Snapshot Saturday!

I'm gonna start doin' the whole alliteration thing because it's really cute.

Anyway, I am in some state, my friends. The left side of my body feels like I got suplexed by the Big Show, my nasal passages are more clogged than a Whitecastle septic tank, and I think the war wound I mentioned in entry #1 is developing a post-impact infection.

Yes, I did have to shave the area around the gash because the band-aid gum was ripping out patches of my leg hair.

Forgive the gruesomeness, but a picture says a thousand words right?  I'm no doctor (but I am an MD - classic Mike Dolan line), but I think I can chalk the infection up to the fact that, unbeknownst to me for the first 5 days of medication, the surly old lady at the pharmacy sold me Czech Anti-Itch cream and not Czech Anti-biotic ointment. This fucking language, man.

The source of the uncomfortable numbness presently running up and down the left side of my body is less identifiable, however. Either I took a drunken tumble last night (doubtful, I have excellent balance) or the undersized bed in my spacious single room is finally taking a toll on my body.

My shitty, undersized bed. And for some unknown reason, my green crocs.

This "bed" sucks. It is hands down the worst place I've ever slept, and I have a lot of experience not only sleeping in general, but sleeping in uncomfortable places - namely, four consecutive nights in the driver's seat of Kyle's mother's minivan at Bonnaroo, in a pool of melted Vanilla McDonalds milkshake in the backseat of Curto's jeep this past May, and last but not certainly not least, the grooved plastic seats at airport gates that are designed specifically so people cannot sleep on them. But no, the wooden board upholstered with that scratchy, checkered bullshit that the kind people who furnished the dormitory call a bed trumps them all.

I awoke today at 3 pm, which meant I slept way through my 8 am alarm (if I even set one) and missed the CIEE day trip to some wacky church made out of bones at the outskirts of town. I feel like a major doucher for missing it, but I wasn't the only one absent, and apparently it wasn't even that cool. Instead, I cleaned and organized my room, made some lists, and (39 hours after I started it) finished my laundry. I think the dryer heard I was talkin' shit, though, because it ate part of my grey hoodie.

Which really blows, because now I can't zip. My only option for increased warmth rests upon the neck toggles, which also blows, because tying those turns my hoodie into a cape, and I have no interest in dressing like a 14th century villain. So I'm down to one hoodie, which is never a position I like to be in.

But that's neither here nor there. I have new information, man.

Last night was interesting to say the least.

Some background info: Miska, the major sweetheart that lent me her laundry basket, was medically warned against drinking for the past 4 months. That's because she was a CIEE Czech buddy last semester and drank so much that her liver probably began to resemble a sun-dried tomato. Well, yesterday marked the end of month #4, and Miska was ready to ride. So was her fan club (12 dudes), and the 13 of us pregamed in the dorms before hitting "Retro."

Miska and her fan club

Retro was a scene. Until last night, the fleet of drunken CIEE scholars have been patrons of the bigger, more tourist-oriented clubs in Prague. Americans or other non-Czechs have more or less dominated the inebriated landscape for the past two weeks. Not last night. Retro is a place for Czechs who speak Czech and dance Czech and drink Czech. We Americans were in the minority, and that was unsettling at first.

It was unsettling because a Czech bride-to-be was in the throws of her bachlorette party, which I'm pretty sure was whore-themed, because everyone was wearing bunny ears and groveling at naked dudes on-stage. Just as an aside -- based on the comings and the goings that came and went at the Retro bachlorette party last night, I hope I never marry a Czech woman. But I might, because almost all of them are smokes. And these women were no exception.

This clip was taken right after the fiance was courted by a number of very strong, very naked Czech men. The scene resembled what I think a Calvin Klein underwear photoshoot would look like if Calvin Klein staged their photoshoots at grimy Czech dance clubs.

The Bride-To-Be and her nudey courtier of choice

After the culture shock wore off, and the shots of tequila wore on, I hit the dance floor hard. I know I had a fine time because I don't know how I got home, and I only spent 500 CK (~$25), which means I was dancing more than I was drinking.

Hopefully something of the like occurs tonight.

I'm kicking it off at Hooters in about half an hour with some wings and some college football. Seeing as I don't follow sports, I don't know who is playing, but I'm doing my best to fit in with the bros in the program, so college football it is. But I'm going mostly so I can see how perfect the waitresses' breasts are. The entire population of Czech women rock C's at a bare minimum, so I can barely imagine what kinda cups are gonna be providing the support at Hooters tonight. Whew. I'm pumped.

I'm gonna put up a facebook album soon. And possibly some of the absolutely hysterical moments I captured with the flip two nights ago. So like call the media, cuz this shit is gonna be EPICCC (I kid).

And it goes without saying that my heart and soul is in America tonight. Never forget.

American Embassy adjacent to Prague Castle.

Until next time, yours truly,

Marty