Popingay

If everyone will allow me one uninterrupted moment of sheer geekiness, my visit to Buda Castle left me humming Epona’s song in the hopes my trusty steed would burst out of Lon Lon Ranch and come ride off with me.

What? Ocarina of Time was one of my favourite N64 games. Oh Zelda, you’re so culturally relevant.

(Now it’s back to Prague.)

I saw this delightful contraption making its way down the street last night. If you can’t really tell, it’s a mobile pub in bicycle form powered by the peddling of the people sitting at the bar. The guy steering seems to be the bartender-cum-steerer.

I want one of these as soon as possible. Not only does it seem like a really convenient way to get home after the bar, but it also would be beyond my wildest dreams to just be strolling down the street and hop on the bar to my destination like some sort of alcohol-infused trolley.

Granted there’s the whole movement and pedaling thing, what with my extreme aversion to excessive movement, but I think this would help me justify my never stopping drinking by letting me believe that whatever calories I take in in alcohol must be immediately burned off by the activity of helping to move my bar around the city. Not that it’d be true, but I routinely eat a cookie after the gym thinking “good job, self!” so yeah, I’m pretty satisfied with my delusions.

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P.S. On a completely unrelated note, I’m sitting in the hotel lobby with a loud, drinking group of English men, they seem the same to me, and I can never really seem to tell the difference between gay and British men. Or when they’re one and the same, which would just end in an explosion of gayness even I couldn’t handle. /end racism.

Once upon a time when visiting Phoenix with my dear friend Chelsea, I came home from a night on the town, crawled into bed with her, and immediately begin screaming for her to “let me chew on your beef jerky vagina!”.

I was completely wasted if that weren’t readily apparent. And, if you know me at all, it isn’t.

I somehow got it into my head that vaginas were made of beef jerky and that I had to EAT IT RIGHT NOW in what can only be described as the least sex-involved sexual assault in the history of humankind.

Being that my only experience with vaginas was through childbirthing videos on Youtube (note: there are a lot of these. Like a lot a lot.) and the nightmarish imaginings that make all gay men afraid of the lady-cave, it’s pretty confusing why I would ever have this idea. I mean, nowhere in my entire life had I expressed any interest in vaginas outside of medical curiosity and thinking of all the places the teeth must hide (I should probably also mention that the movie “Teeth” and the concept of the vagina dentata factor heavily into my interpretation of what is involved in a vagina), and the idea that it being made of beef jerky is both confusing and generally not appealing. I’m pretty sure telling someone their genitals are like dried, salted chewy meat that comes in BBQ and teriyaki flavors doesn’t make you their favourite person in the world. Probably quite the opposite.

However, I proceeded to attack Chelsea and at one point pulled her, legs spread, over my face as I’d seen the few times I’d ventured into lesbian-porn-land out of curiosity. (By the way, fake lesbian porn for straight men of the world, hideously long lady-claws would never be prominently featured on a real lesbian for rather obvious reasons. Just though you should know that.) I then promptly pushed her off my face screaming rape and “why would you rape me?!” as though I were the one horrifically violated in the bed I shared with a gay man who inexplicably insisted that we share a bed even though there were, not one but two, serviceable beds in the next room.

Needless to say, that our sharing a bed would never be quite the same for the rest of the trip. Though we still did. Because that’s what love is: putting up with the alcohol-induced psychosis of your platonic gay friends.

However, when I passed through the Frankfurt airport the other day, I saw this stand-up ad where you pull bags of beef jerky off a lady as though that would reveal her naked body. I firmly stand by the belief that my theory on beef jerky’s similarity to a vagina is thus vindicated.

Sexism has never been so useful.