The Toilet Fiasco

Let me preface this by saying that I am not some sort of raging alcoholic. Actually the rough opposite of what I do with my days involves drinking alcohol and partying. Unless, that is, you consider forcing a frantic and cold-hearted bird-beast with no feelings and a beastly heartless bird body to love me as the height of revelry. In which case you need to get out more (or, if you’re Dumpling, you’re NOT EVER going to get out until you freely feed from my hand and love me).

Right.

So, in short, the story that I’m about to tell you about my weekend bender should be taken as evidence to support – not contradict – my non-partying, non-drinking ways. Were I a seasoned alcoholic, none of the events would have taken place (or at least not in such a terrifying manner).

Here it goes:

As many of these stories tend to, mine started off innocently with Swedish-themed feasting and a couple of homemade cocktails. Unfortunately things unravelled rather quickly and – some memories missing here – I ended up at a little gay club with Simon.

Furthermore, since the events leading up to that moment involved pounding down what turned out to be an entire bottle of gin, I also found my bladder calling for sweet relief. So I politely excused myself from the company of a giant bunny and made my way to the ladies’ bathroom, my body tingling with the thought of the elation I would soon feel.

Then the worst possible thing happened: the door was locked. Locked! Can you imagine? I thrashed the handle in disbelief, and then promptly inspected the walls for possible secret entrances, muttering madly under my breath. Observation: I get a little paranoid when I’m drunk.

I even gave a broom closet a try (beggars can’t be choosers).

When this failed I had an epiphany. Right then, for no logical reason, I became convinced that the female toilet had been locked by the staff on purpose. I was sure of it and the realisation forced me into a kind of panicked desperation. Why would anybody ever do such a thing? I clawed at the door hoping that maybe somehow I’d get through. Then, finally, thought about tearing my pants off.

Luckily good sense prevailed and instead I walked back into the bar, accosted the first stranger I could find, and in drunk, slurring, broken German explained that I needed to pee pretty badly, DESPERATELY actually. The pee baby inside me was ready to storm screaming into this world and anybody attempting to stop it would inevitably have their head kicked in…and by some mix-up, the female toilet was locked. Then, like a savvy woman of the 21st century world who knows what’s what, I concluded with the German version of, “izzz pruuubly locked khhoz I’m dee only woman in heeere.”

As good fortune would have it, the stranger was as delighted by my German as he was moved by my plight, and followed me into the female toilet hallway to help me thrash at all doors in the vicinity.

This didn’t work so, feeling understandably outraged, he thundered over to the bar and with Law & Order conviction demanded that the female toilet door be unlocked. Immediately! Surprisingly this didn’t have the intended effect; the bar guy merely shrugged and, ignoring the theatrics or the dangerous way in which I was looking at his sink, claimed that the toilet was open.

It made no sense. If it was open why couldn’t I get in?

Then my answer walked out and briskly made itself scarce.

Not for one second had I entertained the notion that someone might have been using the coveted female toilet. I hadn’t considered the possibility that while I was thrashing around like a banshee on crack, a frightened German woman was squatting over the toilet bowl paralysed by the thought that I might actually get in.

Under normal circumstances I would have died of embarrassment or at least started digging a shallow grave before encouraging my friends to hit me over the head with a shovel and bury me in it. But since I was rather drunk, I found the woman’s curious behaviour delightfully puzzling.

“Why didn’t she just shout?” I laughed, as if though she was the crazy one. “Did you see the way she shuffled off?”

Yeah. Good stuff.

ummm…The End.

I got licked by a huge head (and not in a sexy way)*

Right, well, this post might come back to kick me in the arse, but it needs to be said and I’m not one to shut up in inappropriate situations. Like that time I inadvertently told a friend – in a conspiratorial whisper, might I add – that the guy who he had been hooking up with (the guy who I had NO IDEA he had been hooking up with) had kissed someone else.

And everybody around me was mouthing, “Agnes don’t say it! For the love of hotel blankets (for I do love hotel blankets) STOP!”

Yeah.

Important lesson: Hints get lost on Agnes when Agnes is in the middle of what she perceives to be a really good story. Agnes will not stop until she’s done…no matter how intensely you stare at her (Simon) or how many times you wink (Yuri). In fact she might think she’s turned you straight with her wit and this is your way of telling her she’s the love of your life. Next time please force her mouth shut with a staple gun. Then tie a pretty bow around it (maybe something in blue?)

Back to the story: Despite the severe looks, hand gestures and the cheerleading squad chanting “NO AGNES NO!” I kept on joyfully driving the dagger further into my friend’s heart like, “I heard they pashed for hours and now – most likely – they’re going to adopt a baby and a basket of kittens…”

The sound of hands slapping foreheads was deafening.

And that’s when I realised that, oh yes, that whimpering noise coming from my friend is in fact the last shred of his happiness fighting for its life. But, of course, this panicked me. I don’t do well when panicked.

Important Lesson: Don’t panic Agnes. She don’t shut up, dauuug.

So of course I did not shut up. In fact I did the exact opposite of shutting up; I began to mumble, vocally and very nonsensically, until after several pained, confused minutes – at about the point when the atmosphere in the room excused itself and left – I let my voice trail off to no more than a whisper. Like I could just fade myself out and nobody would notice that I was totally crazy.

And it kind of worked.

But then there was silence. And that’s not something I respond to well. Brain goes: SILENCE MUST BE FILLED. THERE SHALL BE NO SILENCE. HATE SILENCE. So I engaged again (Forehead. Hand. SLAP!), and attempted to steer the conversation onto safer ground with something lighthearted like, “Hey?! Hey! How’s about tampons? Hey? Pretty nifty little suckers, hey?…”

Which incidentally brings me back to what I was originally saying about Oh My God Look At That Head. Not that him or his imprudent tongue had anything to do with tampons. But we did accidentally stumble across a tampon on the dance floor of the club in which The Licking Incident happened (clearly a very classy establishment). We’ll discuss this later because, more importantly, WHAT KIND OF A PERSON LICKS A TOTAL STRANGER?!

Not me, that’s for sure. Even when I can’t control my tongue it stays firmly inside my mouth (thank God, can you imagine?!). No, you’re right, let’s not.

Sorry, here’s the story:

There I was innocently dancing – an exercise that takes on more life, and exaggerated movements, the more alcohol I drink. That particular night some fool had given me a plastic tumbler of tequila under the premise that is was a Margarita.

Consequently I got tanked, and my arms and legs went all erratic, like a basket of kittens. They were everywhere – sampling drinks, sniffing crotches, climbing up legs, peeing on legs, playing with shoelaces and doing it all very enthusiastically. Until disaster struck; they bumped Oh My God Look At His Head (Is It Even Real?)’s drink, and it spilt down my back. Ewww sticky mystery fluid on back!

And then, out of nowhere, just as I was turning around to examine what had happened, I saw a HUGE head moving towards me. Like an asteroid, only much larger – tongue already half out. Before I could protest or move or beat it off with my shoe, I felt the tongue lick the offensive liquid off my back.

IT LICKED ME!

The giant head licked me!

There’s not much more to this story, I just felt an irrepressible need to share it with you. Although I feel as if though there should be a moral in all of this.

Okay I’ve got one: Don’t get smashed on tequila and licked by a HUGE head.

*Is there such a thing as getting licked by a huge head in a sexy way? I mean, I can't say for sure, but my gut instinct is telling me NO!

This actually happened

I’m back in Munich. It’s totally bizarre. Dumpling is part outraged and part placated by my return.  Although being a modest bird he no longer sees it fit to bathe during the day and waits until his cage is covered for the night. There is a slight problem with this in that he’s almost completely blind in the dark, so about half of the time he crashes into the cage.

Adorable.

He’s also discovered a love of opera, which I’ve been listening to quite a bit. He joins in quite frequently although, sadly, he still sounds like a modem. I believe works by Puccini are his favourite, but to be fair I’m not sure if his singing is a sign of joy or distress. I like to think that the lyrics really speak to his heart ( and that his heart is Italian).

More importantly, I’m not happy about Dumpling highjacking this post because it was supposed to be about how I wet my pants on the plane. Don’t worry I didn’t actually wet my pants. I merely spilled half a glass of warm Heineken beer on them.

It was just sitting there in the cup holder looking all available and I thought “hey why not violently slam this into my crotch an hour before landing?” and followed up by violently slamming it into my crotch an hour before landing.

The result was a wet crotch (and also seat). Moments later a hushed whisper of “oh my god I think the girl in 36A wet herself” spread through the plane.

My seat neighbour was kind enough to run out and get me tissues, which helped to dry up some of the beer, but also helped to make me look like the girl who was dabbing at her crotch with tissues.

Then I was faced with a decision: do I do whatever it takes (WHATEVER IT TAKES) to dry my pants or do I act normal but then walk off the plane with a wet arse/crotch/upper thighs (half a cup, people!).

I decided that my fellow passengers were already convinced that something gross and unspeakable had happened in my seat so, just as the captain was announcing our upcoming descent, I started doing airplane pilates. I threw my legs as far up the seat in front of me and side of the plane as my crippling lack of flexibility and sense of decency would allow (in order to get some airflow, of course) and smiled apologetically at the passing air hostesses mouthing “beer accident” at them.

Then, when shit got serious – that’s 20 minutes before landing – I employed the services of an inflight magazine to fan myself. Just you picture that: a crazy, disgruntled woman (you’d better believe that I was mumbling to myself the whole time) fanning her crotch after dabbing it with tissues and performing aerobics…with a wet crotch. Yup. That was me. This actually happened.

But besides STINKING like beer, by the time I left the plane my arse was almost completely dry. I didn’t look back on my seat and only spared a passing thought to what the staff would think upon finding it. I hope they understood.

But I’ll tell you what – let’s not mention the cab ride home – it’s good to be here. Even with a crotch full of dried beer. Home sweet home and all that.

Styrofoam styrofab

A few days ago. Or was it weeks? Who’s keeping track anyway? I was trying to find pictures of homemade Styrofoam gaiters, so that I could, in the most descriptive, graphic way possible, share my childhood humiliation with whoever wanted to laugh at me.

You’ll be as shocked as I was, I’m sure, when I tell you that there are no pictures of homemade Styrofoam gaiters on the internet. None.

This of course means that my parents are evil geniuses and should be put in charge of the next Saw film because, dudes, they know a thing or two about torture.

Some of the things that did come up in my various searches included:

One life-size Styrofoam  four-wheel drive:

Loads of Styrofoam robots:

A kitten in Styrofoam

And this guy (WTF?):

 

I think the pictures speak for themselves...

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.