There’s something about Yuri

Aside from going to brothels, Simon and I also spent a part of Christmas looking through the Urban dictionary. It’s awesome for entertaining simple minds like ours with obscure definitions.

Like “whorey”, which is described as: "a bitch with an ass so large her knee continuely (sic) blows out due to her legs not being able to support it."

example: "I can't dance anymore because my ass broke my knee again."

But the most fun of all is looking up your friends’ names like:

Sheree

To be a sheree... a sexually frustrated, easy going teabagger

example: “your (sic) such a tea bagging sheree”

Joanne:

The lucky people who are named Joanne are attributed special qualities such as beauty, intelligence and compassion. They are loved by everyone and everything thing. Babies crawl to them and dogs wag their tails. Joanne's are the most adorable people ever. They have the innocent element that attracts all men, but only devotes themselves to one special guy.

Curtis wants to share a special secret -- "I love you Joanne."

example: Guy 1: Dude, you know Joanne?
Guy 2: Yeah, she' fucking pwnage

Jahnvi:

A smarty-pants, someone who is always right. A jahnvi is an amazing friend, and is always there to cheer you up with adorable little frog drawings. jahnvi's are obsessed with the color green and tend to bribe people with grape jolly ranchers. in some way or another, jahnvis are ALWAYS right, and even though their brain may take a little vacation every now and then, they will forever remain a smarty-pants.

example: “She is such a jahnvi.”

and Yuri:

Explicit lesbian relationships in anime or manga

example: “Makoto and Ami of Sailor Moon have long been suspected of being involved in a yuri subplot.”

Wait, what now?!

A very whorey Christmas to you…

Firstly come on Microsoft Word 2010. Don’t play dumb with me, you know what “whorey” is…you don’t have to be all like “did you mean “worry”?” you’re fooling nobody.

Secondly, the reason why I say a very whorey Christmas to you is because we spent Christmas Day morning in a brothel.

What? Where? Did you say “brothel”? (Word recognises that one, by the way)

But yes, that’s exactly what I said.

After getting considerably tanked on beer, wine, vodka and slivovice (73% proof) at our family Christmas dinner, Mark, Simon, Nina, Jessie and I decided to take it up a notch. So we took to the streets of Zurich and, after rejecting a few strip clubs, finally walked into an unassuming bar decorated by red lights…and strolled straight into the arms of a toothless old man.

And he was all “Blah blah blah…something in Swiss German…..blah blah blah”, which roughly translated as “Great! Fresh meat! Hey Larry, have a look: there are fresh new whores for us! Santa’s been a right good bastard this year. Hand me the butt plug will you?”

Needless to say we got the hell out of there before the near-naked overweight whores had time to beat us with their saggy boobs.

The moral of this Christmas tale? I you ever hear someone say “wow, Zurich is such a clean city!” slap them right across the face….and then point them to Langstrasse.

  

A story from earlier

Two days ago after a particularly biggish night Simon, Mark and I decided to venture out of our apartment at 2pm for a spot of breakfast. We did this somewhat delicately because the sunlight was hurting our eyes and the roads were slippery with ice and snow.

So there we were walking along when all of a sudden WHOOOSH! a man immediately to our right stacked it. And I mean STACKED IT. We saw the whole thing as if in slow motion – the grin that turned into a look of shock, the helpless flailing of the arms and finally the ungraceful dismount into yoga position 649 (the one where one leg is dangling above your head while the other one has jammed its way into your large intestine via your nostrils).

It only took a few seconds for the man to spring back to his feet and laugh about the entire incident with his companion while casting a backwards glance just in case he’d left something important, like his spleen, lying on the icy pavement. But his vision mustn’t have returned to him quite yet because he didn’t notice that his big black wallet was in fact lying there, right next to the imprint of his arse.

Being the good Samaritans that we are, all three of us – Mark, Simon and I – lunged to pick the wallet up and hand it back to him. And all three of us slipped and did the running man for a terrifying two seconds before recovering. The wallet got returned to the mortified but thankful man who went on his merry way while we almost lost our lives to laughter.

We started to imagine scenarios wherein we’d been caught up in the ice trap and rather than slipping back onto non-slippery ground had continued to run in the same spot. All three of us, just jogging with pronounced, animated movements and cheesy grins while normal people walked past us to buy their bread.

I can’t explain just how funny we found this.

We're sober now.

An ode to Verity

Several months back my good friend Verity introduced me to a (former) good friend of hers: the gin fizz (they're not really on speaking terms at the moment).

Then yesterday it suddenly hit me - I've never really thanked her for the introduction. So I decided to dedicate this blog to her and to The Fizz.

Here it is. It's a game called "pick the German ingredient":

Fresh lime

Fresh mint

Gin

Ginger ale

 Robby Bubble

 

 glasses

someone to drink it (if they have crazy eyes, so much the better)

 Game on...

We’re off to Zurich!

Tomorrow…or technically today because it’s totally 3am and I’m totally going to finish watching Pride and Prejudice (the BBC version not that awful makes-me-want-to-pry-my-eyes-out-with-tealight-candles–or-something-similarly-unlikely Keira Knightley one) I’m taking off for Zurich.

I feel that this is the appropriate place to boast that given enough time and alcohol I could have stammered that sentence out in German. I might have come unstuck at the preposition side of things because, dudes, Germans use the weirdest prepositions. Like you travel after a country (what?) and you go into the theatre (who? Bobby? Bobby B? Bobby Brauuuun?).

Most of you would have just read that and been like “that bitch is crazy” and then you would have given it another thought and been like “but at least she’s stopped talking about prepositions”.

I thank those of you who totally got that Saturday Night Live reference, by the way.

But I don’t blame those of you who are being real C*&ts about the whole thing because I’m feeling angelic and full of Christmas spirit.

Not the least because I’m off to Zurich in a few hours. (And we’re back!)

The one thing – aside from my inability to speak in German, that is – that’s getting my knickers in a twist is the weather.

According to two out of three weather forecasts, Zurich is supposed to be a balmy five degrees for pretty much all of this and next week. There was a time when I thought that was cold, but that was before I publically fell over at Tollwood and landed in a whole heap of snow…oh and before all of the snow storms. So if it is five degrees I’m totally packing my bikini and nothing else.

But…the other, third website – the reputable BBC one at that – claims that the temperature in Zurich will drop well below zero and that we’ll get more snow before Christmas, which obviously requires a one-piece…and ear-muffs. So now I’m confused.

On the one hand maybe the BBC just missed its plane because of the snow and has fallen into reactionary panic like the rest of England, but on the other, maybe it doesn’t care so long as someone can feed it Yorkshire pudding. It’s hard to tell.

So thus far, my backpack is filled with nothing but promises that I’ll get my act together soon.  It’s just like that one time when I moved to Germany with only three pairs of socks…

New Year’s Eve in Munich

Type those words into Google and be amazed as nothing comes up….except for some story about how one woman left Munich and spent her NYE by one of the lakes two years ago…

Oh and then there’s that imaginary sad man playing that mandolin sadly in the corner. Sing it Roberto! (I named him Roberto).

Mark, Simon and I have decided not to let the apparent lack of enthusiasm get in the way of our spirits and are relentlessly trying to find ways to either not be here or, if we have to be, then at least find a place with a semi-decent atmosphere.

I’ve also toyed with the idea of getting our own fireworks (which, before you start throwing around wild accusations, are totally legal here).

However as the boys have repeatedly reminded me I’m clumsy so, by a course of unfortunate events later linked to alcohol, I’d probably end up impaling myself onto one of those things. Which means that my parents would end up seeing me on Channel 10 news with a firecracker sparkling out of my arse and Mark holding a giant “hi mum!” sign as an inappropriately-dressed news reporter related the story:

“An Australian woman in her mid (errghmm) twenties has perished after she shot herself into the air. The crowd was both shocked and entertained as fireworks shooting out of her arsehole spelled out “Happy New Year 2011”. Authorities later confirmed that the incident was an unfortunate combination of alcohol and clumsiness.

Tragic isn’t it Stanley, you roguish brute? Let me hear you talk about some balls…”

So I guess it’s no fireworks this year…

Questions that came up in conversation over an intellectual cocktail at the Jazzy-C:

1. Is that man engaging in internet sex talk? (the answer is “probably yes”)
2. Did Jazzy-C skimp out on the toilet décor (the answer, also “yes”)
3. Is that fruity thing that we can’t quite describe in German a cheesecake? (the answer was “I HATE YOU AND I’LL IGNORE YOU FROM NOW ON…but yes, kind of…)
4. Who was the first person to come up with circumcision?
5. How did that come about, do you think? 
6. Who thought of those tiny cocktail umbrellas and is he/she rich now? 
7. Why does the waitress hate us?
8. Is it because of the cake thing? We can explain: we wanted it.
9. Is it because Simon screamed out “NERDS” at the top of his lungs?
10. Is it? Because we’d really like to pay…
11. Are you ever going to let us pay?
12. What is going on with that man’s hair? An undercut and a ponytail, is that really necessary?
13. Hello? Are you going to bring our bill?
14. What would life inside of Jazzy-C be like, do you think?
15. Could we survive on alcohol and cake alone?
16. Has it really been 30-minutes since we asked for our bill?
17. Wow she really didn’t like us asking about the cake, did she?
18. Is it because we went to town on it?
19. Should we have been more courteous to the other patrons and, say, not made all of those slurping sounds?
20. Would it help if we licked the remnants off the walls and ceiling? 
21. How do you say “GIVE US THE BILL YOU STUPID WHORE!” in German? We don’t want to get it wrong (that would be impolite)

I’m going to finish this blog by reassuring you that eventually our waitress (who from now on shall be known as Dumb Arse Bitch Tits) finally gave us our bill and we left.

To show our indignation we didn’t leave a tip. That’s the last time old Bitch Tits will mess with us.