oth of you will be glad to know that I have returned safely from my trip to Hungary. I don't remember much of the trip thanks to my friends Guinness and Palinka, but I'll tell you a little about what I do remember, as I'm sure you're dying to know.
I'll sum the whole thing up in three words so if you are pressed for time you can just read this then leave: I hate fucking Hungarians. Also, I don't wear enough hats, but that's neither here nor there. Now the extended version: Left SFO for London, layover in London, jump on a flight to Budapest, chill in post-communist Hungary for a bit, then back the same way.
They do everything slower in Hungary, except driving, which they do very, um, creatively. These silly euros don't hesitate to remove pedestrians from crosswalks with the hoods of their cars. A delightful Hungarian custom I had the pleasure of witnessing on the very first night of my stay.
I took a bunch of pictures, too. Of all the friends I made on my trip. Here's a friend I made at an authentic Olde English Pube:
And an hispanic friend I made at that very same pub:
Oh, and this is a foreign friend I met on the plane from London to Hungary:
And this little, frothy-headed guy I met at a communist pizza parlor in Budapest:
I, uh, I don't really remember much beyond that. I think I saw some sights. A palace or something, maybe a parliament. And I went to a bunch of bars. Smoke filled rooms with mean-faced post-commies, mostly. Despite the explict nature of cigarette warning labels, everyone smokes. Perhaps they can't read American. No matter.
God, the trip back was a pain in my ass. The whole time on the ten hour flight back from London I just wanted to be home. I like going place, I just don't like the time spent in transit. I can't wait until Captain Spock invents the teleporter. That would be badass. We could beam all the hippies to the moon. Anyhoo, the entire plane was warm and stuffy, thanks to all the sweaty euros and there was this goddamn ugly ass piece of shit kid who decided that screaming at the top of her lungs would be a good way to pass the time. The kid was fat and had curly hair. Not the cute kind of curly hair, no, she had the "I'ma gon' grow up ta be a white piece of fucking trash" kinda curly hair. She had crap smeared all over her fat goddamn face when she wasn't screaming like a stuck pig she was wandering up and down the aisles touching shit with her sticky sausage-fingers.
Several times during the flight I stood up the smash her fucking face in, but the goddamn british flight attendents with their fucked up teeth and cabbage breath kept reminding me that this was a no homicide flight and I had to remain in my seat with the seat belt on. Fucking brits.
Then we touched down at SFO. Back through customs, flashing my shiny new passport at anyone who came near. Yes, I am supposed to be in this country, so fuck off. Then some fucking smart-ass customs agent looked at me, looked at my passport and said: "you probably didn't do much of anything while you were there, did you?" What are you trying to say, fucker? That I'm some lay about kid who just visits other countries for shits and giggles and then comes back to America to waste my life drinking and rousing rabble and smoking various dried herbages? That I'll never amount to anything? That I'll be a slacker for the entirety of my life? Well, yeah, he's probably right, but still, like he's in a place to imply something like that. I bet when he was young he told everyone "when I get big, I wanna be fat and bald and sit in a booth at SFO looking at people's passport pictures and passing judgement." Fucking cocksucker.
Then I'm off to pick up my bags. I waited for a goddamn hour before the union cargo handlers finally decided that I might like my bag back. Goddamn it, I hate checking bags, but that's the only way they'll let me bring the gun. Whatever. It's now 5:30pm, plane landed at 4:15pm. I'm tired. I want to go home. I go outside to find a shuttle to, um, shuttle me home. It comes. I get in. And sit. And relax for the 40 minute ride home... a forty minute ride that took three goddamn hours, during which time the other shuttle passengers and myself were treated to some good ol' country ho' down music courtesy of 88.5FM and Jerry's Powder-Milk Biscuits: they the ones in the blue box and they cooks up in just unner five minutes. Finally home, drank to ease the pain, passed out. Glad to be back.
Copyright © 2003