Chipmunk pseudo-sex
Heather and I went clubbing on Sunday night, only the second time we’ve been persuaded to exchange our rocking chairs for the beer, smoke, and ear-splitting noise native to discotecas around the world.
Our destination: Ebony 56, located within a place known as “El Pueblo.” No sooner had we agreed to go than our host family had this to say, and I’m paraphrasing here, about El Pueblo:
“I don’t go to El Pueblo. That place scares me.”
“Well, I guess it’s not so bad once you’re inside, but be careful outside when you’re getting a taxi.”
“A couple of guys were killed there recently.”
Resigned to our fate, Heather and I put on our finest fines and headed out around 10. We met up with our friends and made our way to the club about an hour later, only to find the dance floor completely empty. That is, the club itself was pretty packed, but no one had yet ventured out to cut the rug.
Save one.
And what a one she was. Obviously already inebriated, she certainly wasn’t afraid to shake her groove thang, shake her groove thang (yeah, yeah). By the time she finished Act 1, she had proven to everyone in the club that she was, indeed, wearing underwear, but from what I (and everyone else) saw, I’m not sure what purpose said “underwear” could potentially serve.
Act 2 provided an interesting twist: a dance partner. Although calling what they were doing “dancing” is certainly a disservice to just about anyone who’s moved their feet with any semblance of rhythm while listening to music. No, their “dancing” was comprised of movements we humans associate exclusively with the act of having sex.
WARNING: The following paragraph is rated NC-17. Continue only if you can certify that you were born before 1989 or, alternatively, are simply interested in what transpired.
Back to our story, the, um, gentleman involved in the spectacle practically removed the girl’s skirt, exposing her bare behind (due, of course, to the lack of underwear) and proceeded to spank it in time to the music. Gasps, guffaws, and more emanated from the crowd, and Heather and I were left wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. Apparently not satisfied with their first round, our infamous couple went on to try a number of different positions (Acts 3 and 4, respectively) before mercifully going their separate ways.
For some reason, I felt the need to have a beer (or three) after witnessing such a display, which I did before returning to the edge of the dance floor. Perhaps the rest of the crowd should have followed my lead (though from all appearances, they did), because nearly two hours after our entrance, no one had really ventured out onto the dance floor. My hesitance centered around two issues:
1. I cannot dance.
2. The music was terrible.
Admittedly, I have overcome affliction number one in the past, and I probably would have done so again on this night, had anyone else been brave enough to break the ice first. But even as the crowd surged closer and closer to the floor, no one would get down in the middle. And it’s not like they weren’t enjoying themselves. I mean, as each new song came on, the club would erupt in hoots and hollers, lyrics and gyrations. But not a one of them on the dance floor.
Just why everybody got so excited is beyond me. Now, this may be my age (or ignorance) showing, but each song sounded exactly like the next to me, until the DJ put on some Kanye. Finally ready to shake my moneymaker, I quickly realized why all the other songs sounded the same: every freaking song was played at double or triple time, including Kanye, which made all the vocalists sound like they’d come from a Chipmunks reunion or had just inhaled their fill of helium.
Needless to say, Heather and I skedaddled at around 1:30 (early by Tico standards), escaping the smoke and clatter just in time to be ripped off by a taxi driver before calling it a night.
But since that was the worst form of robbery we experienced all night, I guess we should consider ourselves lucky. After all, many others, according to our family, have met a fate much worse than semi-nude pseudo-sex and Chipmunk rap played at foundation-shaking levels for three hours.
Like death. I think.
Our destination: Ebony 56, located within a place known as “El Pueblo.” No sooner had we agreed to go than our host family had this to say, and I’m paraphrasing here, about El Pueblo:
“I don’t go to El Pueblo. That place scares me.”
“Well, I guess it’s not so bad once you’re inside, but be careful outside when you’re getting a taxi.”
“A couple of guys were killed there recently.”
Resigned to our fate, Heather and I put on our finest fines and headed out around 10. We met up with our friends and made our way to the club about an hour later, only to find the dance floor completely empty. That is, the club itself was pretty packed, but no one had yet ventured out to cut the rug.
Save one.
And what a one she was. Obviously already inebriated, she certainly wasn’t afraid to shake her groove thang, shake her groove thang (yeah, yeah). By the time she finished Act 1, she had proven to everyone in the club that she was, indeed, wearing underwear, but from what I (and everyone else) saw, I’m not sure what purpose said “underwear” could potentially serve.
Act 2 provided an interesting twist: a dance partner. Although calling what they were doing “dancing” is certainly a disservice to just about anyone who’s moved their feet with any semblance of rhythm while listening to music. No, their “dancing” was comprised of movements we humans associate exclusively with the act of having sex.
WARNING: The following paragraph is rated NC-17. Continue only if you can certify that you were born before 1989 or, alternatively, are simply interested in what transpired.
Back to our story, the, um, gentleman involved in the spectacle practically removed the girl’s skirt, exposing her bare behind (due, of course, to the lack of underwear) and proceeded to spank it in time to the music. Gasps, guffaws, and more emanated from the crowd, and Heather and I were left wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. Apparently not satisfied with their first round, our infamous couple went on to try a number of different positions (Acts 3 and 4, respectively) before mercifully going their separate ways.
For some reason, I felt the need to have a beer (or three) after witnessing such a display, which I did before returning to the edge of the dance floor. Perhaps the rest of the crowd should have followed my lead (though from all appearances, they did), because nearly two hours after our entrance, no one had really ventured out onto the dance floor. My hesitance centered around two issues:
1. I cannot dance.
2. The music was terrible.
Admittedly, I have overcome affliction number one in the past, and I probably would have done so again on this night, had anyone else been brave enough to break the ice first. But even as the crowd surged closer and closer to the floor, no one would get down in the middle. And it’s not like they weren’t enjoying themselves. I mean, as each new song came on, the club would erupt in hoots and hollers, lyrics and gyrations. But not a one of them on the dance floor.
Just why everybody got so excited is beyond me. Now, this may be my age (or ignorance) showing, but each song sounded exactly like the next to me, until the DJ put on some Kanye. Finally ready to shake my moneymaker, I quickly realized why all the other songs sounded the same: every freaking song was played at double or triple time, including Kanye, which made all the vocalists sound like they’d come from a Chipmunks reunion or had just inhaled their fill of helium.
Needless to say, Heather and I skedaddled at around 1:30 (early by Tico standards), escaping the smoke and clatter just in time to be ripped off by a taxi driver before calling it a night.
But since that was the worst form of robbery we experienced all night, I guess we should consider ourselves lucky. After all, many others, according to our family, have met a fate much worse than semi-nude pseudo-sex and Chipmunk rap played at foundation-shaking levels for three hours.
Like death. I think.
posted by Higgity Heitner at 2:13 PM
2 Comments:
gross. you know you liked it.
what is costa rica doing for new year's? we're going to big bear. I'll let you know what "CRAZAYYY" things happen up there...yea right...don't come back yet. we're saving money to come visit!
Well, I guess if I was in your situation I would have left the bar the moment I saw what was going on. I must say you dont need to be in Costa Rica to experience something like this. I have lived in New York City, Santa Barbara, CA and have a house in Idaho. People are people no matter where you are. I most certainly wouldnt go to Costa Rica to experience the night life!! Like any other exotic destination ( such as Thailand, Bali, etc ) there are always issues with thieves and the like. Go to Mexico and you will feel like Costa Rica is far safer and cleaner!!
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