Wednesday August 17, 2005

Fispumping in Cancun!

     First things first, I said in my pre-trip column that in 36 hours I would be on a plane headed to Cancun to sip margaritas and harass senoritas.  That wasn’t exactly true.  More accurately, in 36 hours I would be sitting in a bar at Philadelphia airport getting hammered waiting for my Planet Airways flight to take off at 2 am (5-hour delay).  Once the bar kicked us out and warned that you are not allowed to get on a plane intoxicated (too late to care) the fistpumping began.  Cyrus and Rob saw a moving walkway and recognized the fistpumping opportunity it provided them.  After a long build up of them moving towards each other (reminded me of the robot fight in Euro Trip) they came together in a fistpump that was the proverbial starting gun of a week of fistpumping greatness.

     The fistpumping quieted down for the first day, as people were tired from the 36 hour drinking debauchery of day 1/2.  Then something happened on night two.  Bulldog Café.  I was quite skeptical when we walked into this unassuming club thinking I was going to hear some techno and watch some clowns in tight black A|X shirts dancing like retards.  The celebrity of the night was Fat Joe (shameless celebrity name drop #1) and he and the rest of the Terror Squad were hanging out in the VIP room.  I knew this wasn’t going to be a fistpumpers night.  As soon as I was beginning to regret putting my fistpumps.com shirt on that night, wishing I had saved it for another night, a strange thing happened.  A band took the stage.  I sat in amazement looking at the stage saying to myself, “Wait a minute, this is a club in Cancun, this is no place for a band. That stage is meant for B-list rappers and their C-list poses.”  I soon realized that this stage was built for this band.  This band owned Cancun for this special night.  If I had a vagina, I would have tried to sneak back stage to “meet the band”.  After playing some newer rock, they took a break only to come back for a fistpumpers dream set: G&R, Nirvana, Skynard and the tantric orgasm everyone was waiting for: AC fucking DC!  From the moment the first cord of Thunderstruck was strummed, I knew there was no chance I could ever blackout this night.  I would remember this night forever.  On this night, I was in fistpumpers paradise.

     The next day I woke up with a ringing in my ear and soreness in my shoulder.  I now know how Dwight Gooden must have felt having thrown a Cy Young worthy start and then partied hard enough to kill a small elephant (although I didn’t beat any women that night).  Having been so blown away by the previous night’s events I couldn’t wait to get to the bar and get a drink.  After a heavy day of drinking and dancing like a moron, I had to throw in the towel and go to bed without going out.  I know: that statement is the slow ballad of this column (no fistpumping so you might as well go take a piss).  From what I hear that was a fun night full of 190 Octanes and a strange pirate-like man at Fat Tuesdays and almost free cab rides, Real World love and breadsticks back at the Oasis.

     I woke up on day four feeling like a million bucks.  It’s amazing what 15 hours of sleep will do for you.  After a day of rocking out to DJ AMAZE!!!!  and drinking gallons of Blue Motherfuckers pored by Fake Javier and Alejandro we were ready to go out for some more ruckus.  On tap for this evening: the Maxim VIP party at DaddyO’s staring the cast of Viva La Bam (#2) minus Bam Margera (#3) himself.  This night provided many a reason to pump your fists.  Number one reason to fistpump that night: Don Vito!!! (#4)

     Day five has been listed as the undisputed best day of the trip.  We were starting to get a handle on how to drink during the day and had lost all ability to handle our drinking at night (that was a good thing).  Another long day on the beach lead to the longest night of the trip which was chock full of fistpumping experiences.  We arrived outside The City at 9:00 and had to wait until 11:00 to get in (way to go N.O.R.E. (#5)).  After some negotiations and preliminary drinking, it was time to get down to some dancing on and around our new table.  After some truly memorable fistpumps and some of the sluttiest dancing I’ve ever seen from Paris Hilton (#6), it was time to go back to the Oasis for some nachos and guacamole men.

     Day six was a sad day, it was close to the end of the trip and there were questions of how The City could possibly be topped.  The beach was quiet that day, except for the hot beats of DJ Amaze!  It went unsaid by all that drinking was out of the question during the day.  We had to last through the booze cruise (5:30-11) and late night (11:00-1) at Fat Tuesday, which seemed like it was going to be an absolute shit show.  The booze cruise began with a drunken sailor named Rob/Bob/CB/Momar/Little Brother/Tuggy/ Nydick bouncing off the walls of the boat and fistpumping after one 190 Octane.  A few too many rounds of 7-11 Doubles with rum and cokes later, we were at La Isla Mujeres, which I believe is German for Whales Vagina.  After a true eating debacle and a few rounds of flip-cup, it was time to party with MC Mosquito.  One, Two, Free!!!....Fuck you Mosquito!!!  After sailing back to the mainland, the fistpumps of the night were released.  First was a sweet pump thrown by Real World cool guy Randy (#7) with Becca and Kelley followed by Randy and I (“oh God here’s another one”) and Mike aka “The Mizz” (#8) and I.

     Day seven offered nothing to pump your fists at.  It was a sad but welcomed day.  By this point, I was ready to go home and enter the fifty-one week off-season.  I was like a Philadelphia Eagles fan, disappointed that we ended the season on a sour note but annoyingly looking forward to next season.  The only fistpumping worthy event of the day was when I discovered the deal of the century: 4 cartons of cigarettes for $65.

     Now that I’m back in Philly, I am forced to turn to fistpumps.com to remember what it looks like to see a 3-foot tall Mexican fistpump.  I’m looking forward to many American fistpumps in the land where people do things to receive tips and not the other way around and where I get to sleep in my own bed and not next to Chris Auffenberg.  One other thing: people, please stop asking me to do the Jim Doehner Dance….it’s really embarrassing.  Who am I kidding?  Don’t ask me to do it when I’m sober.  I’ll gladly do it when I’m drunk.

     jim@fistpumps.com

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