Did I Get Roofied in Cabo, or am I a Lightweight? An Investigation

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Got a call from Mongo a few weeks ago, who was in Cabo for the week for a wedding.  Mongo asked me to come down to Cabo to work on a proposal we needed to get done to get some new business.  Mongo said he was staying in some ridiculous house in Cabo, with its own pool and a “casita.”  A “casita” is a “small house or outer building.”  Mongo said I would actually be doing him a favor if I stayed in the casita so he wouldn’t feel like he was wasting money having that little house out there sitting empty.  Wanting to help Mongo out, and considering that the stay would be as free as the salad at Olive Garden, I grabbed a flight to Cabo to go work on the proposal. 

I may have been roofied in Cabo.

Upon arrival, the only proposal Mongo had was that we go fishing, to which I readily agreed.  Cabo has some of the best deep-sea fishing in the world.  My second day in Cabo, Mongo and I rounded El Arco at daybreak and headed out to sea. 

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Now, you aren’t here for my fish stories, but I will report that I pulled a 93 inch, 120 lb. striped marlin from the Pacific, as shown above.  While fighting this beast, the deckhands asked what I was going to name the fish, which is apparently a thing.  Mongo amused himself by saying that if the fish was 200 lbs. we could name it after one of my previous dates, which, although funny, was both mean and a bit of an exaggeration.  In retaliation, I named the fish Jose Urena, the Florida Marlins pitcher who threw the first pitch of the 2018 season to the Cubs’ Ian Happ, who jacked it over the right field fence, winning me $11,250 on an absurd $250 bet at 45 to 1 with, who else, Mongo.  But that’s another story.

Anyway, back to whether I got roofied or am a lightweight.  On Friday night, Mongo had wedding stuff to do so I headed into Cabo proper to entertain myself by my lonesome.  Prior to heading into town, I had worked most of the day on my laptop by the pool, not hitting the sauce until mid afternoon or so.  By the sauce I mean Bud Light of course.  That Friday afternoon I had a couple Bud Lights by the pool, and by a couple I mean 6 or 7, if we are being honest with one another.  I make it a practice not to count beers drank by myself or anyone else, but in this case it may be relevant.

My first stop in Cabo was the casino, and a shitty casino it was.  I hit the money machine and withdrew 5000 pesos, which was the maximum, and what I thought was my daily limit of $1,000.  I hit a window and got a bottle of some disgusting Mexican beer, and then found an empty roulette table (no craps at this place, making it a shitty casino, as I mentioned).  I asked for higher value chips, and loaded up the black 29, the numbers surrounding the 29, the 3rd 12, the center column and black, per usual.  I was promptly wiped right the fuck out by a series of red 16’s, 19’s, 12’s, 9’s and a 00, unless I am misremembering, and I very well maybe.  I may have ordered and received another bottle of Mexican beer while at the table. 

I do know for certain that I lost everything pretty quickly at the roulette table.  Pissed that I had lost a grand, and thinking I couldn’t get any more money because I had taken my daily limit, I left the casino.  Other than the massive hangover, which I am getting to, I felt like a winner the next day when I checked my bank statement and learned that I had only taken out, and lost, $250.  Gotta stay woke in a foreign country and learn the exchange rate, you guys.

As Schmeezle’s dad once advised when we were young men, “God protects drunks and dummies.”  If you know me and are following the story, at this point, I was certainly protected by God’s good graces, but not yet in both categories. 

Leaving the casino, I hit the first bar I came to, the aptly but generically named Cabo Cantina Sports Bar.  Settling in at the bar, I ordered a draft Mexican beer, my hope springing eternal that it would be light and refreshing like that delicious elixir from St. Louis.  Sadly disappointed about halfway through that swill, I surrendered the glass, confessed to misordering because I was on an adventure, and ordered a Bud Light, which the friendly fellow behind the bar provided in a can along with a slightly chilled glass.  That beer didn’t last long, so I ordered another, and asked for a menu. 

At this point, the details become important to our investigation.

I had not eaten all day and was pretty hungry.  From the menu, I ordered some chips and salsa and guac, and I think chicken nachos.  I also decided to get adventuresome because, like I said, I was on an adventure, albeit a lone adventure.  In addition to my chicken nachos, I ordered a margarita on the rocks, with salt of course.  Not wanting them to pour some piss tequila from under the bar into my delicious margarita, I asked for a recommendation on a “good tequila.”

For the purpose of our investigation only, I should fully disclose my alcoholic tendencies, or lack thereof, depending on how judgmental you are.  As you have probably gathered from the report thus far, I drink a lot of Bud Light.  That’s probably charitable, but I will leave it at that.  I also drink red wine, and will sometimes pull a cork at night if there’s a game on, and sometimes because there isn’t.  Although bad enough by most reasonable standards, I swear to your God and mine that is about it. 

Ok, occasionally I will have a bartender stand me a single Bombay Sapphire martini, super chilled with a couple olives.  But that is really about it.  Well, in the interest of full disclosure, if I’m nursing a hangover and have the good fortune to attend a brunch on the weekend, you better believe I will have a Bloody Mary, without exception.  But that is absolutely it, nothing else.  I never drink the brown stuff, or that sickening Fireball all the kids are into these days, unless some fucker starts ordering shots for everyone, which I will drink just to show them that I can handle anything.  And of course, if I am at Mexican restaurant and/or on an adventure, then a salty margarita might hit the spot.  As they say, “I hate margaritas, said no Juan ever.”  Which brings us back to our investigation.

In response to my request, the kid behind the bar said he had a really good tequila in the back, and fetched a tall, curvy blue bottle of an alleged “special tequila.”  He made my margarita with that special tequila, and I sipped the concoction along with my chicken nachos, concurrently pounding another 2 or 3 Bud Lights to stay hydrated.

After eating, I had to race like a piss horse, and asked for directions to the bathroom, whose location was not obvious.  My bartender gave me directions to the pisser, which was shared among the various establishments in the outdoor mall. 

When I stood up, I realized that I was pretty drunk.  My head was spinning, and I staggered a little on my way to the bathroom.  No big deal, I thought, maybe a little drunker than I thought I was sitting at the bar.  I made my way to the john and back without incident.  When I got back to the bar I decided it was time to go, not because I was drunk, but because my phone was low on the juice and I had no way to charge it.  I had arrived at my destination by means of the driver from the resort, and didn’t know how to get back to my free casita.  If my phone went dead, I would have no way to contact the driver, and would be stranded in downtown Cabo.  So I called the driver and he told me where to meet him in about 15 minutes.  I ordered another delicious Bud Light and settled the check.

Standing up again, I realized I was really fucked up.  I couldn’t remember where to meet the driver, and had to call him to get the directions again.  Staggering down the street, I found the street corner, luckily.  I remember worrying that I was gonna pass out on the corner, which would certainly not be a desirable development.  Finally, the white Escalade rounded the corner, I climbed in and promptly passed right the fuck out.

The next thing I remember I woke up in my free casita, laying on the floor of the shower getting blasted by cold water.  I had apparently made my way home, climbed in the shower and run the hot water out.  I pulled myself up, pulling the shower door hinges out the wall in the process, and made my way to my bed, where I slept the sleep of the dead.

The next morning Mongo racked me, pounding on the door of the casita and announcing that the chef was there and breakfast was ready.  I felt like shit, but was starving, so I rolled out of my bag and made my way to the breakfast table in the main house.

“What the fuck happened to you,” Mongo inquired, “you look like shit.”

“I don’t know man,” I replied, “I must have had some really strong tequila I guess.”

“How many?” Mongo asked, effectively opening this ongoing investigation.

“Only one,” I answered, the plate of food in front of me moving in circles.

“No way you are this fucked up from one tequila shot,” Mongo said, calling bullshit.

“Well, I had beer too, of course, but I didn’t start drinking until the afternoon.  So nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You got roofied man,” Mongo asserted, the first to posit the theory.  “Check to see if you still have your kidneys.”  Lifting my tee shirt, I found no apparent incisions.

My mind was mush at this point, and unable to provide further evidence, other than denying that I had more than one tequila.  Unable to effectively parley on the subject, Mongo’s assertion that I had been roofied became the working theory.

“Dude, I’ve seen you drink from dawn to close of business and I have never seen you like this,” Mongo continued.  “And how much alcohol could there be in a shot of tequila?  No matter what the fuck the alcohol content was, it couldn’t be more than grain alcohol.  One shot doesn’t do that man.”

“Well, I made it home, and my kidneys seem to be in place,” I replied, looking for some positive in all this.  “And I have my wallet.”

Temporarily satiated with a fine breakfast from Mongo’s chef, I retired to my free casita for a nap.  I rallied in the afternoon, and enjoyed a Bud Light or three at the pool in the hot Mexican sun.  That night, Mongo had the wedding, and I had nothing to do so I headed back to the scene of the (alleged) crime.

At the Cabo Cantina Sports Bar, the same bartenders greeted me with friendliness and enthusiasm, even remembering my name.  I detected no surprise that I had returned, likely absolving them of any complicity in the alleged roofying. 

When leaving the Cabo Cantina Sports Bar, I did see one thing that may be relevant to the investigation.  When taking a piss, I noticed a guy in a stall who was moaning and throwing up.  I gave him some silent thoughts and prayers, and headed back to the bar without intervention.  What am I, a paramedic?  A little later, on my way out, they were carrying the vomit guy out to the plaza, and everyone was staring at him because he was really fucked up, and had pissed his pants.  He was about my age.  There but for the grace of God went I, maybe. 

The night proceeded uneventfully after that, as least as is relevant to this investigation.

The one final piece of evidence is my bill from the Cabo Cantina Sports Bar the night that I was roofied/a lightweight.  The total bill was $65.00.  That number would seem to be consistent with several beers, chips and dip, chicken nachos and only one “special tequila.”

That’s all I got.  Either I’m a lightweight who can’t handle one shot of tequila in Cabo, or one hardass mother fucker who takes a roofie like a man with the only damage being in the privacy of his own free casita. 

I reported.  You decide. 

3 thoughts on “Did I Get Roofied in Cabo, or am I a Lightweight? An Investigation

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