I'm trading in my flip flops for impractical shoes and will strut around Montreal for the better part of tomorrow in search of a new, likely drug-addicted and image-obsessed employer.
As you all know, my job provides me with financial independence, male attention and endless hours of postmodern yuppie-style laughs that have me addicted to it more than black coffee and Diet Coke combined. I've had enough of counting my pennies and watching my bank account deplete for four consecutive months, so tomorrow my tits, ass and I are off to the races to shake martinis until the corporate execs go back to the office.
Wish me luck!
Showing posts with label Because of My Tits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Because of My Tits. Show all posts
Sunday, August 24, 2008
I'm bringing blogging back
Lessons learned this summer:
1. I am awesome.
2. Russians are inhospitable but their cops are smarmily sexy.
3. My teeth are so white that Europeans find it distracting.
4. Mallory Bey can speak French?
5. Hitchhiking is cost-effective, fun and stupid.
6. Serbian drugs take five hours to kick in.
7. Don't get into cars with Mystics.
8. I like Dubstep. A lot.
9. I like medical students. Aspiring dentists are even sexier than Russian Militsia.
10. I am awesome.
1. I am awesome.
2. Russians are inhospitable but their cops are smarmily sexy.
3. My teeth are so white that Europeans find it distracting.
4. Mallory Bey can speak French?
5. Hitchhiking is cost-effective, fun and stupid.
6. Serbian drugs take five hours to kick in.
7. Don't get into cars with Mystics.
8. I like Dubstep. A lot.
9. I like medical students. Aspiring dentists are even sexier than Russian Militsia.
10. I am awesome.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Ew I fell in to a Soviet train toilet
Location: somewhere in between St. Petersburg and Moscow where the women haven't any teeth and the Kazakhs beside me don't dig footwear.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Behold: the Soviet Train. Everything is yellowed to the point where you are unsure if anything was every really white at all. The windows are like the lenses of pedophile glasses so everything is shit-tinted (as opposed to rose-tinted). The bench seats are made of burgundy vinyl and allergy-triggering roll-out mats are provided for a comfortable slumber in which you are to dream of hammers, sickles and food stamps.
I sit in this train, gazing out the window at dacha after dacha, careful not to direct my gaze in front of me where, on the left is a very fat man whose gut rests on his thighs. To his right, a small Asian boy sits quietly. They both sit silently and tinker away on their Blackberries for about four hours. The Kazakhs play cards and stare at my tits. I watch the fat man roll out his bed-mat on the lower bunk as the Asian man climbs spryly above the snoring oaf. I daydream, wishing it was Mister Gutface who had to climb up there to give his thighs a rest and transfer the pressure onto his chest. But alas, we are in Russia and not America.
I sketch some Sudokus and keep my Quebecois counterpart, Simon, awake for as long as possible. We eat Halva (THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD) and talk loudly and in English. We figure that our CCCP shirts make us fit in a little more, so our indecipherable and mysetrious Canadian accents won't give us away as tourists worth robbing.
Somewhere in between all of this, I stumble to the bathroom. First I must inform you that, in all toilets in Russia, there aren't any toilet seats. You hover or squat and at the same time pray to Stalin that you don't get hepatitis from this one. I have developed a method of holding on to the door handle of the stall and leaning back; it takes a lot of the pressure off of the quads. This time, however, I was pulling a little too hard, perhaps. So, in my golden shower of delight that I was granting to this steel bowl, I was holding on to the handle of the door and suddenly the door gave way and the bowl welcomed me with its hepatitis-infested gorge.
I am supposed to get the test results back from the pharmacy tomorrow, where I will subsequently try to ask for a moderately-sezed perscription of legal amphetamines for the final days of my love affair with Vladimir Putin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
