So, during my lunch hour yesterday, my friend Selina and I saw some Abercrombie models standing on the street promoting a new store opening.  Selina dared me to ask for a picture with them, and I of course could not resist.  For some reason, in my brain, where I keep my thoughts, I seemed to think this 15 year old model was a genie and asked him three questions...here is what ensued

Me:  Will you run your hands through my hair?

Me:  Will you grind on me?

Me:  Can I pour water on you?

Full disclosure:  We actually ended up sleeping in a vendor tent that we had to crawl into through a back flap, but luckily there were some mini-trampolines to use as beds and lots of t-shirts we used as blankets.

to my russian readers

I consistently have 5 hits from russia each week, so to further encourage there readership, I will do a shot of vodka for each hit from russia i have for the week next saturday before i go out.  ok russia, my fate is in your hands. . .don't disappoint!!!

~UPDATE~so last saturday ended being a night in. . .so the shots for russia have been postponed until this saturday, but it's probably for the best seeing as i only had three hits from russia last week.  WTF, russia, lock it down and log on!!  i'll do shots for last week and this week to make up for my delay.

Tsunami Night

So, there was a T10 tsunami warning.  This is the highest a tsunami warning can be.  Did Becks and I hunker down and wait out the storm. . .well sort of, in our own way, which meant we first had to run to the shop and buy lots of booze.  I was super excited to see my old friend Andre there, the cheapest shittiest fake champagne cheap enough that I drank it when I went to uni, and to round out our poor-as-fuck booze purchases we also grabbed some Boone's Farm.  We headed back home and were drinking and playing cards while dinner was cooking.  As usual, when Andre comes home with me, things got out of control quickly.  Fast forward 20 minutes and dinner was burnt, there was champagne spilled all over the carpet and we were off to the shop for round two, because how silly of us to think 4 bottles in addition to the mixie canned drinks we had drank prior to popping bottles would be enough.  Again, there was a tsunami, so we were wearing hoodies with the hoods up carrying cheep liquor bottles and looking like a couple of rough chavs (the British equivalent of trailer trash) to me this means one thing:  photo op.

The night goes on like this and we decide to make a list of celebs we want to fuck.  Both lists are pictured.  I have no idea how Kim Jong Un made my top three, but the next day we found out he is married, fucking typical.

*This is a cartoon dramatization, events are depicted as retold to me the next morning by the 6'4'' New Zealand pilot I went home with.  I did step in my own puddle of urine the next morning while gathering my clothes.