Cinco de My birthday-o

So, this weekend was Cinco de Mayo, my birthday, the De La Hoya vs. Mayweather fight, and the premier of Spider Man 3. I know my loyal readers (stop Chez, you're makin' me blush!) have been chomping at the bit to hear about my weekend exploits, so here goes.

First off my youngest daughters softball team had an away game in Fountain Valley Saturday morning. As we drove through the park on the way to the field, one fact became glaringly obvious to everyone in the car: Asians have a death wish. I kid you not, every single person walking through that park was at least 60 years old, and could not figure out that the gray, hard path they were taking their morning constitutional was *gasp! a road!!! Far be it from me to interrupt your one reason for living, but I'm behind 2.5 tons of metal and fiberglass and you're 85 pounds of MSG and ear hair. Who do ya' think is gonna win, Short Round? Man. Anyway, my daughters team spanked those losers 10-0, and my little slugger hit a double and made $9 off of us (we had to bribe her $5 a hit and $2 a foul to keep her from jumping out of the batters box whenever a pitch got within five feet of her).

Later that evening we dropped the kiddies off at Grandma and Grandpa Disco's house in Long Beach so we could make our way to the party. Needless to say, we were giddy at the prospect of a kid free evening of boozin' it up. On our way there, we picked up my brother, who I have officially dubbed "The Puerto Rican Ryan Seacrest" as evidenced by the following.

The party itself was great. There was plenty of food, the beer was chilled, and the music was loud. The usual family get together. Did I mention that it was requested that the guys show up in "Mexican" attire, and the women in "Paisa" gear? No, oh well. Seeing as I wasn't about to be caught dead in snakeskin boots and a Chivas cap, I found a men's clothing store in my neighborhood that carried "ethnic" clothing and picked up a white guayabera for a cool $17, thank you very much. Needless to say I looked fantastic. If anyone needs a stunt double for a cigar roller, I'm your guy. Mrs. Disco looked stunning as usual.

Soon after we arrived and got a chance to mingle, the main event started: De La Hoya vs. Mayweather. Honestly, I didn't really care who won the fight. I don't follow boxing, or most sports for that matter. Actually, I didn't care until one thing happened: Mayweather put on a sombrero. A motherfucking sombrero. Again: the black fighter put on a sombrero as he walked out to meet the Mexican fighter for the last fight of both of their careers.

Now, loyal readers, you're probably thinking to yourself "Verily, thou must have been quite angered at such an affront, Lord Disco" to which I would respond "Quite the contrary, lowly vassal....this summa bitch has cojones! Big, nasty, brass balls! I hope he beats the snot outta Oscar and then bangs his wife in the ring!!"

Mayweather would go on to win the fight by decision. :)

Soon after that, both Mrs. Disco and I realized an important fact. Earlier in the day we had purchased the ingredients to make ceviche, as I had requested it as part of my birthday. We came to the conclusion that we would have to leave the party earlier than anticipated in order to have time to prepare all the ingredients in time for consumption the next day. Not thrilled at this, we resigned to leave the party promptly at 11:30....well before we had planned on leaving, much to the disappointment of those at the party. I did, however, make sure that my cousin Ivan opened the gift I had found for him at the same store I purchased my guayabera. I don't think a more perfect gift has been purchased for anyone in the history of gift giving. Ever. I've done the research. The rest of you suck, I rule. End of story. Needless to say, he loved it. Then we left.

Shortly after arriving home, we began the Herculean task of gutting the shrimp. Four. Pounds. Of. Shrimp. By hand. At midnight. Needless to say, 1/8th of the way into it, I was hating life with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. I hated shrimp like Perez Hilton hates good taste. Like Uwe Boll hates quality film making. And the smell, oh God, the smell. You would think that the excrement of a shrimp would really not be that bad. Now imagine your sitting next to a bowl full of it. Yeah. Like that. If someone had walked up to my door at that very moment and said they were selling ceviche for $50 a bowl, I would have payed $100 and given them a reach around.

To be honest with you, it was also the most fun I had all night. Try gutting shrimp, squeezing rock hard limes for 3 drops of juice, and dicing tomatoes at 2 A.M. with someone you love. It's magical. We had more one liners flying back and forth than Jeremy Piven and Ryan Reynolds on crack:

"I had better fucking see God after eating this."
"Oh yeah, bitch." - after squeezing a particularly hard lemon to the point it split.
"I'm so ok with buying some store made ceviche and saying we made it....please?"
"OH GOD! How can one little shrimp have so much shit in it? How?"
"Shit, I think this one ate another shrimp."
"No one said anything about gutting the damn shrimp! Why didn't someone say something"?
"Do you think we have enough?" - after gutting about 10 shrimp.......

At 2 in the damn morning we finally had enough shrimp to satisfy whatever perverted work ethic kept us going.

The next day would bring us ceviche, Spider Man 3, and my birthday......to be continued