I'm With the Kurd
Emma's been screwing a Dutchman for a while now. His name (which I am certainly not making up) is Tjis van Weinerstein, and he used to live in the opposite corridor on our floor. Astute readers will remember a party of his that I crashed back in late September.
Anyway, Emma came ranting and stumbling down the corridor yesterday afternoon somehow managing to smoke a cigarette, drink a beer, and scratch her ass simultaneously, and told me that Tjis was had just moved and was having a housewarming party. Among the guests would be his ex-girlfriend, so Emma demanded (in the name of proletarian solidarity, no less) that I go with her for moral support.
As far as I remember, Tjis has apparently moved to Guam. My bicycle is still languishing in traction somewhere, so I rode Fjarnt, the scooter we stole from some children back in August, for what seemed like hours across desolate moors and through ominous forests till we finally found this crazy little apartment complex surrounding a green gas station.
All of Tjis's friends are (like him) Ph.D. students working on obscure medical things, mostly involving properties of blood. They are a strange lot--among them, a Nigerian who introduced himself as "Stan. The MAN. With THE TAN." Also a German with a halfhearted beard who told me in excrutiating detail about his hobby of hiking from Narvik to Kiruna. For those of you fortunate enough to have no idea where they are, simply imagine the kind of place an Abominable Snowman might leave because of the windchill.
That German couple who offered me a threesome was there too. I have apparently agreed to spend New Years with them, and no doubt hilarity will ensue.
The point, though, is that I sat around with Emma, hammering beers and making faces behind the back of Tjis's ex, who reminded me of a toad who had been outcast from toad society for being too ugly. After several hours of this, Mandi showed up (a godsend, as we had just been cornered by someone explaining their research into genital warts). Mandi is an Iranian Kurd who moved into our corridor about a month ago. He had just broken up with his girlfriend of two years (and by "just" I mean "that evening") so he was more than happy to join us in our valiant effort to help Tjis solve his excess beer problem.
Important cultural note: Dutch people absolutely insist on providing all liquor when they throw a party. Keep this in mind.
By around 1 or so, everyone decided to head out to an overpriced dance club to stand around and awkwardly wish they were back home. Mandi and I said to hell with that, and took off back to Flogsta, which entailed gracing the world with a truly remarkable sight: myself and a Kurd balanced precariously on a scooter, weighted down with about eight cans of beer apiece, zipping down a wooded hill in the dark, singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I Am" at the top of our voices.
Epic.
It was a long ride back. We bonded. I heard all about his family, his theories on the Illuminati, and this girl he hooked up with on a ferry from Marienhamn once. We got back to Flogsta and decided that the night simply hadn't been surreal enough yet, so we headed out to a Hollywood-themed corridor party in building 3. The usual crowd was there, the way they usually are. Mandi picked up a girl dressed as Marilyn Monroe in about five minutes flat, and I wandered about talking Tom Waits to Germans, Propaganda Due to attentive Finns, rugby to Frenchmen who didn't understand a word, highfiving Mandi, and generally attempting to avoid the Italians. Quite late I went over to building 8 with a "lady" for a "snack," and while my side of this story would no doubt be more titillating (and I mean every inch of that pun), Mandi is the one who will deliver the punchline.
You see, when I came staggering home at about seven in the morning (which is actually about the middle of the night these days), I found Benny, Tove, a blonde girl, a police officer, a paramedic, and someone from the student housing office in the hallway, forcing Mandi's door open. Turned out Mandi's estranged girlfriend had been calling him all morning with no success, then called Benny to check on him, but after an hour of pounding on the door, Benny'd had no luck and became convinced Mandi was dead, so he called the appropriate authorities.
They got the door open and found Mandi, passed out and snoring quite loudly in a pool of his own vomit, stark naked, with the Marilyn Monroe lookalike asleep naked on his bed--at almost exactly the same instant as when I arrived, my right hand dripping blood from where I'd cut it opening a beer bottle, and carrying a bra in my left hand, which I had stuffed into my pocket back in building 8 and forgotten about.
Mandi struggled to his feet, blinking like a particularly offended mole, saw this crowd of people standing in his doorway gaping at him, saw me, grinned and waved.
Everyone turned around and looked at me. I shrugged, swinging blood and bra around in equal measures and said:
"Don't look at me. I'm with the Kurd."
Anyway, Emma came ranting and stumbling down the corridor yesterday afternoon somehow managing to smoke a cigarette, drink a beer, and scratch her ass simultaneously, and told me that Tjis was had just moved and was having a housewarming party. Among the guests would be his ex-girlfriend, so Emma demanded (in the name of proletarian solidarity, no less) that I go with her for moral support.
As far as I remember, Tjis has apparently moved to Guam. My bicycle is still languishing in traction somewhere, so I rode Fjarnt, the scooter we stole from some children back in August, for what seemed like hours across desolate moors and through ominous forests till we finally found this crazy little apartment complex surrounding a green gas station.
All of Tjis's friends are (like him) Ph.D. students working on obscure medical things, mostly involving properties of blood. They are a strange lot--among them, a Nigerian who introduced himself as "Stan. The MAN. With THE TAN." Also a German with a halfhearted beard who told me in excrutiating detail about his hobby of hiking from Narvik to Kiruna. For those of you fortunate enough to have no idea where they are, simply imagine the kind of place an Abominable Snowman might leave because of the windchill.
That German couple who offered me a threesome was there too. I have apparently agreed to spend New Years with them, and no doubt hilarity will ensue.
The point, though, is that I sat around with Emma, hammering beers and making faces behind the back of Tjis's ex, who reminded me of a toad who had been outcast from toad society for being too ugly. After several hours of this, Mandi showed up (a godsend, as we had just been cornered by someone explaining their research into genital warts). Mandi is an Iranian Kurd who moved into our corridor about a month ago. He had just broken up with his girlfriend of two years (and by "just" I mean "that evening") so he was more than happy to join us in our valiant effort to help Tjis solve his excess beer problem.
Important cultural note: Dutch people absolutely insist on providing all liquor when they throw a party. Keep this in mind.
By around 1 or so, everyone decided to head out to an overpriced dance club to stand around and awkwardly wish they were back home. Mandi and I said to hell with that, and took off back to Flogsta, which entailed gracing the world with a truly remarkable sight: myself and a Kurd balanced precariously on a scooter, weighted down with about eight cans of beer apiece, zipping down a wooded hill in the dark, singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I Am" at the top of our voices.
Epic.
It was a long ride back. We bonded. I heard all about his family, his theories on the Illuminati, and this girl he hooked up with on a ferry from Marienhamn once. We got back to Flogsta and decided that the night simply hadn't been surreal enough yet, so we headed out to a Hollywood-themed corridor party in building 3. The usual crowd was there, the way they usually are. Mandi picked up a girl dressed as Marilyn Monroe in about five minutes flat, and I wandered about talking Tom Waits to Germans, Propaganda Due to attentive Finns, rugby to Frenchmen who didn't understand a word, highfiving Mandi, and generally attempting to avoid the Italians. Quite late I went over to building 8 with a "lady" for a "snack," and while my side of this story would no doubt be more titillating (and I mean every inch of that pun), Mandi is the one who will deliver the punchline.
You see, when I came staggering home at about seven in the morning (which is actually about the middle of the night these days), I found Benny, Tove, a blonde girl, a police officer, a paramedic, and someone from the student housing office in the hallway, forcing Mandi's door open. Turned out Mandi's estranged girlfriend had been calling him all morning with no success, then called Benny to check on him, but after an hour of pounding on the door, Benny'd had no luck and became convinced Mandi was dead, so he called the appropriate authorities.
They got the door open and found Mandi, passed out and snoring quite loudly in a pool of his own vomit, stark naked, with the Marilyn Monroe lookalike asleep naked on his bed--at almost exactly the same instant as when I arrived, my right hand dripping blood from where I'd cut it opening a beer bottle, and carrying a bra in my left hand, which I had stuffed into my pocket back in building 8 and forgotten about.
Mandi struggled to his feet, blinking like a particularly offended mole, saw this crowd of people standing in his doorway gaping at him, saw me, grinned and waved.
Everyone turned around and looked at me. I shrugged, swinging blood and bra around in equal measures and said:
"Don't look at me. I'm with the Kurd."
posted by Eccarius | 12:10 PM
1 Comments:
That settles it, you're definitely making this up. How come my life is never that exciting? One thing's for sure; we're definitely living together when we're both in London. Sorry about my absence the other night, I was mid-crisis, I'll tell you all the details some time when I don't have two huge papers due.
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