Wednesday, December 28, 2011

An Anecdote, To Lighten The Mood.

Edit: I wrote this post commemorating my 20th birthday to parody the absurdly pretentious style of writing that my boyfriend used in a four-part saga documenting the way he had met his previous girlfriend. I pretty much did this just to be an asshole. We've since broken up (one of the obvious reasons being that I frequently mocked him and he couldn't stand it anymore) and this post now is irrelevant to my revamped blog, but I put way too much effort into this masterpiece (if I do say so myself), so it stays. - November 15, 2012


It began the night before my 20th birthday, with plans to try out a wine bar and have a chill night, in preparation for "going hard" the night after (at Karlovy Lazne, AKA a shitfest of a 7-story club that includes an entire floor dedicated to "Black Music" also known as Top 40s American Hip Hop).

It started as expected -- we had a nice stroll and dined at a delicious faux-Italian Czech restaurant and uneventfully found our merry way to said wine bar.

Then shit got crazy.

As we were enjoying our pitchers of sinfully cheap house wine... a wild prostitute appeared. Here is a picture of her for reference:

She entered the dimly lit cellar room in what can only be described as an awkward shimmy, and proceeded to climb on fours on top of our tables. We were extremely entertained by her attempts to dutty wine and seduce our friend VM (I originally intended to nickname him VD before realizing what that actually stands for), especially when she pounced on him in a straddle and gyrated enthusiastically, all the while sticking her tongue into his ears and grunting in an animalistic manner. As characteristic of one of his upright, Indian heritage and British boarding school background, he pulled frantically at his hair and desperately screamed, "OHHHHH-MY-GO-HD! WOT, THE, FOCK! OOOOH-MY-GO-HD!!!"

(Censored to protect the innocent)

She then sauntered away and cooed at whom we could only assume as her sugar daddy or pimp, a large Czech Fat Joe of a man in a red hoodie, and we moved to a larger table without further incident. Eventually, she sashayed her way over to a table of German men and attempted a similar show, humping a rather goodlooking one, who caught my eye with a look of plea for help. He then stood abruptly, unceremoniously dumping her to the floor, and waved for me to approach him. Obviously, I countered with a smirk and a "no, YOU come hither" motion.

During this exchange, the Czech whore decided that our table was much more fun and stampeded upon our table once again, knocking over glasses and pitchers. My friends became distraught, as she began to attempt to pull my other (small, female) Indian companions up on the table with her, and subsequently viciously curse at and violently slap VM, screaming to them, "YOU WANT I KILL HIM? I KILL HIM?"

As my friends protested and tried to explain to her that VM is our friend and we would really prefer that she didn't kill him and that she stopped beating the shit out of him, the German man - Stephen - gave in and asked me if I would like a drink.

At the same time, our friend Dre had enough of the crazy bitch's shit and took a pitcher of wine over to her sugar daddy/pimp, which he slammed down on the bar next to him before looking dead into his eyes and saying solemnly, "You need to control your bitch."

With the bitch summoned away, we were free to convene with the Germans (who we learned were army men vacationing from Berlin) and everyone hit it off well and had a grand old time.

It was then that I discovered that Stephen had loads of money and I held the power to have him spend it on my friends.

After he had bought several rounds of drinks, my friends concocted the bright idea of going to a strip club (to this day I have no idea who the original culprit is).

And up we went, the seven of us, and Stephen and two of his mates, to find a random African man in Wenceslas Square, who would lead us to our destiny.

He didn't take us to a strip club.

He took us to a live sex show, at a place called:

And from here on forth, the rest of the story that will be related is what was told to me the following day.

We entered the club and discovered, as revealed, that we were not at a strip club. This was made fairly clear by the well-lit stage in the middle of the room that spotlighted women doing obscene things to each other a la Requiem for a Dream.

Allegedly, bathroom lines were extremely long due to "performers" cozying up with patrons in the facilities and I spent a majority of the time at the friendly establishment:

a) Bitching about the wait to pee;
b) Screaming stage-side that the show wasn't even good and the girls were just whores anyways; and
c) Coercing Stephen into buying many rounds of shots for all of my friends (and trustfully leaving his wallet in my care, to purchase more overpriced drinks, as he partook in the AIDS-infested bathroom line).

I also spent a small portion of time dramatically perching onto Stephen's lap and then yawning in a drama queen, stage-like manner while preening as he gushed about how beautiful I was, before strutting over to my friends (with their many complimentary drinks) and saucily smirking, "YOU'RE WELCOME."

At the end of the night, I safely went home with my friends and promised Stephen I would contact him about my plans the following night.

I never did.

And needless to say, I passed out before 11 pm during the pre-game the next night. My friends ended up just going to KFC and drunkenly plotted to persuade me that we really did make it to Karlovy and I had blacked out before we left, so I didn't remember any of it. It didn't work because while I truly was a spectacularly hot mess that night, I am not retarded.

And while it sounds as if I am embellishing this story, or that I think I'm some God's Gift to Men for owning the rights to a [true] story such as this, you can ask any of the seven people who were present for this if what I have relayed is true. It happened, and I think it's hilarious. And any of those seven people who can vouch for this story will also just as readily and truthfully agree that I don't think I'm hot shit, and I am not a sadistic Man Eater, and I really was just letting the night unfold for the sake of the story to tell and for the benefit of my dear friends (WHO GOT A LOT OF FUCKIN FREE DRINKS).

And if you actually made it through this entire story without vomiting from either my chosen style of writing or the content of this post, then kudos to you and I warmly welcome you to the official blog of the biggest Shitshow you will ever meet and, hopefully, adore. I mean love.

XOXO (it seems proper to end a post of this fashion in this manner),


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