Your average stag party abroad. January 20, 2008

 

¡Hola chicos!

After two weeks at home lazing in the winter sun, I feel like a Thomas Cook package holiday to Lloret de   Mar. All that is missing in my garden is the actual beach, fucking ugly high rises, chubby Germans in speedos and English football fans. Ohh, and the ever decorative puddle of regurgitated whatever. Because really, no package holiday is complete without!

 
“Alright, mate?”

What more is necessary to make Lloret de Mar the holiday of your short, inebriated life? First of all, make sure it isn’t just any trip to Spain…make it a stag party! Hell yeah! The more the merrier…make sure everybody brings his ‘STAG OF THE YEAR’ t-shirt, you don’t want to go without it when pulling the ladies. Because they just flock to you and yer mates, you know. And before leaving, practice your drunken slurs. That way, you can go up to any old hag and say whatever nasty things you would like to say when you are sober, because she will just think you are drunk and thus won’t bitch-slap you in the face. Right, fellas? I suggest: “Allllriiiiight dear? ‘Ows it ‘angin’? Wanna shag? I’m fookin’ drrrrrrunk!” Adding that you are drunk will take away any doubt that might be lingering in her mind. And also, target the sun-cooked, platinum blonde, fake-boobed 50+ ladies. It’ll be easier for both of you.
So that’s that sorted! But apart from pulling skills, you will also need to be able to dance like a total tosser. Maybe a bit of the good old polonaise dancing? Or the River Dance moves (best fucking video you ever bought, isn’t it)? I find most of you favour jumping up and down while putting your arms around the shoulders of your mates, though. Do it while holding a pint, that way it will go all over the fucking place except in your mouth. I am sure that hot slag over there will love being totally covered in Heineken. And don’t forget to shout the name of your country every once in a while. All your countrymen will gather round and then you can all start the best polonaise Lloret has ever seen.
So that’s pulling and dancing covered. The last and probably most important skill you need to possess: how to get that ugly lass out of your bed. The easiest thing to do is just get up and leave. She should be gone around nine-ish. If she should wake up while you try to make your escape, say you are going to look after your mate. He had a bit of a rough night. It’s a great excuse because 99% true, so she will understand and bugger off. If all your attempts fail, just pick her up and dump her outside. She will be too drunk to even notice anyway.

Now you can get on the next Ryanair flight to Lloret de Mar! And remember lads, the best food is to be found at the 38374029 or so ex-pat restaurants! Because really, who in their right mind would ever eat paella? It’s good old steak and kidney pie/Bratwürst/chips and mayonnaise/…for you lot!

 

 

 

How white. January 13, 2008

Yesterday I injured myself making pesto. The whitest thing to happen. It is white enough to make your own pesto when you are not italian, and it is even whiter for the maiming of a body part to be involved. 
I almost imagine myself as an upper middle class housewife mingling with the high society, dahling.

“Oh, I always make my own. I find it much more pleasing, the whole experience to pop down to the farmers’ market and buy organic basil, organic pine nuts from the Levant and the purest extra virgin olive oil you can get — it just feels like Tuscany in my kitchen, which reminds me of that holiday when Lady Smith-Hughes and I embarked on such an adventure! This charming casa up on the hill, and the charming village at the bottom…I learned a great deal from the inhabitants, they are so hands on, they know the secret of real food. An endearing elder lady shared her recipe for the richest pesto — oh, but I am wandering off!”

So here is a picture of the maimed body part in all its clumsy middle-class glory:

My ring finger! Covered in gauze! Oh, lawd.

It could be the result of any white accident: getting your fingers between the door of your Audi A4, having it struck by a tennis ball when you were thirty – love ahead in the deciding set, spilling a piping hot expresso over it, and even getting caught in the reins of your horse when going from a gentle trot to full gallopping pace.

Thanks be to Jebus that I am not an upper middle class housewife, but a student living in a cramped room in a building shared with twenty-five other people, and that I have microwaved lasagna on a regular basis. Nothing like white flabby cheese on top of generic bolognese sauce.

Douuuuuche! January 12, 2008

Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu! Wuz hannan? Its ya folk Soulja Boy!

I can’t decide what is worse: the fact that he tipp-ex’ed his name onto some sunglasses, or the fact that he decided to prance around with ‘D&E’ shades. Damn, you would have thought he made enough money crankin’ dat roosevelt to at least buy the real thing. Also, I am not hatin’ on you ’cause you got you some Bathin’ Apes, Soulja Boy. I am confining you to the dark reaches of my deep cave of hate because you didn’t refrain from getting them.
You know what I also want to confine you to? A classroom. And have court impose a life sentence of grammar on you. Shit son, there is a difference between having dyslexia and being retarded. 
I would slap you on the back for Supermannin’, but I don’t want to catch your herpes. It is a win-win situation: you waste sperm on dressing up your hoes, and the world lets out a sigh of relief each time you don’t impregnate one of them. Somewhere in between all the dress-up parties you did manage to go wrong, so I have an awful semi-pun for you that still transcends your literary skills: you are a cock-up.
Maybe you should learn from the great T-Pain. No homo!

Oh, also: $19.99?! Idiot. Kids get theirs for $0.99 at Wal-Mart.

Hello. January 12, 2008

This is me. My hair doesn’t always look crap.