[AT&T Samsung Galaxy S II Skyrocket SGH-I727] Uncle Irish:
European Vacation

Waffle, waffle, waffle ……… fap

To the sex shows! Shooting the ping pong balls in the red solo cup. Peeling the banana. Blowing smoke rings with a cigar. The dirty Turks peddling their dope as you walk the streets gawking the Red Lights and the hookers in their scandalous negligée. The air is filled with the aroma of urine and great weed, sprinkled with just a tad of bum ****. Is it customary to carry that little bottle of hand sanitizer with you or are you just being paranoid? What’s the safe answer here? Where the beer is warm, the weed is great, and the hookers are hot.

Hop the Tram and fork over another 25 to the man in the little blue hat. Welcome to the land of yellow headlights and assholes. Little street cafes lined with asshole after asshole, sipping red wine, eating cute little sandwiches and stinking the place up with the worst possible blend of armpit funk. Imagine yourself trapped in a sumo wrestlers ass crack for three weeks. Catch one whiff of toad-pit and you’re yearning for that stained and crusty sumo thong all over again. Not much to say here, but why the hell would Jim want to rest here forever? I guess in his reptilian stupor of a life, he must have seen something I didn’t. Maybe he just wasn’t fond of deodorant. Who knows. Next –

Ahh, the land of drunken bastards who speak as though they have hot rocks in their mouth. Whiskey stained streets in the venue I chose to purvey. The smell of week old barf left caked up on the streets like some strange form of modern art. Pubs, bars, taverns. Call them what you will, but it all means the same thing; pull up a stool, drink yourself blind and punch the bloke to your left (to the right if you so choose). Strange day ahead filled with local delicacies such as rotten goat stomach or fish so old it looks more like the sole of a tennis shoe pulled from the bottom of the ocean after a 4 year hiatus. Drink, don’t eat.

On now to the land of gnomelike midget women. A carnival of beer catered by stout little broads lugging fistfuls of gallon deep mugs that overflow with a hot, thick beer so strong you feel the bruises in your throat with each swallow. Drunk as a sailor, you scan the crowds for a gamble. What do your eyes show you but a group of midgets and half-men. Memories of that frozen winter vacation fill your head. Do these people eat anything but sausage? The beer was great, but I had the feeling I would be abducted at any moment. Visit cut short by a quick dash to the train.

Last stop on this journey. Green rolling hills surrounded by lush landscapes. Cottage like barns litter the scattered hills, each with their own articulate, hand crafted fences. The ladies so warm and inviting. How far can a pair of Nike shoes and a bottle of Johnnie Walker get you in this place? A week in the farm house, a hummer before breakfast, and more ass than Snoop gets in a year. Fresh goat cheese atop the nipples of your cheaply rented farmer’s daughter. No need to sight see in this place. Stay shacked up, drink your week away, and pray like hell you don’t fly back with a reason for a 6 inch cue tip jobbie when you set foot on home soil.

Let’s talk about dog balls for a sec. Is there a reason why the Boxer seems to carry two billiard balls suspended in 3 feet of heat shriveled saran wrap? There is a reason a Great Dane is often referred to as a small horse.