Have you ever thought about smashing your way through Amsterdam your very first night in Europe? Does water-boarding sound kind of rad to you? Then this is your show. Special guest Natrebo of FilmEar.com joins KRS for another episode of Why The Hell Podcast.
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I was nursing one of the most ungodly hangovers I’ve ever had in my life, on a bus full of relative strangers, on our way to Chamonix, France. The night before in Amsterdam had been a complete shit show. I wanted to sleep but I felt too sick.
A group of us gathered together in the back of the bus to play a game of Who Am I. The way the game works is that everyone writes the name of someone famous on a post-it note and sticks it to someone else’s forehead. The person playing can’t see the name on the post-it. They ask the group yes or no questions to try and figure out who they are. It was super fun and it took my mind off the fact my body felt like it was shutting down from all the abuse the night prior.
After about an hour of playing I couldn’t handle it anymore. My hangover had gotten the best of me. I had to get some rest. I fell asleep. When I woke up we had arrived at our hotel in Chamonix.
I got off the bus, grabbed my bags and entered the hotel. I checked in with the hotel clerk and made my way to the elevator. I was still a little out of it from my nap. But I started to notice people were staring at me as I walked by. I didn’t pay too much attention to it. The only thing I could think about was getting to my room and laying down.
As I got to the elevator in the lobby I saw my reflection in the steel door. I now knew why I was getting funny looks from other hotel guests. Thick, veiny, glorious dicks shooting jizz had been drawn all over my forehead, cheeks and chin in permanent marker.
I turned and looked at my bus-mates as they broke into laughter. I wanted to be mad but I couldn’t. I was in hysterics, laughing at the massive dicks all over my face. These assholes managed to draw all over me while I was passed out on the bus without me waking up.
Getting the dicks off my face was a huge pain in the ass. Since they used permanent marker it became a huge ordeal. By the time I was done scrubbing my face with soap and rubbing alcohol I had pretty much forgotten about my hangover.
The part that really got me about this whole situation was the hotel clerk. It was as if he was used to seeing people with dicks on their face come into the hotel. He didn’t bat and eye or even smirk as he checked me in. Nor did he bother to help me out and mention what was all over my face. Which I feel is kind of fucked up. He just went about his day like business as usual.
Walking into the Red Light District felt like Disney World for degenerates. I couldn’t have been more excited. I handed my new found Australian friends; Mike and Joe, a liter of Amstel and a Cialis. We had meet (they were brothers) a couple hours earlier, but a few joints and beers later we were like old pals.
We continued to drink and as I got more polluted I came up with, what I thought, was a great idea. I made up a competition to see who could have sex with the most prostitutes in one night. When I presented them with my idea they looked at me and laughed. I took this as a yes.
Joe was the first to take part in my game. He saw an attractive women in the window. I could tell he was a little nervous about what he was about to do. He looked at me with a little smile and said ” I don’t really know if want to spend the money because I cum prematurely mate”. His brother and I laughed at him until the peer pressure was enough that he agreed to partake in the game.
I cracked a fresh liter of beer as he went into the house. Mike and I stood outside on the street drinking and talking. I hadn’t even finished half of my beer when Joe walked out with his head down. He was in the house for less than 3 minutes total and had already finished. His brother and I couldn’t stop laughing at him.
The majority of the events over the next 10-12 hours are a bit blurry for me. But, there are some part I remember clearly, like my trip to Skinny Alley. Skinny Alley is exactly what It sounds like. It was an alley in the Red Light District with barely enough room for people to walk single file in either direction. Every 12-15 feet there was a doorway with a prostitute standing in it.
As I passed a door I felt a hand grab me and pull me inside a dark room. When the lights went on I saw one of the most beautiful women I have ever encountered standing in front of me. She was Portuguese and perfect; other than being a prostitute of course. She offered me some coke, which I thought was awful nice of her. Then she said “for you we can do this for 25 Euros.” That’s less than taking a date out to dinner at a low end restaurant. I’m not one to pass up a great deal. Free drugs and inexpensive sex with this Portuguese Goddess. I felt like I was taking advantage of her.
After we had our fun, we did a little more coke and had a couple drinks. We made small talk. She asked about my life in the US and said she always want to travel to America. At one point she hinted at the possibility of coming to visit me. I took that as my cue to leave. I gave her my E-mail address and said goodbye.
On my way out, I took a pen from her room and made a mark on my hand. This was how I kept score for the competition. It was like tallying votes on a chalk board as a child.
As it turns out, I was the only one competing. The brothers were long gone. I stumbled around the Red Light District, making mark after mark on my hand. At one point one of the prostitutes tried to dose me with GHB. I’m not sure what she had planned for me; but I’m pretty sure it looked something like the movie Hostel.
As the night progressed I became less and less selective with my purchases. It was a sheer numbers game for me at this point. There was a very angry and rather large black chick who stole $20 from me. She gave me a lackluster handjob, which she didn’t even finish. I had sex with a couple of chicks way past their prime. Overall, the quantity game caused me to have buyers remorse often.
The sun was starting to come up. When I looked at my watch I realized I had to be back at my hotel and ready to leave on the bus in less than two hours. I had no idea where I was in correlation to the hotel. As I flagged down a taxi a guy bumped into me and tried to grab my Rolex off my wrist. Thankfully I still had the capacity to defend myself even in my stupor. I shrugged it off and jumped into the taxi.
Upon arriving at the hotel I went to my room, packed up all my items and headed down to the lobby. I knew if I went to bed I wouldn’t wake up in time to make the bus and would be left behind. The next thing I remember the tour guide was shaking me to wake me up and asking if I was OK. I was covered in sweat, sleeping on my suitcase in front of the whole tour group.
I could feel the very judgmental eyes of my fellow travelers burning into my soul. Joe and Mike were laughing at me and making jokes. I reached into my pocket to find I had spent about 800 Euros that night. Then, I looked down at my hand and counted the 14 marks. I proudly showed the brothers what I had accomplished and claimed victory.
As a side note, I learned that a blue light at a house means they are a dude dressed up as a woman. Be careful. I almost found this out the hard way. No pun intended
Ten years ago I took a bus tour through Europe. Friends of mine were supposed to join me, but they all backed out. I flew to Europe alone to meet the people I would spend the next two weeks traveling with. The tour started in Amsterdam. Which meant bad news for making a first impression on my fellow travelers.
The first day in Amsterdam we all met at our hotel. We were introduced to our tour guide and our roommates. The tour guide explained the trip and the ground rules. The main rule we had to know was the bus would leave each city at a certain time and place. If you were not there on time they would leave without you. It actually happened to several people. It almost happened to me.
Most people had roommates they knew because they booked the trip with them. I on the other hand was roomed up with a shy, awkward, creepy Canadian who I called “The Dungeon Master.” I don’t recall his real name, but the moniker I gave him seemed to fit. I pictured him living in his parents basement, dressing up, playing Dungeons and Dragons, while hurting small animals. Eventually, everyone on the trip referred to him as The Dungeon Master.
He never said a whole lot. I tried to be friendly, but I can be a bit overwhelming. Minutes after meeting me for the first time, I started a conversation about drinking, smoking weed at the coffee houses and having sex with hookers in the Red Light District. I was 25 at the time and in Amsterdam so It seemed like pretty normal conversation for the circumstances. I guess I didn’t gauge his personality quite right.
The Dungeon Master wasn’t a huge fan of mine. As a matter of fact, he expressed his hatred for me and my antics to anyone who would listen. He even went as far as to proposition several people about trying to trade me as a roommate. Unfortunately for him, no one else wanted to deal with me either.
On the last night of the trip the Dungeon Master let loose and got hammer-time drunk. Two girls we were traveling with thought his behavior was so funny they filmed him. They started up a conversation by asking him questions about his experience on the trip . He went off on a tirade ripping into me and telling the girls how horrible it was to be my roommate. He said having to room with me felt like torture.
Then out of nowhere he switched tracks and dropped a bomb on them. He went into intimate detail discussing how he had gotten double teamed by a couple of dudes in Amsterdam. It turned out The Dungeon Master was gay. He came out of the closet, on film, for the first time. His hatred for me combined with too much alcohol, allowed him to share his biggest secret with the world.