Monday, June 6, 2011

Poor Decisons Made in Ireland: Part One, Day One

I like to think sometimes that my friend Sara has a magic vagina. She has this amazing superpower that snares just about any man she sets her eyes on. Not only that, but she can get them to do whatever the fuck she wants. I love this girl, but more often than not whenever we go out every man we meet showers her with attention and free drinks as I sip my expensive beer and take shots alone. The only logical explanation would be that she has a magic vagina (right?...).  Because of our two week vacation in Ireland, I would like to personally thank Sara's magic vagina, which gave us the gift of some of the most hilarious, lucky, and/or terrifying experiences of my life. To preface this series of adventure stories, I'm going to give you the tale of the first 24 hours, which I think gives a pretty good indication of how the rest of the trip went.

Before we had even left Portland, Sara had already been sprinkling fairy dust from her magic vagina, and met a nice boy who just happened to be flying into Dublin the same day as us. Coincidence? No, it's the power of her magical undercarriage and the intoxicating smells it emanates. He overheard Sara telling a friend about the trip while she was hungover in line for coffee. Even racked with nausea and smelling like a dirty bar floor, she is still hotter than most of us will ever be. (S.M.V. 1 Universe 0). So they make vague plans to meet at the airport in a couple days. This 'plan' consisted of calling each other minutes before our take-offs from different cities, hurriedly deciding to meet outside each others respective gates. As it would turn out, Dublin airport does not have gates. It merely has a giant hallway that spits you out to customs before you walk through some doors to the awaiting paparazzi. If you have a fear of crowds like I do, having the opaque doors open to camera flashes, loud noises, and everyone staring expectantly at you was kind of like those dreams I have with a zombie/natural disaster apocalypse combo platter haunting me only to wake up terrified with someone in the room watching me.
I blindly meander to a quiet spot (typically the inside of a girls bathroom stall) breathe, and reassess my situation. I'm supposed to meet this guy "Chris" and have no idea what he looks like. So I stand, like a fucking American jackass, outside customs with my overstuffed, lesbian, tourist backpack on, scanning people's faces to see if I find anyone that looks about on par with my jackass meter. As luck would have it, me and this guy sort of stared at each other, smiled, looked away, then looked at each others backpacks, walked the 20 foot distance to each other while awkwardly avoiding all eye contact, said hello, and... We had beaten the odds! With two hours or so before Sara landed, the bar was the only option (I swear). Have I mentioned yet that it was 6am? It was 6am. Portland time, it would have been 10pm. The weathered bartender made us show our boarding passes to show that we are still on International Time, because in Dublin, it's still too early to drink. (I know, right? Come on, Ireland, live up to your stereotype.) I probably should have taken this as a sign that yes, it was too early to start drinking, but I like to think that I was "successful" enough to make my first poor decision in Ireland without even having to leave the airport.

Four beers deep, Sara finds the new best friends wasted at the bar, shouting about how much fun we were going to have while the bartenders looked on with blatant disdain. We head out to the rising sun suspended in a cloud of drunken stupidity. Navigating the city hammered was needless to say a biiiit difficult. Especially when the dreaded feeling of sobering up hits. Combining this with an impending sense of exhaustion, I took my leave to a dorm bed for a four hour power nap while Sara and Chris continued drinking.  To this day, I have no idea how they did it. It was the apocalypse of binges. I met up with the two surprisingly coherent bffs later for a pub crawl, ending in an attempt to find a bar empty enough for us to watch the Ireland soccer match. (It's quite a popular sport over there. Here is where I wish they made a separate font for sarcasm.)

There was no room at this gigantic bar blasting the match from 25 TVs for us to even stand. So, Sara and her magic vagina saunter up to a group of nice looking boys and ask if we can sit with them. Of course they say yes, the noxious fumes of her witchcraft dancing in their nostrils. All hail the magic vagina! We sit and cheer, and the boys are immediately surprised that I can actually converse intelligently about soccer, (as an American), and that I understand the offside rule, (because I have tits). Usually in foreign countries when those two facts are revealed it results in many rounds of drinks bought for me (sadly the only time this happens is when I'm impressing foreign boys with my soccer-knowledge) as they try to find some fault in it. There are none, however, and now I'm wasted.

I woke up like I was coming out of an exorcism. Covered in saliva (my own?), wearing most of my clothes (panties?), yelling incoherently (about kebabs?), and am in a strange place with no recollection of how I got there. Alright, first step: opening eyes against the throbbing protests of my poisoned brain. Step two: identify male asleep in chair next to me. Right. Now I've started my Ireland holiday with a god damn "who are you" morning. Greaaat work, McCombs.
As random hot Irish boy awakens in the same fashion I do, I sort of blurt/slur out, "I haaave a boyfrrriend," to which he responds, "I have a girlfriend." Phew. "So..." he starts.
My mouth pathetically whispered, "Where is Sara?" But the cunt inside me was screaming, "ASPIRIN! I need a fistful of fucking aspirin before you fucking speak to me again, leprechaun!!!"
"Yeah she went off with some guys." Plural. Fuck. Outside random apartment, the sunlight assaults and abuses my eyes and headache, and hot n' hungover Irish boy quickly directs me and my shame to the easiest way of getting back to where I'm staying, on some ball-sweat-hot streetcar type thing. He even gave me some Irish money to pay for it. I may not possess the ability to hang on to a guy, but at least I'm pretty good at getting them to pay me to leave. (Maggie's traits increasingly point to 'low self esteem hooker'. A little bit of pity goes a long way.)
I pull my favorite douchebag tourist move, and walk around with one of those tiny, often wrong Lonely Planet maps in hand and meander in circles around landmarks for a while. Hours later at the hostel, the guy at the front desk gives me one horrified, humiliating look before staring in any direction except my eyes. While I haven't yet found a mirror to assess the damage, I am positive that he was staring at a greasy, sour smelling train wreck. He informs me that neither of us assholes made it home in time to check out and our possessions were now located behind the front desk. (His words.)
Oh, crapballs.
I sit alone with my anxiety in our new and empty hostel room and wait for Sara. Around 3pm the terror of having to call the Irish police to search for my missing American sets in, Sara arrives hand in hand with a young, clean-cut Irish lad, who has given her the gift of a new cell phone, and now wants to take us to lunch. Are you fucking kidding me with that magic vagina? I get booted from somewhere miles away, sex-free and hungry on some horrible, child-infested torture-tube to find my way home, while Sara's magic vag gets to leisurely lounge through the morning alternating between sex, showers, breakfast, probably all the while in a temperature controlled environment. It is only then, after I see his eyes scan the situation in front of him, (namely me, in a state of the panic-sweats and smelling of cigarettes and vodka), that I realize a shower, maybe 3 bottles of febreeze for the clothes and some industrial-strength bleach for the mouth might be in order.  

To be continued...

4 comments:

  1. Not gonna lie; I went to FIFA's website and watched their tutorial explaining offsides after the Timbers v Fire game.
    Did you start introducing yourself as MacCombs to try to play up the Irish (Scottish?) heritage?

    I didn't realize how funny you when I read your May blog. Then again, humor would have been wildly inappropriate for that entry.

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  2. I enjoyed also reading your blog indeed your good in adding some humor.

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  3. McCombs, I love you, even if you are a low-self esteem hooker.

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  4. "I enjoyed also reading your blog indeed your good in adding some humor." WTF?

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