by Joe Buonfiglio
I could NEVER be a drug mule. It just wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s not for a lack of enjoying product, mind you. If that overstuffed condom could just leak eeeeeeeeeever-so slightly, that would be just fine by me. You know, not enough to kill me; just make me forget what country I’m in for a couple of days.
Now looking at my ass, your first thought is going to be “Damn! This guy would be a natural as a drug mule.” But no, you’d be wrong. It would never work. Here’s why…
The first hurdle is born of my primary profession; I’m a writer. That means I suffer from the “writer’s curse.” No, that’s not indicative of me working in McDonald’s until I’m 70 years old just to keep the lights on, the cigs in my pocket and the Irish whiskey next to my keyboard. Don’t be such a smartass. (Although, in all likelihood, that will probably be my fate.) The unspoken-until-now truth is that I’m talking hemorrhoids. And not just any hemmies, writer’s roids; honkin’ big suckers. Hemorrhoids the size of ostrich eggs. Hemorrhoids that come with their own zip code. Hemorrhoids that view a tube of Preparation H ointment as some sort of quaint aperitif. You just can’t stick a sex-balloon stuffed with China white up there; it won’t work. Even if you could, you’d need to hire a professional salvage company in order to have even a modicum of hope of extracting it outta there. So don’t even think about it. I’m not bleeding out just so some rich Hollywood prick or greasy skid row junkie can get high; not at any price.
I can only stretch my dignity so far.
On top of the obvious unseemly medical quandary, there is also the whole “no sense of direction” thing with which to contend. Because let’s face it, without a GPS, I’d have no fucking clue as to how to get home from the supermarket, let alone make my way from some sweltering, godforsaken South American hellhole back north to mother ‘merica. God only knows how many souls were saved when I was kicked out of the Coast Guard Academy back in the days of my youth. Me skipper a Coast Guard vessel?
“Captain Joe! We’re receiving a desperate SOS from a sinking ship just north of us! What are your ord— Are you flipping a coin?”
A good drug mule needs to know the difference between north and south. It’s just a necessary skillset I do not possess.
Another thing crucial to being a proper drug mule is to be relatively nondescript; your physical features should be commonplace, unremarkable, unmemorable in every way. The authorities should take one look at you and not give you a second thought.
Me? I look like a cross between a pedophilic mall Santa and someone recently placed on the terrorist no-fly list. Airport TSA agents take one look at me while I’m innocently placing my electronic devices and my shoes into the x-ray bins and they salivate. There I am in the security herding-line right next to a hundred other hapless schmucks forced to do the exact-same thing at the exact-same time, yet it’s me they can’t wait to bend over and shove the old latex glove up my nether regions in order to extensively and uncomfortably explore some inner quest to uncover illegal party favors during my cavity search they’ve unceremoniously raised to the level of maniacal spelunking.
I actually look as if I’m hiding something … always … at all times. This is not a good quality in a drug mule. A drug mule should not look like … well … a drug mule. This brings me to the grand finale…
When I get nervous, I sweat.
No, you don’t get it. I mean I sweat. I really sweat. A fucking lot. As in I excessively excrete perspiration. Moist. I’m really, really moist. I’m just … wet.
My driver’s test, exams of any kind or duration, my wedding, book and script pitching, public speaking, private speaking… Shit, I even sweat if I don’t know the answer to a question when I’m watching fucking Jeopardy! Can you imagine me being grilled by the authorities at the border?
“Okay, Mister Boo-wan-figgy-leo, are you entering the country today for business or for pleas— Hey, are you okay?! Jesus Christ, your clothes are fucking soaked! Are you having a heart attack or something? Pull your car over there next to the Border Patrol K-9 units and we’ll have the doc check you— Oh my God! Did you just shit yourself?!”
So if you need a drug mule, look elsewhere. I have no intention of winding up spending the next twenty years being Big Bubba’s big-house boiler room backdoor bitch simply because I didn’t recognize my own vocational limitations. The only thing I’ll be trafficking within the confines of my rather rotund posterior is the eventual byproduct of the “Grilled Stuft Nacho Big Box” from Taco Bell.
Hey, you “Live Más” your way and I’ll live it mine.
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.