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 I was born in a log cabin my father built.

 Wait, ...wrong story!
 That's the BartCop biography,  ...hold on,

 Here it is.

 It was 1973, and I'd just bought a new Pontiac LeMans with the fancy-handlin' package,
 for a mere $4200. I was 19 at the time,  and the stupid laws wouldn't allow me to handle
 my own affairs until I turned 21, so I hired Bobby Odom, a rich, connected attorney
 in Fayetteville to have me certified an adult so I could get to business.

 Somebody suggested "road trip," so naturally, we thought we'd leave the country and test
 the constitution of our neighbors to the south. My buddy Carl and I jumped in the car and
 headed down Highway 71.  (By the way, have you seen the movie From Dusk Till Dawn?)

 For some damn reason, we stopped in Nacogdoches, Texas to eat some mushrooms that didn't work.
 I guess we were just lucky.  Carl knew some dude there, but he was too fried to make sense.

 From there, we continued south to Houston, where we met up with our filty-rich friend "Brad C"
 and his crazy friend Bobby. He suggested if we were going to Mexico, we should go in style,
 so I drove him to some Houston country club where he picked up his mom's new gold Thunderbird.

 So the four of us headed south to McAllen, Texas.

It's not on the map, but just over the river from McAllen is Reynosa, Mexico.
They call it "Boy's Town," but nobody said why.
The locals said this was the favorite party place for the Texas Catholic priests,
but they didn't explain that, either.

So we four idiots drive into this Koresh-forsaken hole in a shiny new T-Bird.
We looked like the richest people on town, and we may have been that night.
Reynosa was a town, but it had no pavement on the streets. It looked like a
town you might see in Judge Roy Bean or High Plains Drifter.
All it was missing were poles out front to tie up the horses.
And here come the don't-know-any-better dumb, white Americans.
Brad and his buddy had been here before, but it was a first for Carl and me.

So Brad found a saloon for us to have a few beers.
There's a lot I don't remember about this place, but it really did look like a saloon from an old
Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. Looking back, it's hard to imagine I was once this stupid,
since my current IQ is just 64, but the saloon was full of very young and very pretty Mexican girls.

The four of us got a booth, and some beers, and a party broke out. After a few beers, some young
senoritas came to our table. There was one particularly-strikingly beautifuil young girl who fixated
on me. I was, if you remember, only 19 at the time, but this extraordinarily attractive young senorita
must've been only 14 or 15.

There was, I suppose, some attempt at conversation, but I didn't know Spanish, and her English was
limted to words that started with "S" and "F." She was also quite good at knwoing the current exchange
rates to convert American dollars into Mexican pesos. Try to keep in mind that I was young and stupid
and getting drunk on Mexican beer and she was particularly attractive in a very young-girl kind of way.

How shall I describe what happened next?
I guess I could put it this way...

She seemed to think I was President Clinton and she thought she was the
ditto-monkey 106th congress and it was her "duty" to "just get the facts."

...end Part One of  "BartCop in a Mexican Jail"

 So here I was, making almost every effort to avoid impeachment.
 (That almost may be the most important word in this story.)

 As negotiations for the girl's services came to a close, we chose sides.
 Common sense told me going to another country, getting drunk, then going "upstairs" with a young girl
 who'd get me 5-10 even in Arkansas,  and on top of all that - dropping my pants - didn't sound right.
 (Don't even ask. I was well out of the grasp of the Caths by then.)

 There's a "when in Rome" thing that applied here, but I didn't.
 Even as far back as 1973, I had Mrs. BartCop waiting for me at home, and I didn't want to fuck that up.

 Speaking of which, the men won't like this, but it's the truth.
 At least half the men would cheat on their wives in a fucking heartbeat  if they had the chance. In my 25 years
 or so in the business world, I've been to too many out-of-town conventions and stuff like that to know that
 when a man is out of town - he is single.

 I could tell you lots and lots of stories, but I'll never finish this if I do.
 But for some men it's "out of town."
 For men who love their wives, it's "out of state."
 For men who really love their wives, it's "six states away,"
 and for those who really, really love their wives, it's "out of the country."

 (It goes without saying that there are NO married men in Las Vegas.
  If a man is in Las Vegas, he is single.
  That's how they built the town.
  All that gambling stuff is a COVER!
 "Oh. honey, you wouldn't want to go with us to Vegas this time.
  Me & the guys are going to gamble all week."

 And, please, don't tell me you didn't know...
 Why do you think it's called "Sin City?"
 Because that's where men remember their vows?
 ha ha

 Men, out-of-town, cheat.
 It's what men do.
 That's what was so triple-stupid about the women forgiving Clinton for Monica,
 but all the men stood in line to call him 'that terrible scumbag."

 Of those who called Clinton a "scumbag," EIGHTY percent are guilty.
 They figured calling him names would make better cover for their wife.
 I, on the other hand, who have never cheated, was comfortable saying,
 "It was just a blow job, let it go."

 ...tap on the shoulder...

 Will I ever get back to the Mexican tavern?

 OK.
 If I hammer some beautiful 15-year old pro from another country,
 that's not cheating, because, ...because, ... it's not illegal there.
 (Trust me, a man will search for that caveat.)
 A man won't cheat on his his wife until he finds a reason why it's OK,
 and most times that reason shows up ten seconds after the search begins.

 So, it's decision time:

 My buddy Carl and I said a polite, "No," to the sweet, young and lovely Senoritas, while Brad and
 Bobby agreed to sample the goods, pay the ten dollars and retire upstairs with the young ladies.
 When I say, "upstairs," I remember a wooden ladder and hay falling out from the second story.
 It was really in a barn as much as a tavern.

 Having made our intentions clear, the girls left Carl and I alone.
 After a while, we needed a restroom so we asked a passing waitress.
 She gave us a quizzical look, then pointed outside the door.
 Now, we're moving into fatal-mistake territory.

 Since she spoke no English words that did not begin with an "S" or an "F,"
 we assumed she meant we should just go outside. Remember, this is a town without paved roads.
 We assumed plumbing was something that was still on the Mexican drawing board.
 By this time, we had gotten pretty loopy. We stumbled outside into the dirt-and-grass parking lot.
 We located a spot in the dark between two cars and took care of business.

 Just then, I'll never forget this, four federales in a brown 1953 Chevy
 jumped out and grabbed us. Each man had a giant Smith & Wesson revolver.
 I don't know the model number, but the grips on these guns guns were hueueueueuge,
 much larger than I could get my hand around.

Carl was put in the front seat with a federale on either side.
I was put in the back seat, and we started driving away from town
into the dark Mexican desert.

Thank Koresh,
I didn't have the capacity to realize how much trouble we were in.
 

 Click  Here for Part Two of Bartcop in a Mexican Jail

 
Dumbass me, I thought we were going for beer...

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