As I write this, I am two weeks away from my bachelor party. We’re heading to Mexico with a great band of people that includes: doctors, businessmen, and plain-old housebroken savages. One of my buddies, we’ll call him William, called yesterday and asked, “Will we be violated in Mexican jails, or can we get out with cash?” Good question. In two weeks, this could be on the news.

I’ve been to Mexico plenty times, and I’ve seen people “escorted” out of bars by the Federales. The usual pay-off to prevent the pain is a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Stay calm and cooperate, is what I’ve heard, otherwise it all depends on how much you “ask” for the nightstick.

The thing is, if you end up in jail when you’re still in your early twenties, you can pull the age card for your excuse. Once you’ve passed 30, anything you do to land in jail is considered premeditated in most circles of society. It’s generally expected that you will have a moment of rational thought before you, say, start launching fireworks inside a crowded cantina. A 22-year-old can always say, “Well, I didn’t think it was a big deal,” and get away with it. Over 30? You’re going to jail, amigo.

We’ve got a decent group, though – chock full of responsible boys (I mean, men – that’s what we’re called now – men). We’ve already paid a fee for the living arrangements, including the kitchen, fridge, bathrooms and linens in this house we’re renting, so that’s all set. But what about human behavior – how do you plan for that?

I know that William loves to wrestle (All-State Wrestling Champ in the early 90’s) and debate politics. There are two other attendees who thrive on arguing current events and political points. Sometimes, after enough adult beverages, William will deliver his point with a Full Nelson. The “receiver” of this point usually taps out, but a couple of these guys won’t waver from their stance, even if their windpipe is cut off. This could be dangerous. We’re intermingling a lot of guys here, and it’s like stirring a soup with gasoline and wood chips marinated in lacquer thinner. Toss in the concept of husbands leaving the country without their wives, and this could be like a tire fire. Just let it burn boys. Let it burn.

I’ll let you know next month which one of these “savages” is the first to whip out the VISA to make the international phone call to his wife, whereupon she hears his plight about the soiled mattress he had to sleep on, the cold gruel he had to eat, and the whipping he received before Amnesty International intervened.

All of those black scrape marks 4” above the bottom of my bathroom door appear to be made by some sort of high heeled pump. Who are those guilty ladies and where are they now?