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Published: February 12th 2007
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As Gene and I sat for dinner outdoors at the wharf, we were interrupted by two young men who motioned for Gene to approach the gate. Uninterested in their frivolities, I sat and enjoyed my glass of wine. After a couple of minutes had passed, I glanced back over toward Gene and witnessed him offer a shrug of his shoulders in approval of apparently their request for my assistance. As Gene approached the dinner table, I was summoned to the gate. Observing the gentleman who called me over, I noticed that he was dressed in a spandex biker suit with a helmet on and appeared to be quite blitzed. Growing curious as to what they would want from a married American girl, I drew near the gate.
The helmet head slurred, “I’m on a scavenger hunt and I need to find somebody with fake breasts. Do you know anybody?”
“I’m an American here on holiday. Sorry, I can’t help ya.”
Spitting as he spoke, “Well, do you have fake boobs?”
Looking down at my chest with a grin, “It sure doesn’t look like it.”
“Well, I need your help. Can you just take a photo with
me and pretend to have fake boobs? If not, I have to run around this dock naked.”
For the first time noticing that the other gentleman was wearing a business suit, I grew a bit skeptical. As I eyed the guy in the helmet from head to toe, I noticed the words, “SNUFFY” written across his lower stomach with an arrow pointing down to his prized possession. “Are you a bachelor?” I asked.
“I get married on Sunday.”
“Ah, hell, I’ll help you out. Though, if your friends see me, there is no way in hell that they are going to believe you.”
Snap. Dear lord, I could never be a politician. Desperately, the drunken bachelor thanked me and told me that he owed me a drink. Gene and I laughed as he wobbled his way down the dock.
After a lengthy dinner, we were headed to
Minus Five, an ice bar, when we stopped at the traffic light behind the bachelor party. It was quite a sight to see the big group of guys dressed in business suits with the drunken bachelor trailing amongst them with the words, “Who stole my manhood, Anna?” written
across his back. Gene slapped the bachelor on his back at the light. He turned and mumbled something barely comprehensible. I told him he owed me a photo and that I wanted to take a picture of the back of his shirt.
“On the count of three. One…two…” and, suddenly, one bare white ass smiling back at me.
Snap.
Once we reached
Minus Five, we were dressed in Eskimo suits and provided gloves. As we entered the ice bar, I was awed to see that
everything was made from ice, including the bar, benches, tables and glasses. There were intricate ice carvings located around the room, including an ice chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
We were disappointed to learn that we weren’t allowed to take any photos in the bar. A mere ploy to make more money, you had to request that a photo be taken by one of the employees, which would then cost you $25.00 NZD. Nonetheless, I convinced Gene to pose with me for a photo as a token of our unique experience.
The amateur photographer/bartender was a very young and attractive Australian whom I tried convincing to call my best friend, Jennie,
to leave a dirty voicemail. When I was single, I would oftentimes come home to a voice message from some random guy Jennie had met out and thought I would find attractive, convincing him that her girlfriend was really cute and that he should call me. On less fortunate occasions, I would receive calls from some desperate guy who had bought Jennie drinks the night before under the disguise of my name and promised to call her the next day, of course with my phone number in hand. In the beginning, I tried to let the guys down easy and acted somewhat of a counselor to those who felt cheated. After a number of pointless conversations and requests to go out on dates, I learned to rub salt in their wounds. “Was she a tall attractive brunette with big boobs? Yeah, sorry, buddy…that’s not me. You’ve been screwed. Don’t worry, there are other fish in the sea.”
Click.
As we stood sipping girly drinks from the straws in our hand-carved glasses and making friends with the Australian, we persuaded him to let us take a few of our own photos in the bar. With Gene the designated left-hand driver
of the evening, I even convinced the bartender to pour a little extra alcohol in my $18.00 drinks. Since tipping is not customary in New Zealand, the bartender was especially thankful for the $5.00 bill we slipped him across the bar - so happy, that he gave us our $25.00 photo for $10.00. We then stopped next door at
Lenin, another drinking establishment, where we met up yet again with our bachelor party friends.
Upon introducing myself to the group, one of the Kiwi’s, shouted, “You are the girl in the picture!”
“Yes, that’s me,” with a smirk.
“So tell me, is it true?”
Intending to stir up a bit of trouble, I replied, “No, it’s not. He lied.”
Immediately, they began shouting out Wade’s name and calling him a liar, telling him that he lost the game. The bachelor suspiciously inquired as to who spilled the beans. There I stood with all fingers pointed at me.
“He’s lying. I didn’t say a word!”
The bachelor pressed, “Then how did they find out?”
Under pressure, I could think of only one good explanation. “He squeezed my boob!”
Gene and I laughed
as the guy’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t grab
anything.
SHE told us the truth. Now you have to hold up to your end of the deal!”
The next thing I knew, the bachelor was standing in the middle of the bar with his pants down to his ankles, tighty whities and all.
Snap!
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darby
non-member comment
snuffy = wang?
is it a NZ term?