Now this is just fucking awesome. Thanks to the dumb-fuck who had some (piss-poor) explosives in his granny panties (seriously, have you seen pictures of his underwear? Freak.), I will have to go through the porno-scan when I fly back to the US from Manchester. Yes, I know that not everyone gets scanned, but trust me here; I will get scanned. Probably get a cavity search for good measure.
Ah… yes. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned that I’m heading back to England for another business trip. Six weeks this time, and I leave in just a few days. No, I’m not happy about this trip; I don’t want to be away from my wife and kids for that long. The only real positive to this trip is that it will completely solidify my position in getting a full-time job back there.
If they open a full-time position, that is. And that’s still up in the air.
Yeah, basically I’m not getting any real, concrete benefit out of this trip. Well, I do get go through the porno-scanner when I leave and show my x-rayed junk to god-only-knows-who doing god-only-knows-what all by himself/herself in some mysterious, hidden room. So, I have that to look forward to.
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 25, 2003
The day of reckoning: today we spend the entire day at Oktoberfest. Time to put the liver to work.
We slept in a bit so we could be primed for the day (and a late night). But once we were up, we headed straight for the fest.
Most of the day we spent enjoying it as a typical tourist would; we strolled around and looked at just about everything, took a shit-load of pictures, and bought some souvenirs.
Then lunch time hit. The guys from work were always going on and on about the chicken at the fest and how fucking awesome it is. So, of course, we had to try it. We picked out a chicken stand and got in line. And by “chicken stand” I mean “the big-ass Weiner Wald monster-sized building that roasts hundreds and hundreds of chickens at once”. We bought half a roasted chicken and stood at a near-by shelf to eat it. No utensils or anything… we just had to pick it apart and eat it with our hands (the way nature intended). They were kind enough to give us napkins, though.
So how was the chicken? Did it live up to the hype? Oh-my-fucking-god-yes! Definitely the best chicken I’ve ever had. I don’t know what it is — the spices, the way it’s roasted, the fact that there’s an endless supply of beer 20 yards away… Anyway, it was fantastic.
After lunch, we took a ride on the big ferris wheel. Should have done this sooner; there were great views of the entire fest grounds from the top. Heh, we could also see down into the monster truck arena and watch the show for free. (Yes, there is even a big fucking monster truck arena at the fest. I told you this thing is fucking huge.)
We finally made our way to the Hofbrauhaus tent, grabbed some beer and pretzels, and waited around for the guys from work to show up. (This is the weekend they’re spending at the fest, and we arranged to meet them here tonight.) We wandered around a bit more, and eventually ran into them around 5pm. We all made our way into the tent — and it was packed. Thousands of people, from many different countries, in various stages of inebriation singing John Denver and Bon Jovi songs (seriously). Awesome.
We weren’t able to get a table, so we stood next to one in an aisle. And the beer started flowing. The band kept playing, everyone was singing, dancing, and drinking. Now this is a party.
The tents all closed down around 10 or 11pm (I have no clue what time it was), so my wife and I decided to call it a night (need to make sure we make our morning flight). Walking among the crowds as we headed for the u-bahn was interesting. For my wife, anyway. I was so shit-faced, she had to lead me around. Apparently I kept saying I couldn’t see clearly; it was like someone smeared Vaseline over my eyes. I was in good company on the u-bahn, though; damn-near everyone was on the verge of passing out.
Oh, yeah. The u-bahn. I do remember at the station that there were a lot of security guards there. Supposedly to keep the peace. What they were actually there for was to forcibly cram as many people onto the train as possible. I shit you not. They were literally shoving people past the point of safety onto the train. That was a fucked-up train ride back to the hotel. I would probably have more to say about it if it wasn’t for being too drunk to care at the time.
My wife got us back to the hotel safe and sound. Then we had wild jungle monkey sex the rest of the night. At least I assume we did. I was way drunk… surely she would have taken advantage of me.
Though, I don’t know why I woke up fully-clothed in the bathtub.
September 26, 2003
Amazing. I have no hangover. Was it the good German beer without any preservatives or other toxic crap? All the chicken and pretzels I ate? The all-night sexcapades (that my wife says was either a dream or hallucination)?
Well, we’re heading back home today, but I now fully understand why the guys from work make the pilgrimage here every year. What an incredible experience.
Now I just need to convince the guys in my family to come out for this…
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 24, 2003
All these damn early tours… we’re not doing any sleeping-in on our vacation. Need to re-think priorities.
But, since we were up early, we managed to get to the Munich hauptbahnhoff in time to meet up for the Dachau tour. When the rest of the group was all there, we piled on the train and headed out.
Incidentally, Dachau is not only the name of the concentration camp, but the town that it’s in. Yeah, that would kinda suck telling people you live in Dachau. Honestly, it’s a little disturbing to even joke about it.
Dachau is about 30 minutes (by train) outside of Munich. From the local station we then took a bus to a stop near the concentration camp.
I really don’t know what to say about the experience. Walking among the buildings and through the museum was somber and sobering. And there was practically no noise at all — it was a very deep, respectful quiet. Like any US school kid had to, I had read the history behind the holocaust, and have even seen a few movies and documentaries on it. They have nowhere near the same impact as actually being at one of the places it happened. Being there and realizing that you’re standing in the middle of a holocaust concentration camp is chilling.
It was a very interesting and enlightening tour, but it was depressing.
At the end of the tour, it was a mad dash to catch the bus and then the train back to Munich. But we all made it. Barely.
Back in Munich, we had to do something to shake off the gloomy funk that Dachau had put us in. So we went back to the fest so soak up some fun.
We didn’t spend a lot of time there since tomorrow we’re dedicating the entire day to the fest. But, we rode the big-ass Olympic roller-coaster (the fucker has five loops! Five!). We were in better spirits after a few rides. And beers.
Some coffee and snacks saw us back to the hotel and we turned in early. Hey, if we’re spending all day at the fest tomorrow, I’m sure as hell going to be well rested.
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 23, 2003
Jesus. Shaping up to be another freakishly hot day. We checked out, said goodbye to Salzburg, and caught the train to Munich. At the hauptbahnhoff in Munich (which was cool and rainy), we got directions then jumped on the u-bahn for the hotel.
Yeah, due to my late booking, there was no chance in hell of us getting a hotel in town. Thus, we were on the subway on our way to the fucking outskirts of Munich to one of the only hotels left we could get a room in: the Marriott. That fucker is so expensive… no wonder they still had rooms left during Oktoberfest. Well, that and they’re way the fuck out of town.
Once again, true to our style, we checked in to the fancy-schmancy Marriott looking like scruffy hillbillies. And, no, we really didn’t give shit at all the raised eyebrows and shouldn’t-you-be-at-the-youth-hostel looks we got. Rich people are snooty in any country.
The room was nice, but I gotta say that it was NOT worth €300 a night. Unless the room comes with free porn and booze… then I’d get my money’s worth. (The room DID come with both. Sadly, you had to pay extra.)
Following a short nap, we crammed back onto the u-bahn. Back at the hauptbahnhoff, my wife got tickets for a tour of Dachau tomorrow. I’m a bit divided on this; I’m very interested in visiting Dachau and seeing first-hand the history, but, man, it’d be a bit of a downer when I’m all for being in an Oktoberfest party kind of mood.
Back on the u-bahn, it was a short trip to the Oktoberfest. Stepping out from the u-bahn station, it slapped us right in the face. The fest… holy fucking shit… is amazing. It’s like a county fair on some serious steroids. And crack. And maybe a little LSD.
There are rides, games, food stalls, and souvenir shops everywhere. Some of the rides, I’ve never seen before. And the roller-coasters are huge! They’re the size you usually see as a permanent thing at a place like Disney Land or Six Flags. And it’s all temporary! After the fest is over, they pack it all up and go away. I found it particularly interesting that there seemed to be a lot of those cheesy “haunted house” rides — at least six. Several coffee stands around, and even a rotating margarita bar. Booze on a carousel… am I the only one that sees a potential problem here?
What were the crowds like? There were a LOT of people. I can’t even imagine what the crowds must be like on a weekend.
And then there are the beer tents. Lots of beer tents. Though, it’s a bit of a stretch to call them “tents”; they’re more like massive house frames with canvas roofs. Each “tent” holds up to 5,000 people (which is damn-near twice the population of the town I grew up in).
We spent a while just strolling around the fest grounds, getting an idea of what all there was to do and see. And drink. It wasn’t long before we were jonesing, so we picked a smaller tent near the big ferris wheel to go in and have a bite to eat.
The food specialty of this tent was all things potato. There are apparently many, many different ways to prepare a potato — and they all taste the same. It was good, though. Especially when washed down with a big fucking beer. We sat at a long bench table near some Germans and enjoyed our potatoes and beer. The people sitting near us must have thought we were locals and just started chatting away with us in German. I’m not sure why, but it made me feel good to be mistaken for a local. Even if I couldn’t speak a word of the language.
We walked around a bit more then started back for the hotel. We stopped at a small convenience store on the way and bought a case of big bottles of water. For €3. At the hotel, just one little mini bottle of water from the mini bar is €4. What the fuck is my €300 / night paying for?!
Back in our room we spent a good while talking about various family members coming out to Oktoberfest with us in the future. Most of them would love it. They’d love it so much, they probably wouldn’t remember a whole lot, other than waking up in a German jail with a nasty hangover.
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 22, 2003
Once again, we managed to get up in time for breakfast. Must be all that artery-clogging food calling to us. That, and we had planned a fairly busy day, so we wanted to get an early start.
After breakfast, we went to the bus stop and scratched our heads over the posted schedule. We couldn’t make heads or tails of how to read this fucking thing. Giving up, we just made a semi-random selection of which bus to get on to take us to the Untersberg.
Lucky guess. We got the right one.
We bought our tickets for the cable car ride up, then waited around a bit for the next trip. The wait wasn’t terribly long, and we soon found ourselves climbing into a massive cable car with a lot of other people. The ride up was only about ten minutes, and the views were stunning.
What wasn’t so stunning was when the cable car got hit by a gust of wind and was sent swinging enough to make me wish I was wearing an adult diaper. My dad and my brother-in-law never would have survived a ride on this thing.
At the top, we gratefully exited the car… only to be hit in the face with an incredible stench. It was like everyone that ever came up immediately puked once they stepped out of the cable car. We couldn’t get out of that building fast enough.
Once outside, we surveyed the area. There were a couple of buildings near by: the cable car station (which also had a bar and some other consumer-oriented rooms) and a restaurant that was further down the trail. And then there were the trails. My god. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many trails in one place. They were everywhere.
Lots of hikers out today, too — some were even sporting the traditional lederhosen. Apparently, locals like to take the cable car up, then spend the day hiking back down the mountain. It’s refreshing (and a little surprising) to see a culture this active in the outdoors.
We headed out and spent some time wandering around the various trails and taking in the amazing scenery. It was a bit hazy, though, so I can only imagine how incredible the views would be on a clear day.
It would have been great to spend the whole day on the mountain, but we had to be ready for our next activity. In fact, we didn’t wander too far from the cable car station just to be sure we didn’t get lost among all the trails. And it would have happened, too.
While we waited for the ride back down, we stopped at the bar and asked the bartender if he had any bottled water. He gave us a nasty look and all but shouted, “No! All filthy Americans must die!” Ok, maybe not that last part, but he clearly despised us. That, or someone pissed in his coffee this morning.
Back at the base of the mountain we perfectly timed catching the next bus back to Salzburg. Things were going too well with the travel today…
At the main tour bus square in Salzburg, we wandered around looking for the Bob’s Tours office. Couldn’t find it. It was getting close to the time for tour to leave, so we finally gave up and asked a cab driver. It’s in the old town. Fuck. So we paid him to drive us over and drop us off at Bob’s Tours.
Only, when he dropped us off, there’s no Bob’s Tours anywhere. The fucking genius dropped us off at Panorama Tours. Once again, we start asking around where the hell Bob’s Tours is. We finally found it and went inside to check in for the tour, only to be told that the tour already left. It left at 1pm, not 1:45pm like the reservation said in the e-mail we received.
The old hag behind the counter got very indignant that we would suggest she was capable of making a mistake and told us we were out of luck and would not get a refund. I repeatedly told her that the e-mail she sent us said 1:45pm. I was seconds away from going back to our hotel room and getting the printed e-mail to rub in her face. My wife was seconds away from leaping across the counter and throttling the shit out of her.
Yeah, this is the karmic balance for the good traveling at the start of the day.
Right when we’re ready to tell her to fuck off and storm out the door, Didi (our tour guide from yesterday) showed up and said he’d take us on the tour. Yeah, he just earned a big-ass tip right there.
So, we were finally on our way to the ice caves. It was a long drive out to the caves, but the views were fantastic and Didi provided an incredibly detailed history of the various areas we passed.
About half-way to the ice caves, the old hag from Bob’s Tours had the fucking nuts to call Didi on his cell phone and tell him that the e-mail she sent us said 1pm and not 1:45pm as we had claimed. Why the fuck would she do that when we’re already on the tour? Did she expect him to dump us on the side of the road? Extort more money from us? Seriously… what the fuck? Anyway, that bitch just blacklisted Bob’s Tours for us and everyone we know. (Didi is an independent tour guide, anyway, so we can always call him directly.)
So, yeah, Didi told us what the phone call was about. About 30 seconds later, I discovered I actually had the e-mail printout in my backpack. Out of sheer spite, I whipped it out and showed it to Didi. 1:45pm. SUCK ON THAT, YOU FUCKING TROLL BITCH! Didi just smiled, shook his head, and told us this happens all the time with that company. In fact, he was considering cutting his ties with them because of it.
Back to the tour… as we neared the mountain with the ice caves, we saw an awesome castle up on a hill. Very imposing the way it hulked down among the mountains. Didi informed us the castle is Hohenwerfen, and is where they filmed the old Clint Eastwood movie “Where Eagles Dare”.
We soon pulled into the parking area and had to do some walking. Not a bad thing, except the day had become freakishly hot. There we were, walking in the Bavarian Alps, dripping with sweat. It just doesn’t seem right.
When we arrived at the cable car station, we thought we were too late: it looked deserted. Didi hunted someone down, and it turned out that we were still in time for the last tour of the day.
The cable car ride should qualify as an extreme sport. The car itself was tiny — about the size of a phone booth. No shit. And that’s what the ride felt like: sitting in a phone booth while suspended from a crane. In gale force winds. I will say that the views were awesome, and the ride was short.
At the top, we discovered we really weren’t at the top. There was a pretty good hike ahead of us to get to the ice caves. The trail wound around the side of the mountain, and when we finally made it to the cave entrance, we could feel an icy cool breeze wafting out.
We sat with other tourists around the mouth of the cave, and we were soon all pulling on coats and jackets. As hot as it is today, it was fucking cold in front of the ice cave.
When our tour started, the guide lighted and handed out a few oil lamps — which were promptly blown out when he opened the door to the cave. That blast of cold air actually pushed us all back a step, and we had to lean into it as we walked through the door. That was cool. It was cold, but it was cool. Fuck it. You know what I mean.
Once inside, it was barely a whisper of a breeze. Looking around, we could see it’s a natural cave, but there was ice everywhere (so, naturally, it was damn cold). Sort of a winter wonderland in a cave. Only it was all ice and no snow.
The tour was mediocre; there were a few big ice formations that were really nice when the guide backlit them with a bright light. We did a lot of stair-climbing, too. Despite the cold, I was working up a wicked sweat. There were two sections of the cave where we had to walk through actual tunnels in the ice, like a cave in a glacier. Something about that was just so cool to me — made me feel like I was on an adventure.
I won’t get started on the dorkiness.
When the tour ended, my wife and I hung out near the end of the group. The only people other than us to tip the tour guide were the other American couple. The guide looked genuinely baffled at receiving a tip. Is this really that much of an American thing? Or are the other people on this tour just cheap assholes?
On the walk back down to the cable car, we spoke with a few Aussie and New Zealand girls. We ended up with them in the cable car ride back down. Of the girls (I think she was a Kiwi) was genuinely terrified and huddled in the bottom of the car the whole ride down. How the hell did she go up in it in the first place?! The other girls teased her mercilessly, and I probably would have joined right in had I not been distracted by the fact that her head was right in my crotch.
On the drive back to Salzburg, Didi told us he would hook us up with whatever we need any time we were in Salzburg or Brazil. Yeah, Brazil. Turns out he spends part of the year as a tour guide there.
When we got back to town, we headed off in search of a little restaurant Didi told us about. One of those places that only local go, and never any tourists. Walking down the side street, it seemed that the area was definitely off the tourist track and a little on the seedy side. Then we passed a “go-go” bar (and by “go-go” bar, I mean “whore-house”); it even had a red light above the door.
We started to wonder if Didi had been fucking with us when we finally came to the restaurant: the Andreas Hoffer. Very small place, and definitely a place for locals. The menu was short and the food simple, but it was really good. And the “local” atmosphere was so much better than the touristy places. It was relaxed.
Back at the hotel we had a coffee then turned in for the night. Need the sleep, because tomorrow we’re heading to Munich and Oktoberfest!
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 21, 2003
We were up earlier than is usual for us on vacation. Which is good, because we had a morning tour to catch. Even better, we had time for breakfast. I love the Bavarian breakfast that gets set out. Simple, easy, tasty… perfect. Why the hell don’t I ever do breakfast like this at home? It’s not that difficult… Fuck. Am I really that lazy?
Yep. Pretty much.
Shortly after breakfast, Didi from Bob’s Tours picked us up outside our hotel. We liked Didi immediately — he’s a very nice guy with an incredible knowledge of the area. And the dude speaks seven languages. Fluently. You might say we were a bit awed.
It was just my wife and I on this tour, so he catered to our every whim. The main tour destination of the day was the Salt Mines, but we stopped or took small side trips several times on the way so Didi could point something out to us or tell us a story. As much as I already hated the big-bus type of tour, he just completely killed in me any desire to ever go on one again.
This is the way to go on a tour. Awesome.
We finally made it to the Salt Mines, which turns out to be fairly close to the Eagles Nest and Bertchesgaden. After getting our tickets, we got put in with a large group of French tourists. They sounded French, anyway. As everyone was getting ready for the tour — we had to put on big, baggy coveralls — I couldn’t help but notice that the group of French people (the entire group) appeared to have been imbibing adult beverages before arriving here. A few were just one sip away from shit-faced.
Sweet. They looked like a fun group.
Besides my wife and I, and the drunks, there were two other people on the tour. We spoke to them briefly — turns out they’re Yanks, too; a mother and daughter. The daughter is in the Air Force stationed at Alconbury, and my wife swears she’s seen her somewhere before. And I’m positive that the mother is (or used to be) in the Air Force because I’m certain I’ve seen her somewhere before.
Unfortunately, the mother and daughter seemed to be a bit stiff, so we gravitated toward the drunk Frenchmen during the tour.
Ah, yes. The tour. The tour was little hokey and a lot touristy. It was mildly interesting, though. Taking a raft across the underground salt lake was cool, as were the wooden slides we went down. The slides would have been much more fun if they were longer. Kinda weird slides, though. You straddle the thing rather than sit in it. And there’s a small trough in the middle. The only thing I could come up with that the trough was for was so guys didn’t have to sit on their nuts when going down the slide.
What was more fun than the tour itself was the drunk Frenchmen. At one point, their wine-addled brains made the connection that since this was a salt mine, that means the tunnels were carved out of salt. The walls next to us were solid salt. It is a uniquely hilarious thing to see a bunch of drunks suddenly run up to a cave wall and start licking it. It’s even funnier to watch the tour guide try and get them to stop.
Following the Salt Lick tour, Didi took us to Bertchesgaden. Just like the last time we were here, we were short on time. All we were able to do was grab a quick lunch before heading back to Salzburg.
We spent the rest of the day strolling around the old town. It being Sunday, not much was open, but there was a Saint Rupert festival in full swing in the main square. Carnival rides, vendor stalls, and even a beer tent. We just soaked up the atmosphere, watched people, and made plans for the coming days.
And drank beer. In fact, we drank enough beer that we thought it would be hilarious to buy a little German hat for our pug, Indy. (No, we are not the kind of people that dress up their dog in outfits. Hence the beer.)
Yeah, Indy’s going to hate it.
Here’s Indy wearing the hat after we got home from the trip. Yes, he hated it. Yes, the second we weren’t looking he mauled the crap out of it, ate it, then crapped it out the next day in front of our bedroom door.
Part of the reason I started a blog a few years ago was to digitize my hand-written travel journals. For quite a while, 99% of my posts were just re-written journal entries. Over the past year I’ve cut way back on my old travel posts; however, I still have quite a few to do before I am chronologically caught up. Thus, I intend to start putting up more of my old travel journal entries in an effort to finally be done with the task.
This series of entries is about a trip to Salzburg and Munich back in 2003.
———-
September 20, 2003
Today we set off for our Salzburg/Munich trip. Though, the big reason for the trip is to go to Oktoberfest. Not just any Oktoberfest — THE Oktoberfest. The one that started it all and makes all others pale in comparison. Going to the real deal is one of those things we knew we had to do while we were living so close. Plus, it must be a damn good time because some of the guys I work with go to the Munich Oktoberfest every year.
Our flight to Munich wasn’t one of those shitty, first-thing-in-the-morning flights, and it was leaving from the Leeds airport, so we didn’t have to get up at the fucking butt-crack of dawn and rush to catch the flight. Kind of a nice change. It was also good because we still had some cleaning up to do around the house. And we still had to pack.
My wife seemed to be dragging her feet this morning. It was taking her ten times longer to do anything than it normally would. After a while, I got the impression she was almost hoping that we’d be late and miss our plane. Yeah, we go through this to some degree every time we go on a trip. She works herself up with worry about leaving Indy (our dog). And this trip is no different. I wish it was, because it tends to put a downer on the start of the trip. Fortunately, once we’re in the air everything is usually fine.
Thanks to my worried wife’s delaying tactics, she almost got her wish. We barely made it to the airport in time. We were the absolute last people on the flight to check in (they were just getting ready to close the line). We sprinted like mad to the gate and rushed on the plane.
Then we sat. And sat. And sat.
Eventually the pilot announced that the delay was due to some instrument problems and they were waiting for the plane to re-boot. “Re-boot”? A fucking passenger jet? That’s one I haven’t heard before.
That got cleared up and we were on our way. It was a quick flight, and there’s not much to note about it. At one point in the flight, my wife commented that she used to love traveling — she considered it a grand adventure. But now it always just seems like a hassle you have to go through to get somewhere.
I thought that was pretty interesting, because traveling is still an adventure to me. Oh, it can really suck ass at times, but it’s still an adventure, and it’s all part of the experience. Then again, maybe I’ve just read too many James Bond type books and it’s easy for me to imagine myself in those situations in foreign countries.
I am such a fucking tool.
After a short layover in Amsterdam, we were soon in Munich. From the airport, we jumped straight on a train and headed for Salzburg. For a few stops on the train, we were sitting next to little old lady. My wife (completely into the travel thing now and has probably forgotten we even have a dog) decided to try her hand at chatting with woman. In German. And she did pretty good with the small talk, but the woman seemed to be hard of hearing, so it was kinda funny. At least what little I could follow. I really need to get a language course and start learning German. This whole “stupid American” thing is embarrassing.
When we got to Salzburg, we walked a few blocks to where we we’d be staying: the Gablerbrau. Man. I wish we had known about this place the last time we were here. The rooms are huge (comparatively), and the place is very well kept. A plaque in the lobby stated that this place has been a hotel since 1429. That just blew my fucking mind. This place has got to have some interesting history behind it.
A while later we were sitting on the outside restaurant patio having dinner when a sudden and thunderous BOOM scared the shit out of everyone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many people jump out of their skin at once. It’s a shame that a few beers were spilled in the process. Damn shame.
Anyway, the sound of divine retribution was actually the start of a pretty good fireworks display. We were soon informed by our waiter that there is a festival going on right now. It’s a week-long festival celebrating the patron saint of Salzburg: Saint Rupert.
Why not… any excuse to party is ok by me. As long as this St Rupert guy wasn’t big on chastity and sobriety, we should be good.
What’s that? You say my blog looks like shit?
Well fuck you very much.
But, yes, it does look like shit. I fully intend to update the appearance. Soon. Really.
It won’t be near as cool as most other blogs I follow, but it’ll be an improvement. And the content will be the same. For some reason the phrase “lipstick on a pig” keeps coming to mind.
Anyway, in the coming weeks this blog will be undergoing various cosmetic changes. Expect a number of wildly different looks until a final one is decided upon. (And that will probably only be because I got tired of fucking with the damn thing.)
In the meantime, the usual posts will continue. Enjoy the mayhem.
I have finally come to the conclusion that I am in the wrong fucking business. This is different from all those other mentions I’ve made about being in the wrong business. Including the time I said I should open up a combination shooting gallery and titty bar. (Though, that is still a capital idea.)
No, this time it’s the insurance business. What a brilliant scam they have going (in an evil genius sort of way). Specifically, I’m talking about home-owner’s insurance. Let’s look at the facts, shall we?
- You are required to have insurance. No choice in the matter. (At least you are if you have a mortgage in the state of Colorado.)
- It’s fucking expensive. Most people don’t notice this because it’s rolled into the mortgage payments.
- If you read all the bullshit (aka: terms of coverage), they can weasel out of paying for damn-near everything.
And the warranties for new houses are even worse — well, at least you don’t have to pay for those.
The reason this is coming up is that over the past 1-2 years, a sinkhole has appeared under our driveway. Ok, maybe not an actual sinkhole, but it might as well be one. The middle of our driveway, right near our front porch, has sunk about four inches. It doesn’t sound bad until you see it: cracks everywhere, a huge bowl-shaped depression, and a big fucking gap where driveway concrete is pulling away from the porch concrete.
And the house is only five years old.
My father-in-law told us that it was almost definitely due to the builder not properly compacting the ground before pouring the concrete. (He’s in the industrial construction business and pretty much knows this shit inside and out.) The problem with this type of ineptitude is that it doesn’t show up for a few years… well after the 1-year full warranty on the house has expired.
The remaining warranty should cover something like this, right? Going through the paperwork, our warranty has three pages of exclusions. Three fucking pages. Included in the list are these two gems:
- Loss or damage caused by soil movement.
- Loss or damage to driveways.
Screwed twice, just to be sure. Ok, fine. Surely our home-owner’s insurance will cover getting the driveway fixed. Surely.
Nope.
In almost identical verbiage, the insurance policy says just what the warranty policy does: driveways aren’t covered. Fuck.
Now I have the distinct pleasure of paying out of my own pocket to fix/replace a driveway that is complete shit due to the goddamn builder cutting corners.
So that’s it; this is too good a money-making scam not to get in on. I’m going to start selling insurance. Even better, I’ll roll it in with my other idea:
Eddie’s Insurance Emporium, Shooting Gallery, and Titty Bar: Shoot stuff and look at boobies while you wait.
That fucking Geico lizard is SO going down.
It has been about two months since I had a vasectomy. Now, according to my paperwork I’m supposed to wait 3-4 months before submitting a sample for testing to see if I still have any swimmers. This pissed me off, because other guys I’ve spoken to about this said they didn’t have a set time to wait. They just had to “clean out the pipes” 20 times before submitting a sample.
The 20 times… been done with that for quite a while. And just waiting around now is getting pretty old. Fuck it. I decided to split the difference between the various sample submission instructions and today I would submit a sample for testing.
By the way, is it just me, or does calling it a “sample” come across as a bit creepy? I suppose it’s better than saying submitting some semen, ejaculate, jizz, or cum.
According to the paperwork, I had two hours to get it to the lab from the time of “collection” (there’s another oddly creepy word). Since the clinic is on my way work, I figured it would be best to just make a quick detour and drop it off. And it’s only about 45 minutes away. Perfect.
Now I just needed to “collect the sample” before leaving for work. This turned out to be the hard part. I couldn’t do when I first got up while everyone one else was asleep since it would be over the 2 hour limit. It would have to be about 30 minutes before leaving the house.
That meant I’d be trying to pleasure myself for the purpose of medical testing, while my wife is in the shower, AND I should be getting my two kids fed and dressed. Fucking great.
Two half-eaten sandwiches later, the kids are parked in front of the TV watching a favorite show (on-demand is awesome). And they’re still in their pajamas. I wasn’t about to fight that battle.
I crept back upstairs to take care of business. But there’s no porn in the house (I know; I can hardly believe it myself). There’s always the all-powerful internet, but the computer room is right next to the living room — no way in hell am I risking the kids walking in on that action. There was a brief flicker of hope that my wife might have a lingerie catalog I could borrow, but the only thing on the night stands were children’s books from the library.
I resigned myself to a rather long, boring session of sample collection. And let me just say, as unarousing as it is to flog the wookie without any visual stimulation, doing it while holding a specimen cup over your junk doesn’t help matters.
Deed done, I sealed it up and headed to the clinic a short while later.
Driving to the clinic, I wondered how I should bring the sample in. I was told I could just go in and drop it off at the counter — all the necessary info was on the collection cup, so I wouldn’t have to do anything else. I imagine most guys bring their sample in a paper bag, or in their pocket, or (far more likely) have their wives drop it off.
Not me. I walked through the lobby holding it out for all to see. (The cup was clear, so it was pretty obvious what was inside.) I looked everyone in the eye, daring them to ask. No one did. I was a bit disappointed at that; I briefly entertained the idea of running up to someone sitting in the waiting area, shoving my sample in their face, and shouting, “Check this shit out! Wanna place a bet if any swimmers are in there?”
But I didn’t. There was an old lady with a cane, and she looked like she knew how to use it.
I walked up to the lab desk, set down the sample, and told the girl, “Just dropping this off.”
“Okaaaay. What is it?”
I get to talk about it! How fucking awesome is that? “It’s my sample.” My proud grin should have said all that needed saying, but apparently it didn’t.
“Sample of what?”
“Uh, semen? Ejaculate? What’s the medical term for it?”
Blank stare. “What is this for, exactly?”
“I had a vasectomy a while ago…”
“Oh, it’s a sample for a vasectomy check?”
“Yep.”
“And this is it? This was all of the ejaculate?”
At this point, we’ve drawn considerable interest from the waiting area. And the attention no longer seemed awesome.
“What do you mean, is that all? Do you know how hard I had to work for that much?”
She snorted back a laugh. “No, I have to ask to make sure it all made it in the sample cup. If some of the ejaculate didn’t make it into the cup then the sample might not be valid.”
“Make it into the cup? Did I do the collection wrong? I, uh, sort of held the cup over my junk. Was I supposed to set the cup down and just aim for it or something?”
Then she did start laughing. “You’re fine. Just fill out this form.”
“Oh, man. A form? I thought I could just drop it off and be on my way.”
“We need to know some details to make sure the testing is accurate.”
So I filled out the form:
- Time of collection: 7:30am
- Number of days since previous ejaculation: 2 (Sadly, they didn’t want details.)
- Temperature of sample since collection (refrigerated, kept next to body, etc): body temp, with brief cold snap in the car because it is fucking COLD outside! (Ok, I didn’t put “fucking” on the form. But it was fucking cold.)
- Date of vasectomy: November 12, 2009
Done. I strolled out the door to sound of thunderous applause. Actually, it was a cacophony of sick people coughing and wheezing. A crying baby stopped crying as I was leaving, so hey, there’s that.
Now it’s a 3-4 day wait for the results.
Later on at work I got a call from my wife saying that the clinic called and I needed to call them back. Fuck! Are you kidding me? What the fuck did they do, misplace my sample? Screw up the test? Put it on someone’s sandwich as a joke?
I just knew I’d have to collect another sample. Well that just sucks.
I called the urology department and was immediately put on hold. For the next several minutes I listened to shitty elevator music. Actually, it sounded more like really bad porno music. For the urology department. Heh… someone has a sense of humor.
A nurse finally came on the line and surprised the shit out of me when she said the results were in. Holy crap, they did the test and are calling me back the same day? I was so stunned by this fact that I almost missed what she was saying.
“I’m sorry, what was that again?”
“The sperm count was zero. You are officially sterile and no longer have to use other methods of birth control.”
“Oh, that is just awesome! Bare-back time!”
“What?”
“Nothing. Thanks for the info!”
Going to be a wild night at Eddie’s tonight. I think we’ll start off with early bedtime for the kids, followed by a ceremonial burning of the condoms, then a whole lot of the freaky stuff.
Damn. Now I have to get through the rest of my work day while sporting some serious wood.
