Are These Your Eyes? I Found Them In My Cleavage.

Well, I got a week left. What can I say. You had your chance. But you blew it ‘cause you were being a bitch. Also, you weren’t very tall, which catered to my superiority complex in that I knew, given adequate circumstances, I could roll you up in a flour tortilla, smother you with kisses and green chili and shredded sharp cheddar cheese, and zap your ass in the microwave for 30-45 seconds, finishing you off with shredded iceberg, finely chopped tomatoes and onions, pre-sliced pitted black olives, and dolloped with copious amounts of guacamole and envy.

But you were being a bitch.

Also, which one of you put a “Used Clio for Sale” ad in the paper and put my home number on it? Leroy, was that you? If it was, I’ll fu*king kill you.

Germanic style.

Uuuuuuu.

Posted by Stick at 6:20 PM | Permalink

I’ve taken it upon myself to half-heartedly improve my German. As numerous friends have high accolades for the “MTV English” method, I thought I would give it a try. However, I don’t get English subtitles over German noise. So we decided to go to DVDs. But the brain power required to both read English and listen to German was more than I could afford. I kept falling into the plot.

So, I went to my closest female friend and pleaded for her to raid her collection for mindless, plot-less cinematic adventures that I thought had the potential to double as a general anesthetic. I walked away with “Strawberry Shortcake,” and Season 2 of “Sex and the City.”

That first night I dreamt that I took all four women in a bathroom stall. No doubt we were all out for wine and shrimp, listening to Carrie talk about discovering her ‘Inner Freak’ as Samantha struggled to come to grips with her advancing age and her biological inability to tolerate the appropriate amounts of plastic surgery. Personally, Miranda freaks me out a little. Maybe it’s because she’s ugly. Fortunately, there’s Charlotte. She’s been quite lately. I’ll have to keep my eye on her. . .

Posted by Stick at 8:14 PM | Permalink

What can I say. I’ve been without inspiration to write. Instead of forcing myself upon the pen and notepad like it twer an anxious, maladjusted prom date bending to the social pressure to entertain my two readers, I’ve been indulging my desires in another hobby. Which benefits you in no particular way. Also, I purchased a new lamp for the living room. There is no On / Off switch. Its illumination is triggered only by the human touch in which two parts of my body must both simultaneously touch any part of the lamp, and each other, completing a circuit which ultimately has a net negative effect on Nespresso-induced erection. But it allows me to see my glass coffee table, on which rests my Nespresso.

It seems I’ve finally mentally settled into life here in Germany. It’s been now 14 months since I’ve arrived. I’ve come to love my home and the daily view it provides from every room in the house, my neighbors, and the fact that I’ve learned key German phrases like, “Shut up, Ass Face.”

I’ve reached a level of peace and tranquility which allows me to prepare for the much anticipated arrival of my beautiful, long-legged Wife, who still resides in Baku. Navigating a long distance marriage isn’t easy. I mean, have you heard her accent?? Nonetheless, our non-traditional ways will culminate on April 4th, where she’ll so eloquently fill out a white wedding dress (low-cut I hope I hope I hope), I’ll shave and put on pants, and limited numbers of family members will make the long trek over to celebrate the (second) union of the sexiest, most tender loving woman to ever come out of the Ukraine, and your humble, aloof American cruise director with nea a clue on how to complete a grammatically correct transitional sentence.

So I will document my daily semi-daily thrice-weekly thoughts on my final month in office. For my days of pulling a Dutch Oven on the cat and living off frozen pizza and chips and salsa are numbered. I have four weeks to grow up. And I’m taking you with me. Like I always do. But this time there’ll be limited numbers of Asians, no care-free jaunts through the jungles of Colombia, and we sure as hell ain't inviting Canada. Also, I’m taking suggestions for our wedding song. Absolutely NO Justin Timberlake, Hanson, or any kind of Boy Bands like Kelly Clarkson or the like.

Winner gets to name our first born.

Posted by Stick at 12:01 PM | Permalink

In the search for warmth and a good steak, we find our self back in Johannesburg. Land of the Johannes Burger and home to the unprovoked stab wound to your fu*king heart.

I’m finding that I like coming here. It makes me feel better about my life and having to deal with Germans on a daily basis. Like, did you know that the most dangerous days here are payday? And a quaint drive through Soweto may find you limping out holding what’s left of your door handle and wishing you had hands to carry it. Statements such as, “my car got stolen again,” are about as common as, “Hi.”

One of my favourites though is the story of a colleague who was getting car-jacked. For each word he said, he received a point-blank gunshot wound. His recount of the event went something like, “What-BANG-do-BANG-you-BANG-want-BANG-with-BANG-me-BANG?” There was a seventh shot in there but I don’t think he remembers. Fortunately he was picked up by the cops and taken back to the police station to give a report. Unable to do so given his current mental state, he was forced to take a taxi to the hospital.

Also, did I tell you about the steak here?

Fu*king. Delicious.

Posted by Stick at 5:41 PM | Permalink

Open letter to Russia:

Dear Putin,

You silly Bitch. Please turn our gas back on. Chancellor Merkel's testicles haven't dropped in two weeks and neither have mine.




I know you lurk here.




You goofy, gassy bastard.

Spacibo.

Posted by Stick at 10:42 AM | Permalink

If your holidays were as filled with joy and glee and tears and fears as mine were, I hope everything has cleared up. Seems as though much of my family was paid a visit by the Diarhhrea Ghost of Christmas Past.

I unwrapped the kiss of death by his Constipated counterpart.

I was Panic. Stricken.

Option 1: Call a friend.

Option 2: Manipulate the back end of an old toothbrush in pre-determined shapes and patterns to break up and disassociate whatever asteroid was trying to pass itself through my tract.

And you know damn well I’m not about to share this kind of vulnerability with any friend or close professional associates.

Are you a Proctologist? A Zoologist? Do you work in Internal Medicine or Theology? Do you hold a high position within NASA and have access to interstellar laser systems? If so, holla back. I could use your counsel.

Also, did I tell you that our house is haunted?

Posted by Stick at 5:29 PM | Permalink

We like all things Jordanian. Like how you can eat hummus three times a day. Or as you pull up to the hotel you get your car searched and then to get into the hotel you have to pass through the blast shield and go through x-ray. That shit kinda psyches you out a little, but then you go eat some hummus and all’s good.

Did I tell you about the hummus? If I had the skeletal dexterity to do so, I’d mount the mid-shin high tables and seductively drag my man parts through these great, big, heaping bowls of hummus while biting the corner of my lower lip on one side, connected to the Hubbly Bubbly on the other.

But I don’t.

Also, it’s socially taboo.

But that won’t stop me from coming back next year and trying it outside the greater capital area of Amman. Where there’s desert. And man has been known to do some silly shit while stuck out in the desert.

I’m sick ya’ll. Maybe it was the elderly, handicapped, heavyset (200+ kg) German man sitting behind me on the flight home who spent 5 ½ hours trying to cough up his Duodenum on the back of my head. Or maybe it was the coughing and hacking and sneezing and sniffling and eye rubbing of his 80 tour group friends. Or the poor senile man sitting next to me who spent the greater part of our pre-flight taxiing with his right hand down his pants scratching himself. I’m talking full ON down-his-pants. “Scratching.”

Why is it only cute when old men do that?

Or maybe it was a bad batch of Middle Eastern hummus that led to two days of, dare I say, explosive diarrhea. Beat THAT Boulder, Colorado.

I wish I was mature enough not to write that.

Posted by Stick at 7:24 PM | Permalink

It's Arab Hour here at Nine-Seven (dot com).





Why Arab? Because I'm surrounded by all things Arab.

Why an hour? That's how long it took me to write this post.

Posted by Stick at 5:39 PM | Permalink

We spent all day yesterday doing some very disturbing things to over a half dozen cadaveric heads via avenues like ‘Pterional approach,’ and, ‘Pretemporal approach.’ Today we journeyed through the interpeduncular fossa and the basilar bifurcation, with scenic, CSF-covered stops along the Prepontine region and Cavernous Sinus. I have no idea what this all means, but of all the dead human heads I’ve stuck inanimate and animate objects into, these were the nicest. Soft, succulent skin. Juicy, medium-rare muscle tissue. Even the arachnoid required the delicate, attentive dissection it deserves.

This is making me hott.

Also, I had a dream last night that I was in a plane crash. Shortly after take-off. I knew we were going down too. And I remember being ok with that because I knew I’d get an appropriate reimbursement package from the airline. But I had a complete inability to get my shoes on. Also, I was in an isle seat. Which I thought was weird because I hate the isle seat. I always leave with unilateral patella fractures from the cart and that pisses me off. Sometimes, when I fly United, and I’m stuck in the isle, one of the overly heavy-set geriatric Flight Attendants will back a disproportionate lower limb up into my knee and force my femoral head completely through the acetabulum. It hurts like a bitch.

Oh yeah. I’ve been getting a few inquiries about weather or not I really got married, and if so, since when did I start dating again, why didn’t I tell you before, and would I please return Seasons One and Two of The Wire because they’re not mine and I didn’t pay for them so I have no fu*king right to keep something that clearly doesn’t belong to me.

Yes, I recently married the most amazingly beautiful woman with biggest brown puppy eyes, a smile that shows half her soft, pink upper gum line, and the most soothing, sexiest accent you’ve ever heard this side of the Mason Dixon Line.

But this is Phase I. And no one was invited to Phase I because Phase I is the pre-curser to Phase II. Yes, this wedding is Phasic.

Phase II – IV happens in Azerbaijan, all of which was solely dependent upon Phase I. And while Phase I was completely and overly special to the two of us, we are deeply sympathetic to, and cognizant of the fact that we couldn’t share it with our loved ones and how that affects them and their feelings. But certain things have to happen before we get to Phase V, which is the part where she wears a white dress, does complicated but beautiful things to her hair and nails, and I shave. This is also where you come in and celebrate with us in all our dressed-up, vodka-soaked glory. Where we dance and eat and hug and kiss and you can’t stop telling us how good-looking our kids will turn out because my wife is so amazingly hot. And, there’ll be vodka.

So yes, I have a new piece of jewelry around my finger. And while we would’ve given anything to have everyone share the moment with us, we knew a long time ago that immigration laws coupled with our long-term goals provided us a unique situation in which we had to think of ourselves first, and selfishly delay the gratification of others. So while we fill out immigration paperwork and think of which war-torn Azeri region to pawn you off to for a day trip, we hope you’ll find it in your hearts to forgive us, and join us in looking forward to sharing our union with you next spring. If you’re looking for gift ideas, Mrs. Baku wants a puppy and I want a whisk.

Posted by Stick at 11:15 PM | Permalink

Boy do I miss you. I miss you like Mexican food. I once missed a connecting flight from O’Hare and that sickening feeling I had is kind like the feeling I have for you. But O’Hare has a Starbucks, so that’s cool.

Also, Ms. Baku and I are getting married today. It’s not the big party we invited you to in April (except for you, Todd) but today is the day we make it legal. There won’t be any guests. Nor will there be a white dress or flowers or adult entertainment. Just the two of us. And two witnesses.

Late last week, we were in a warm embrace, standing here in the living room. She’s shorter than I so her head was firmly embedded into my stomach. As would with anyone, my internal pressure increased, and because I’m a guy, you know I’m gonna share this. So, I squeezed her.

And then I let one rip.

Then I gave her the ‘evil eye.’

If a blanket was within reach, things would’ve escalated quickly. But I care. And she cares about me. Which is why she’s next door getting her hair done and I’m here in my undies playing on the internet. This kinda got off track, didn’t it?

Posted by Stick at 8:37 AM | Permalink