As I’ve learned from my many experiences trolling dive bar Ladies’ Nights while wearing a secondhand sailor’s outfit bought from an Army-Navy surplus store, most women can’t resist a man in uniform. Even if that uniform has some holes in it, and doesn’t really correspond to any recognizable branch of this country’s military. On second thought, maybe it was the cheap, free flowing booze. Either way, that’s why I was shocked when I heard about the Secret Service/Military sex scandal that came out of President Obama’s trip down to Cartagena, Colombia for this year’s Summit of the Americas.
I was so shocked, in fact, that I figured it would be nothing less than prudent to get the Mildly Relevant investigative staff together for a quick jaunt down to the scene of the crime to see if we couldn’t get to the bottom of this whole fiasco. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a budget set up for the excursion, so I figured it best to leave my band of not so merry cranksters behind and brave my way through the hooker and presumably cocaine-laden Colombian resort town solo. Let’s just say the page with the word “Intrepid” is one of the most well-thumbed in my personal dictionary.
The first thing you notice upon arriving in Cartagena is, well, the hookers. They’re everywhere. Like I said, it’s a resort town. And a third-world resort town where prostitution is legal, at that. I was propositioned six times before I got into a cab outside the airport.
When I arrived at the Caribe hotel – the same four-star establishment that felt so threatened by the actions of our distinguished servicemen they were compelled to call in the local authorities – I quickly made my way up to my room. But not before two of the maids, a desk clerk, and the bellboy asked if I was “looking for company”. Which, of course, I was, I just needed a couple of hours to recover from my jetlag. With each passing minute I was realizing that the real story here wasn’t how a bunch of Secret Service and Military types could have been so callous as to put the man they were sworn to protect in such an embarrassing position, but what foul things they must have done to those women to bring this international shitstorm down upon themselves.
After catching a little shuteye, I decided it was time to get to the bottom of this story. I knew it was up to me, and only me, among the gathering horde of media vermin to find out what had actually happened. None of them had the guts or the fortitude to get down in the muck and root around in the filth of Cartagena. On second thought, maybe John Stossel. Although, from what I’ve heard that has more to do with his own personal proclivities than it does with any sort of truth seeking on his part.
I made my way down to the beach, hoping to find out what it would take to get the local cops called on me in re: prostitution. I started by standing on a soapbox, waving a handful of pesos in the air, and yelling some utter filth not fit to be repeated in polite company. When all that got me was a human tidal wave of pimps, hoes, and drug dealers, I decided, after bartering my way into a veritable pharmacy of pills and powders, to try a new tack. So I negotiated what seemed like a fair price for a couple of ladies and we made a hasty retreat back to my room.
This, I figured, was where I would find out what led to the scandal that spread yolk across our great nation’s face. As soon as we reached the room I began pushing for every heinous sexual act I could think of, and when those suggestions were met not with contempt but a couple of smiles and eager nods instead, along with a request for additional currency, I turned to the internet, scrounging up positions, toys, and sexual accoutrement even my twisted mind had never thought possible. Again, the only response I got was a couple of lewd grins and yelps of, “Si, no problemo!”
What the hell was it with these people? What did a guy have to do with a hooker in this town to get the cops called on him? Without any recourse left to me, I decided my only option was to go through with the transaction. Again, my courage as a reporter was being tested, and after four hours of artificially enhanced fun it was finally time for me to pay these fine ladies and move on. Apparently, there was nothing to see here. If the activities the three of us had just participated in couldn’t get you arrested in this town then I couldn’t think of anything that would.
Then I came to a crushing realization; I had left my wallet in the hotel bar when I went down for a refill in the middle of our tryst. And that’s when things got really nasty. I tried to explain my predicament to the fine young women, begging their forgiveness, but they were hearing none of it. Before I could even make a call to the concierge, two rather burly Hispanic gentlemen were breaking down the door to the room and moving toward me menacingly. The last thing I remember hearing, before I blacked out, was one of them saying to the other, “Just like those gringos last week, thinks he can get away without paying.”
The next thing I know I was in the back of a Cartagena police cruiser, my face a bloody pulp, being whisked away to the local jail. But despite all that I was happy, I had found what I was looking for. The men who brought all that shame to our country had simply broken one of the oldest rules in civilized society: Never welch on a hooker.