Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, said that whoever is responsible for a string of poisonings of Iranian girls in the country will face death if caught. (I would say convicted, but I don’t think their system of justice is encumbered by slow appeals, tricky letters of the law, or pesky convictions).
Death.
Steal something.
Death.
Look at a woman.
Death. (No shit. I once had to buy my way out of a contract I had signed to operate a large food service operation for workers of some of the largest oil companies doing business in Saudi Arabia).
I was all set to take the job, which included triple what I was making as a high-paid Executive Chef in Las Vegas, no income taxes, three paid first-class trips to the USA, and a lucrative bonus package which was almost too good to be true.
It was done.
Carved in stone.
Then, I asked one last question of the flashy recruiter who signed me.
“What happened to the manager who was there?”
It was only then I heard of the forty-three bullets fired into him because he looked at a local girl.
It cost me almost everything I had in the bank to extricate myself from death’s throes and pay this asshole which I have no doubt whatsoever he shoved in his satin suit.
Eighty thousand.
But, I knew me, the Satin Latin, would most assuredly NOT be able to control himself around beautiful girls, so better not go at all.
Listen to a Western record.
Death.
Watch a Western movie.
Death.
Be gay.
Death.
Be popular on Instagram.
Death.
Four Americans were kidnapped in Mexico where they went to buy drugs.
Bad idea.
I don’t care how much less you are paying, you are now entering the arena of crime in a foreign country, so bend over. If they are still alive, ransom or death appear to be the only options.
I used to go down to Nogales, Mexico weekly when I lived in Tucson. Just a short forty-mile drive to the border, I would go and make a weekend of it, visiting the whorehouses and cantinas on Canal Street and gathering material, some of which found its way into my book EMOTIONS: Not your Mama’s ABC’s!
Before I left my ruka, I would hit la farmacia and buy as many Mandrax as I could. Mandrax were basically Mexican Quaaludes and depending on how much you would give The Man, dictated how many pills he would pack for you in a legal prescription bag.
I always had spending money for months after a Nogales trip.
I wrote a song called Cantina Lady about one of my trips to a whorehouse and one of the table dancer/prostitutes that toiled there. You can check it out on my website marksplayhouse.com
Ja Morant, basketball superstar, is a dumbass of the lowest order.
He thinks flashing his 9mm in a picture he took on the team plane was cool.
Yeah, real cool, dumbass.
Put your millions of dollars and global fame at risk of losing it all because you thought your picture looked cool.
Here we go again…
Stay well.
