I was retelling a story last weekend that a friend told me about in college. His dad was an underwater welder and has seen catfish next to bridge supports in the Ohio River in deep pools of water that are large enough to swallow a human whole. They stay on the bottom their entire lives eating river scum and become gigantic due to never being caught. Pretty fucking terrifying, right? Well my brother informs me this is an urban legend. Apparently there are no catfish the size of blue whales at the bottom of the Ohio or Mississippi River. Who knows, maybe there are no underwater welders either. There should be, because it sounds pretty fucking cool. Using fire underneath water and all. I’ve told this story no less than 25 times in my life, fully believing this to be true. Honestly I wanted to stop the goddamned car and tell my brother he could walk his know-it-all fucking ass the rest of the way. My pride was pretty injured. No one likes being told they were duped, except for really stupid people. They seem to get a kick out of that shit. Watch the David Blaine street magic video sometime where he goes into the Cowboys locker room. He pulls one playground magic trick on Emmet Smith, who responds like a Neanderthal that was just shown fire for the first time. He had a ball with it. I’m no rocket-scientist, but I’m confident I could best Emmet in a knowledge bowl. Even if two of the categories were “Football” and “Emmet Smith’s Life”, I’m pretty sure I’d win. So my brother can fuck off with the too sly to be duped by the man-eating catfish story attitude.
Anyway, conceptually I think I understand how a donkey show works. A bunch of highly intoxicated and coked-up bikers, frat guys, traders and other upstanding members of a moralistic society (Luckily I was only a frat guy and a trader, but never a biker) gather in a poorly ventilated structure somewhere in the Baja peninsula, usually a quaint little suburb of Tijuana. They pay $50 or so a man and are allowed to drink Tecate from a cooler that was probably also recently used as a transport for a chopped-up drug runner named Paco whose family owed a little too much money to the local narco traficante. Once these social aberrations are all oiled up they probably play a little mariachi number, maybe fire a pistol. A shower curtain opens to a retarded donkey with, as you might guess, a donkey dick swinging between his legs. From a location you don’t even want to know about stumbles in a woman fucked 6 ways to the weekend on booze, black tar heroin and ketamine. All the poppy plants in Afghanistan will not help this poor soul to forget the multiple nicotine-stained finger-blastings she received from her mom’s boyfriends during her trailer park Christmases in Bakersfield, CA. She gives the donkey an HJ, maybe a short blowie, and then its go time. I do not know the logistics of a chick fucking an equine, to be honest with you. Once upon a time when I was about 15 we were hanging out somewhere and my friend Tony popped in a bestiality porn that he claimed he “Found” somewhere. Two chicks were in the process of fucking a horse. I made it through about 30 seconds of that, and then left the room and drank enough Cisco to kill the very horse I think I saw get fellated. Thankfully I no longer possess any memory of that event. Needless to say a chick crams a monstrous donkey cock into her holiest of holies, presumably the donkey gives the crowd a money-shot, and they in turn go wild. The bikers bike off to start some trouble in Belize. The traders head back to Wall Street to gamble away your kid’s college fund. The frat guys drift into Tijuana to “Do some fucking bombs, bro!” The protagonist of the show goes back to wherever it is she came from to cook up the shot to end all shots and lays on the floor of her pimp’s trailer as his homeboys run a train and visions of marrying Prince William of Great Britain dance through her head.
At least that is how I envisioned the spectacle. But this catfish wool that got pulled over my eyes has made me question even the sanctity of the donkey show. Say it ain’t so, Joe. So can someone confirm, with irrefutable evidence, that they’ve been to a donkey show. Or am I an even bigger gullible asshole than I thought?