Prior
BAM! posts:
Sorry
about the delay between BAM! posts. The
computer gods must not like recaps of my European travels because the power
cord for the computer holding all my BAM! photos died, but I got a new one, so
the recaps are back on. Hopefully, by
now, the gravity of Paul the Scot's sex show story has sunk in.
Tuesday
morning in Amsterdam greeted us without hangovers, which was a miracle. To celebrate our lack of cranial pain, we had
breakfast at a place called Pancakes!, where we all ate, well, pancakes.
They
were delicious, and provided much-needed nourishment, as we were about to
embark on an historical journey. You
see, in front of Pancakes! was a short anthropomorphic hot dog, lounging on a
green chair.
He
could see that we were new to Amsterdam.
Only the six of us could hear him or see him move. He spoke lackadaisically and with an unmistakably
Dutch accent.
"Welcome
to my home. My name is Daan van Pannenkoeken. I understand you recently met my cousin,
Pieter van Hooterfrite, in Bruges."
In kneejerk fashion, the six of us shouted "In Bruges!" in
unison, doing our best Colin Ferrell accents.
Daan
appeared not to even notice the interruption and continued, "I have lived
in Amsterdam my entire life. If you
listen to me and do everything I say without any deviation, you will have an
unforgettable visit –-the kind of thing you will blog about. If you do not do exactly as I say, you will
leave this city with no memory of it, but a very painful wart on your dominant
hand's index finger that will cause people to audibly question whether you are
a witch. It has been proven time and
time again. Heed my warning, dear
travelers. Do you accept?"
We
nodded with nervous excitement.
"You
have chosen wisely, Americans. First, go
to the Van Gogh Museum this morning.
After that, do whatever you want."
Then,
he just stopped talking. No matter how
much Colleen berated him, Daniel shook him, I dead-legged him, Chandler elbow
dropped him, Bonham sprayed him with a garden hose, or Gregerson violently dry-humped
him while repeatedly whispering into his ear "now my dog's in your bun,"
Daan would not say another word. It was
as if he never had the ability to speak in the first place. Nonetheless, we headed straight to the Van
Gogh Museum, fearing being branded as descendants of Salem and hearing the
police sirens getting closer.
Vincent
Van Gogh was a Dutch painter. I hadn't
even heard about him until after he died.
Now he has his own museum in Amsterdam, appropriately titled the Van
Gogh Museum. That dude could paint, but
apparently his vision deteriorated over the course of his life because a lot of
his later paintings are a little blurry.
The
day we were there was the day that a newly discovered Van Gogh painting – Sunset
at Montmajour -- was unveiled to the public for the first time. We were probably six of the first thousand
people to see this painting in person.
Of
course, my selfie with the new painting was ruined by some Aryan trollop who
couldn't look at a painting without putting her nose three inches from it. Right after this photo was taken, I walked up behind her and made a queef sound -- a real good tttthhhhhhhhhhhhssssssss -- and
everyone thought it was her, so she left the museum with her tail between her pasty, noisy legs.
Here
are my favorite Van Goghs that I saw at the museum:
After
that, we went to the Anne Frank Museum, but the line was several blocks long,
so Bonham and I passed. Instead, he and
I walked around a little and happened into a really cool photography gallery
called Rockarchive Amsterdam that
featured fine art photos of tons of rock musicians, taken mainly by Dutch
photographers. There were some really
cool ones of Keith Richards, as well as The Beatles, Hendrix, and many
others. Of course, many of them cost
hundreds of Euros, so all we could do is look longingly.
We
all met up again in the early afternoon to take a boat tour of the canals,
which I highly recommend doing. Rather
than one of the massive tour boats you see all over the place, we took a
smaller boat with just the six of us, which was especially nice, considering it
only cost a couple more Euro than one of the big ones. And we could bring beers on the boat. I will say that the Heineken in Amsterdam did
not taste like the skunked shit they pass off as that beer over here.
Our
tour guide, Michael, was both knowledgeable and amiable. Here are a few shots from the tour.
After
that, we strolled around the central part of the city and found our way to a
bar called Café In't Aepjen, a cozy little bar that sits in a building built in
1519 that is apparently one of two remaining wooden buildings in the city. The bar is named after monkeys because, in
the 1500s and 1600s, it was popular amongst sailors from the Far East, who
would often bring monkeys with them. We
saddled up to a round table and enjoyed a few fantastic brews. I really liked this bar and would definitely
go back there again next time I'm in Amsterdam.
After
that, we headed back to the apartment to freshen up, before going to
dinner. We walked for what seemed like
hours to get to dinner, but it ended up being worth it. The restaurant is called De Zotte –- which
appropriately translates to "the drunken fool" -- and it was a
candlelit, rustic, wood-heavy bar/restaurant with good food and a large
selection of great beer (mostly Belgian).
We
were seated right next to a couple clearly on their first date. They were sitting across from each other, and
appeared to both be in their mid-to-late 20s.
The guy was clearly American, and the girl was of indiscernible European
descent, but spoke near-perfect English, so they conversed entirely in English. I was sitting closest to the girl, so I could
hear everything they were saying. It was
the most fucked-up first date dinner conversation I've ever heard.
The
guy was kind of a douche and seemed like a self-entitled trust fund kind of
kid. The girl was very polite and open-minded. Most of the first 30 minutes of the meal was comprised
of idiotic "you hate me" flirting, spent with him repeatedly
exclaiming to her "you totally hate me, don't you?" I did.
Then things got weird.
They
started to talk about religion, which of course, is a great way to get laid on
a first date. It was a rather innocuous
conversation at first, and then he said, "I can't believe I'm about to
tell you this, but . . . " If you
ever hear (or overhear) these words being spoken on a first date, listen up
because whoever is saying them is about to
After
he said that, he spent the next five minutes or so detailing his views on
aliens and religion. If I understood it
correctly –- and I'm not even sure he did –- the crux of his beliefs were that
the galaxy and space have been around for billions of years, and it's ignorant
to think that humans on Earth are the only intelligent life form that has ever
existed. Therefore, aliens inhabited
Earth millions of years ago and have controlled everything on Earth since
then. It was kind of a
Scientology-meets-Idiocracy-type thing.
Bear in mind that I'm giving you the abbreviated version. Like I said, the actual explanation went on
for about five minutes. How the girl
didn't excuse herself and sprint out of there at that moment is beyond me.
Then,
the conversation turned to sexual histories. Another surefire way to demonstrate to a girl
on a first date that she should go home with you is to discuss how many sexual
partners you have had and the different types of sexual activities those
partners enjoyed. This was a train wreck
in every sense of the word, except literally, and I could not help but
eavesdrop while the other five of us carried on like normal people do in a
restaurant.
The
highlight of the sexual history discussion was when the guy was discussing his
ex-girlfriend, who was apparently sexually liberated and enjoyed different
positions, among other things. I kid you
not, this guy uttered these words out loud:
"We did a lot of ass-to-mouth." Perhaps seeing the stunned look on the woman
he barely knew sitting across the table, he abruptly tried to soften the blow
(pun intended motherfuckers) by explaining, "She was into it, not
me." It took every ounce of energy
I had not to burst out laughing.
Again,
amazingly, this girl did not get up and leave. Instead, she proceeded to explain that she has
a recurring lip fungus of some sort that often put a damper on her sexual
activities. I'm not sure if this was a
subtle attempt to say to this guy "there is no chance in hell you are
getting any tonight," but it didn't work because, of course, the guy was
familiar with this fungus because either he or one of his exes had it, and it
didn't bother him. He may as well have
said, "I have herpes too, so no worries there!"
When
we got up to leave, I turned to them and said "good luck, you guys,"
and they laughed, half-embarrassed, half-proud.
Then, they presumably found a couple more like-minded people and made a
human centipede. I have come to the
conclusion that, as a result of the sexual deviance stakes being raised so high
in Amsterdam, this is the only way people can flirt in Amsterdam anymore. Either that, or it was the oddest example of
role playing ever.
We
then went to nearby square surrounded by several bars, each of which had
outdoor seating in the square.
We
enjoyed a few beers on the square, before heading back home, crossing through
the Red Light District for some last-minute window shopping, as is the custom
in those parts.
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