Santoooooooos!!!
Note: Original title "I now understand why some men have affairs" was changed at the request of a good friend.
One of the activities we enjoyed during our vacation was a tour of the local jungle and Mayan ruins on horseback. Mr. T and I arrived at the horse ranch at the same time as our excursion companions, a middle-aged Florida couple.
From the moment they got out of the taxi, we could tell we'd be in for a treat. The woman - I think her name was Rhonda - was a dumpy, post-menopausal, transplanted New Yorker with the most nasal Queens accent I've ever heard (think Fran Drescher without a sense of humor). The shorts she was wearing made her butt look larger than those of the horses, and with the amount of jewelry and makeup she had on, she looked like she'd be attending the gala dinner on the cruise ship they arrived in.
The man - named Santos - was a Cuban-American with a thick dark mustache, hairy chest, and friendly demeanor. He was generally attractive (in a Latino way) and in good physical shape for a man his age. Little did we know that before the end of the jungle tour, Santos would live up to his saintly name.
The horses were brought out to us and Mr. T and I quickly mounted our docile fillies. While we fiddled with the reigns, we heard a loud wail. Unfortunately, it wasn't coming from a jungle creature, but from Rhonda.
"Santos!!! Oooooo...You're going to pay for this! I've never ridden a horse before!" she exclaimed as the wrangler presented her with a tired-looking mule. Mr. T shot me an "it's going to be a looooong ride" glance and I giggled at Rhonda's petrified face.
We all coaxed her onto the mule, explaining that the animals were very tame and wouldn't do her any harm. She whimpered and grumbled as she got on. Once atop the mule, she exclaimed in her nasal voice: "Santooooooos!!! If I can't do Jazzercise tomorrow, you're going to pay!!!"
The wrangler led us through the jungle, outlining the various species that inhabited the dense vegetation. Unfortunately, Rhonda's plaintive wails scared away all but the mosquitos.
"Santooooooos!!! How do I tell the horse to slow down?? It's going too faaaaaaast!!", she yelled as the mule trudged wearily along the mossy path. "Santos!!! If I can't walk tomorrow, you won't hear the end of it!!"
Santos, meanwhile, wore a pained look. I don't believe he uttered three words during the entire ride.
About 45 minutes into the tour, we stopped at a watering hole supposedly used by the ancient Mayans for bathing. Rhonda slid off her mule, helped by Santos, the wrangler, and the tour guide. Mr. T and I could hear her nasal moans as she gripped onto the patient mule's neck. As soon as Rhonda placed her feet on the ground, the mule let forth a torrent of urine and I almost fell of my horse laughing at Rhonda's disgusted face.
Once off the mule, no power on Earth would get Rhonda back in the saddle. She declared that she would be happy walking the rest of the way. She and her mule walked side by side as our horses trotted gleefully back to their stables.
After dismounting, our group headed over to a Mayan hut to learn how the local villagers live. As we examined the palm and twig structure, we heard Rhonda nasally exclaim: "Santooooos!! Take a picture of me with my horse. I simply must tell all my friends that I rode a horse!"
Mr. T and I peered through the hut's door just in time to see Rhonda posing proudly next to the droopy-eyed mule. I wonder if any of her friends will have the nerve to tell her that she rode a donkey.
One of the activities we enjoyed during our vacation was a tour of the local jungle and Mayan ruins on horseback. Mr. T and I arrived at the horse ranch at the same time as our excursion companions, a middle-aged Florida couple.
From the moment they got out of the taxi, we could tell we'd be in for a treat. The woman - I think her name was Rhonda - was a dumpy, post-menopausal, transplanted New Yorker with the most nasal Queens accent I've ever heard (think Fran Drescher without a sense of humor). The shorts she was wearing made her butt look larger than those of the horses, and with the amount of jewelry and makeup she had on, she looked like she'd be attending the gala dinner on the cruise ship they arrived in.
The man - named Santos - was a Cuban-American with a thick dark mustache, hairy chest, and friendly demeanor. He was generally attractive (in a Latino way) and in good physical shape for a man his age. Little did we know that before the end of the jungle tour, Santos would live up to his saintly name.
The horses were brought out to us and Mr. T and I quickly mounted our docile fillies. While we fiddled with the reigns, we heard a loud wail. Unfortunately, it wasn't coming from a jungle creature, but from Rhonda.
"Santos!!! Oooooo...You're going to pay for this! I've never ridden a horse before!" she exclaimed as the wrangler presented her with a tired-looking mule. Mr. T shot me an "it's going to be a looooong ride" glance and I giggled at Rhonda's petrified face.
We all coaxed her onto the mule, explaining that the animals were very tame and wouldn't do her any harm. She whimpered and grumbled as she got on. Once atop the mule, she exclaimed in her nasal voice: "Santooooooos!!! If I can't do Jazzercise tomorrow, you're going to pay!!!"
The wrangler led us through the jungle, outlining the various species that inhabited the dense vegetation. Unfortunately, Rhonda's plaintive wails scared away all but the mosquitos.
"Santooooooos!!! How do I tell the horse to slow down?? It's going too faaaaaaast!!", she yelled as the mule trudged wearily along the mossy path. "Santos!!! If I can't walk tomorrow, you won't hear the end of it!!"
Santos, meanwhile, wore a pained look. I don't believe he uttered three words during the entire ride.
About 45 minutes into the tour, we stopped at a watering hole supposedly used by the ancient Mayans for bathing. Rhonda slid off her mule, helped by Santos, the wrangler, and the tour guide. Mr. T and I could hear her nasal moans as she gripped onto the patient mule's neck. As soon as Rhonda placed her feet on the ground, the mule let forth a torrent of urine and I almost fell of my horse laughing at Rhonda's disgusted face.
Once off the mule, no power on Earth would get Rhonda back in the saddle. She declared that she would be happy walking the rest of the way. She and her mule walked side by side as our horses trotted gleefully back to their stables.
After dismounting, our group headed over to a Mayan hut to learn how the local villagers live. As we examined the palm and twig structure, we heard Rhonda nasally exclaim: "Santooooos!! Take a picture of me with my horse. I simply must tell all my friends that I rode a horse!"
Mr. T and I peered through the hut's door just in time to see Rhonda posing proudly next to the droopy-eyed mule. I wonder if any of her friends will have the nerve to tell her that she rode a donkey.
posted by Baja Babe at 9:17 AM
4 Comments:
Ok, THAT was phunnie!LOL
There are all kids of asses in this world. It's always nice to have one with you while you're on vacation.
Been there, done that:
All I'm sayin' is: Costa Rican jungle + very, very, VERY gay couple* + slightly irritable horse = Me laughing my arse off and getting a private tour.
*Read: Makes the Jack charachter from Will and Grace look like Rambo.
Or: Cranky middle aged couple + kayaks + costa rican mangroves and monkeys = Me laughing my arse off and getting a private tour.
Lord bless those darling latin american tour guides. In my experience, they were all "Santos".
The Mayan ruins sound so cool. For some reason PBS is always re-running a NOVA special about the Mayan ruins, and also for some reason I can't stop watching it if it's on TV.
I would pay money to see footage of that woman Jazzercising.
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