Bay of Pigs

October 27, 2011 by Anonymous

Dear Magic Eight Ball -- I am the organizer for "Speed Climbing Mount Everest Only Wearing Bikini Briefs Contest (SCMEOWBBC)" for short.  However, I am having trouble wrangling sponsors. The only one we have thus far is the International House of Hypothermia. Please tell me how to get more sponsors. 

Signed, Ned in Nepal.   

Dear Ned, that reminds me of the time I was a CIA spy in Cuba during the Bay of Pigs invasion. My cover was as a taco cart vender. But really I was the head la resistencia against Fiedel Castro's Communist hordes. Red bastards! During the day, I would push my cart over the cobblestone streets, ringing my bell, selling my wares: Tacos for sale! Delicioso tacos! Para la venta! Tacos! 

I would use the tacos to pass secret messages to my comrades-- coded instructions spelled out in the refried beans.

At night, I would steal through Havana, flitting from safe house to safe house, spray painting "Viva La Resistencia" and "Viva Ocho!" on walls, defaming posters of Fidel. He was clean shaven at the time. Unfortunately, he saw my graffiti and adopted the thick beard and mustache I gave him as his trademark.

It was a dangerous time. Fidel's informers were everywhere. In bathroom stalls. In air ducts, in trees, under man-hole covers…everywhere. Always listening. Always searching for spies. To ensure secrecy I had to develop a complex code of communications -- the details of which are still classified as "classified" but I can tell you that it involved a box of chihuahuas, several mirrors, a razor and the clicking sounds made by the tongue. 

The night before the invasion, I was ready. Fidel would certainly fall in the morning! Viva Democracia! But, it wasn't to be. The Bay of Pigs Invasion failed…because…because….of a woman, a dance, six bottles of rum and a night of passionate love making. Yes, my friends, the Bay of Pigs failed because of love. Love!

Her name was Emenio. She was flamenco dancer. I, the mysterious rebel, happened into her bar for a pre-invasion drink. Bartender! A round of rum! Then she walked on stage. Red dress. Red lips. We locked eyes. She threw her boa around my shoulders and pulled me out of my chair. And we danced. Oh, how we danced. People cheered. Viva Ocho! Viva Ocho Pelota! Dancer! - Bailarin! But the spotlight is a seductive enchantress, my friends.

We made love that night -- in a granary warehouse by the sea. Gray whales breached off the coast, in what I only now know was a warning: Run! Ocho! Run! Remember la Invasion! But their splashes and tail slaps were no match for Emenio of the smoldering eyes. She called me her amor. She ran her sweet fingers through my hair. She kissed me. Her lips tasted of the finest champagne, wild rasberries and Trichloromethane -- Choloform.

When awoke, 2-days later, Emenio was gone. Leaving only a single red carnation on her pillow, a wallet-sized photo of Fidel, and a lipstick kiss on my forehead. 

Alas, as I would later learn, she was Castro's second half-cousin on his mother's side. The invasion! Doomed. Compromised! By Amor! Love! Yes, love! I too loved once! Ah…. President Kennedy! My friend. I'm sorry. So sorry. But how can one apologize for love? Via Con Dios Mi Amigos! Mi Compañeros! I will dance for you in my heart. Always!…dance for you in my heart...oh Emenio…..how could you….

It was a fine time. What was the question?

Oh yes, my sources say no.