“It’s a terrifying spectacle. The howling & screaming & stomping on the cheap wooden bleachers of the Cock-Pits is Deafening, utterly deafening. The noise will peg a Decibel-meter and keep it pinned for so long that the normal Human ear can’t tolerate it.”

Hunter S. Thompson

Lest I give any of our animal loving readers the wrong idea, I’m not really that down with cockfighting. I mean, sure, I’d like to go check one out and all but they’re pretty much illegal in California. So if I really wanted to go check a proper one out, I’d have to travel down to Mexico.

Of course if I end up going to Mexico, I may as well get some perscriptions filled on the cheap in Tijuana. And while I’m waiting for la farmacia to hook me up with my painkillers and boner pills, I might as well have some beers. But knowing me, I’ll drink a few too many beers, end up deciding it’s a good idea to go to a donkey show, realizing that I’ve made the wrong decision and going to get some more beer to help wash what I’ve just seen out of my mind.

In fact, I’d have to drink so much that the next morning I’d wake up down in Rosarito married to a local farm girl named Guadalupe with both my liver and my psyche irreversibly damaged. By then, I wouldn’t want to stick around and check out a cockfight. Fuck no, man. I’d just want to go home.

What can I say? Me and Tijuana do not mix…

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