Recently, a friend of mine told me of a trip she is planning to Europe. I find it coincidental, as I am planning a trip to the land of good beer and moral apathy myself. Though she is not really a friend, in fact she is more like a beautiful demon succubus who feasts on the hearts of young men and laughs over their broken souls. I wish her nothing but happiness and love. Happiness, love, and the occasional stubbed toe.
Back to the trip.
I have family in Spain. Spain is the land of the extended mid-day nap, so it matches perfectly with my habits and general point of view towards everything. When I go to Europe though, I don't plan on wasting time sleeping. I plan to spend every waking second exploiting the inhabitants' ungodly attitudes towards all that we as Americans condemn.
I have been to Europe, though I was travelling with my old man (Satan). Satan is a big time businessman, so when he decided to show his 14 year old son some culture, he spared no expense. We took rooms in a hotel overlooking the Spanish Steps in Rome, putted around Venice on water taxis by day and roamed the masked madness of Carnivale by night. We explored German castles, Satan and I, and (very awkwardly) the red-light district of Zurich. We took a bus tour on the autobahn, where maniacal Germans blew by us in pretty, shiny blurs of not-fucking-around German engineering.
The moral of the trip was that I was 14. I couldn't do the things a normal person does in Europe, namely get shitfaced and fuck like there is no wrathful Puritanical God waiting to fry us in a fiery pit after death.
I wouldn't classify my trip as sex tourism. The phrase "sex tourism" tends to evoke images of bearded men and Thai girls who would be turned away from playing the role of Dora the Explorer because they look too young. No, what I plan to do is chic. It is the essence of nose-in-the-air European snobbery. It is simply fucking anything with a passable I.D. that moves and doesn't have something dangling between their legs.
So for my new trip I have created a code of conduct, a code that must not be broken at all costs. I am going on a European tasting trip. I won't be focusing on tasting the wines of Italy, the beer of Germany, or the fromage of France. I will be focusing on tasting strange girls with strange, dead-sexy ways of speaking. Strange Euro girls who can't wait to experience a good old fashioned plowing by an all-American like myself.
It should be mentioned from the outset that I am extraordinarily handsome. I make Paul Newman look like Rocky Dennis. This is not boasting, it is mere fact. It's science, really. You don't debate whether gravity exists, you just accept it, like you accept my immaculate bone structure. You can cut granite on my jaw. My gaze can melt steel. I also possess freakish sized manhood, so large that I have had to alter all of my pants with a sewed-in lining to attach it to my leg to keep it from hitting my knees and interrupting a normal walking pattern. It is a gift and a curse, a curse mainly because shorts just do not work for me in decent society. Which is precisely why Europe is perfect, as it is so far removed from anything we Americans consider decent.
The Golden Rule
I cannot leave the country I am staying in until I have tasted at least one of its female inhabitants.
If time lags on, prostitutes can be used. Prostitutes are only for dire situations, and I do not expect to need them. They are like using codes to beat a video game, because yes, you beat the game, but you feel like somehow you cheated. You certainly don't brag about it, or tell your friends about these cheat codes.
In case of STD's, antibiotics are an extra life. Pregnancies are an immediate game over, but escaping via one of Europe's vast railroads is a 1-UP. I plan to leave Europe with more bastard children than the whole of the National Football League. If I don't have enough mini-Marrison's to field two baseball teams by the time I leave this debauched land, I will feel like I didn't live up to my full potential. This cannot happen. This must not happen.
I want to make my crazed sexual encounters worthwhile. I cannot simply go to Euro bars or discos and take out the trash. The same can be done in good ole 'Merica. That being said, I do not want to stoop to the opposite extreme and attempt to bone a girl on the viewing deck of the Eiffel Tower or the clock face of Big Ben. This is just plain tacky. I will be inventive.
In Paris, I want to jam my manhood in a baguette and entice some sexy art student to feast on Grade-A American beef. In Switzerland I want to have my enormous penis entirely coated in fine chocolates, only to be removed by some troubled girl who does not speak the language of my father's father and his father before him.
In preparation, I have been tirelessly studying to habits of Euro sluts. Most research is done online, with doors closed and locked shamefully. The chafing type of research. My research has led me to the conclusion that Czech girls will do just about anything if the price is right. Apparently, and I did not know this fun fact before I conducted my numerous all-nighters of research, but every single Czech woman in existence is a prostitute waiting to emerge. I plan to spill more seed in the Czech Republic than Monsanto and the whole of corn growin' middle America.
I want to get dome in the Vatican. I want to see a Romanian girl's pretty eyes light up when she sees
1. an alien looking circumcised penis
2. the single Euro I casually flip in my hand.
That one Euro would feed her peasant family for many moons, but if she lets me desecrate her uncle's barn with her love juices, I might just let her hold that one Euro and let her feel the feeling of being rich for a day. The list of the disgusting things I plan on doing extends ad infinitum. By the time I depart,my twig will be more spotty than France's sexual harassment record, or surely I will have cheated myself.
Veni, Vidi, Veni. and Veni some more times, and Veni in and around her jagged Euro teeth and Veni all over that Backstreet Boys T-shirt. (Apparently they are the latest craze sweeping Bulgaria)
In summation, I plan to leave Europe with a fine, salty coating of my Veni covering most public transportation hubs.
Then I can come back to America, go to church, work my blindingly boring job, pay my taxes, kiss my wife, bounce my rugrats on my knee, watch my pixelated misery and eat my fried Diabetes like the good God-Fearing nephew of Uncle Sam that I am.
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