In looking around Mexico, I noticed that innocents were being massacred and that people were living under an unfair and repressive government. So much for my normal idiocy and complacence-it was time for me to act.

I organized a mass revolution, and I released the people from oppression; I released the political prisoners; I released those cowering under military rule; I released an album of mariachi Elvis covers; I released my bladder in the middle of the street, for which I was tossed in a Mexican prison so vile as to make an afternoon with Jesse Helms seem like a walk in something other than a septic tank; but I then released myself and proceeded to, in the immortal words of the Taco Bell marketing folks, make a run for the border. Actually, all I did in Mexico was hang around the hotel pool (they wouldn't let my fat ass in the pool, lest all the water be forced out).

Yes, after wiping out the stock at every local Mexican restaurant and still being hungry for one more burrito, I decided to follow the giant sucking sound (it turned out to be me trying to consume some tacos) to Mexico, specifically Cancun. Being one to take in the local color (yes, my mass is dense enough that I now absorb light and color like a black hole) I of course set out to do some sightseeing. First stop were the Mayan ruins at Tulum, now inhabited by more lizards than you'll ever see together outside of congress. Turns out the lead lizard or "king" bears an uncanny resemblance to Jim Morrison. Anyway, my tour guide informed me that Mayan culture may be dead (resting alongside American culture, I'm afraid) but that Mayans themselves are secretly alive and well. Closet Mayans, eh? That'd explain the short man with the huge headdress I found lurking behind the shirts and pants I'd hung up at the hotel.

When I asked how well these secret Mayans were doing after not so secretly being massacred at Chiapas, I was summarily thrashed by local soldiers and at least two large iguanas, and cast into the sea. Luckily for me, they'd strapped on some flippers and a mask, so I did a little snorkeling. Ah, there's nothing quite like snorkeling above a beautiful reef, although I must say it was a drag being mistaken for a whale ("ahoy, there's Moby Dork, the white, hairy whale!"). When a Japanese tourist tried to harpoon me, I knew it was time to take some drastic action.

The most drastic I ever get is using an exclamation point at the end of a sentence instead of a period, but I decided to take advantage of some cheap surgery. Yes, I led my own personal mass revolution and got me some Mexican liposuction (which is essentially the same as any other liposuction, although it involves wrapping the fat in corn tortillas). I understand they've used my blubber to start a rather successful perfume factory (I believe the fragrance is called "eau de horror, de horror").

Thanks to this surgery and the ancient white-man weight-loss methods of Montezuma, who simply sought to change the fact that the conquistadores didn't give a shit about wiping out him and his people, I'm now back down to a manageable bulk. Hell, I lost so much weight that I was able to make a few bucks by smuggling in some closet Mayans (including my new ghost writer; be looking for the Spanish-language version of this column soon, mi amigos) in my now-cavernous pants. So much for livin' large.

What's a leaner body with some extra pesos to burn to do around these parts? I decided to take my newly lardless booty to boogie with George Clinton and P-Funk at Duke. Even though the P-Funksters do have a song called "Better By The Pound," it was nice to be able to shake my stuff without it registering on the Richter scale. The most touching part of the show came when Clinton brought out his granddaughter-to help him sing a paean to marijuana. You've got to love family values. They even had long-lost cousin Bill Clinton waiting in the wings, trying hard not to inhale.

At least that's the way I see it. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go conquer the most important part of Mexico-the bottle of tequila I brought home. If you've got some limes, then, as my ghost writer says, mi casa es sue's casa, (but Sue's let me sign a generous rental agreement). Adios.