Thank you Michael Ray. This is my farewell after reading your column, “Surprises Behind Cuba’s Socialist Curtain.” I’m off to Cuba. I bought a 1957 Chevy, waterproofed it into a dinghy and expect to land and be met, as you describe, by low cut, skintight mini skirted uniforms complemented by high heels with black patterned stockings. That’s what I’ll be wearing. Hopefully, the Cuban women can match my haute couture.
I had no idea that Cuba was the “wow” place to be now. Back in 1962, I spent the entire month of October with my head in a locker afraid of incoming missiles from Cuba. I’ve been thanking the Kennedys for decades for saving my butt, the one part of me that I couldn’t figure out how to fit into my locker. My how times have changed. As you’ve described, there are no homeless, no beggars, no guns, no drugs, no crime, no starving children, no traffic jams, no advertising signs, and no muggings. This incredible turn of events make me worried that you’ve picked up Stockholm syndrome while visiting Havana.
Could you have been converted into a Communist puppet? Here are symptoms to look for. You crave shots of vodka. You want to dance low and fast. You wear furry hats. You prefer cash transactions and abhor paper trails. You have the classic puppet feeling that someone, possibly a socialized proctologist has their hand up your butt and makes you say and do things that you believe will secure the next business deal.
Be strong. Cut the puppet strings. Focus your Judeo-Christian upraising on sin, confession, guilt, shame and sexual reluctance, as you’ve mentioned. Only then, will you feel like the rest of us. Uptight, but STD free. And remember, Cuba’s sexual tourism is a honeypot. One simple misstep and you’ll be stung by a hive of killer-bee international lawyers. They’ll swarm and sting until there is nothing left of you than remembered “Musings on the Gulf Stream.”
I’m still going, though. My ’57 Chevy is fired up and ready to float. I believe I can go where only Michael Ray dared to go. Look for me in upcoming issues. I’ll be holding the Indy, blindfolded, having a last cigarette and facing a line of rum shooters that only a coconut head like me could survive.
But I promise on hammer and sickle to make it back with Cuban cigars and a kiss-and-tell documentary about all my socialist-transmitted peccadilloes.
Mark splits his time between California and Michigan, but is always in the state of confusion and befuddlement. His wife told us so.