hunter S. Thompson?), but I’d never tasted their bounty. I lit up. Drag one: Wondrous. Drag two: I feel a little guilt. Drag three: I feel a little buzz. Drags four through seven: I make a somewhat frantic effort to find my copy of the stunning 1959ish propaganda film, I Am Cuba. Drags eight through god-knows: I swear I feel Fidel Castro patting me on the head. I give up on the movie and put on some Tito Puente. Yes, I know he’s not Cuban. But he was handy. And he chased away the Castrolucination.

It gets fuzzy after that. Deliciously fuzzy.

Shrimp, Guinness, Cuban. Triumvirate of two-fisted tasty. Try it. With the TV off. Or at least on mute. Or if you happen to have a copy of I Am Cuba

1 comment:

Unknown said...

I miss ANS ... hedonist extraordinaire.

I'm glad you had a good evening. :)