Things were about to get real ugly real fast. Turns out, Armenian women are simply stunning. And rather large breasted. Which I didn’t see coming. But as soon as my clothes arrived and I was able to dress like a man, it seemed unlikely even NASA could mine me out of my own sex appeal. And by 'sex appeal,' I mean, 'complete inability to woo even the 3rd World woman."
Bogota.
It started in the elevator and carried on throughout dinner. I’d tell you her name but I honestly don’t remember. Hell, I don’t even remember what letter it starts with or how many syllables it has. All I know is, she was hott, rather large breasted, and only spoke one English word: my name. It was actually pretty freakin’ cute if you think about it. Of course, it could swing either way. Like, God forbid you should hit her car or miss an alimony payment.
Armenia.
And then there came the Rumba bar. A whole new definition of ‘sexy.’ Colombian women clearly have the ability to do some PG-13 rated things when they dance. And it kept me from standing up for about 30 minutes. I’ll even go so far as to say the men have this talent too. I took notice. There. I said it.
Outside Downtown Bogota.
But I did learn a few new words. Like, “Papasita,” and another one that sounds too much like the word, “Moron” only ending in –reno. I think word got out that because I have an American Express, which will henceforth be known as, “Americano Rapido,” and have €’s in my pocket, that I’d make a pretty good catch. And yes, that’s true. Which is why I told whatsherchestface that I had Euros taped in ticklish places all over my body. Fu*k if she didn’t just skip the giggling and dive right in. At a dinner table of 20. Didn’t see that coming either.
How’d it end? I told her I was broke. But it wouldn’t stop me from carrying her child to full term then smearing it with Colombian coffee beans, wrap it in Plantain leaves and smuggling it onto the next delayed Avianca flight to Cartagena whilst I let her puppy dry-hump my immigration papers.
Bogota.
It started in the elevator and carried on throughout dinner. I’d tell you her name but I honestly don’t remember. Hell, I don’t even remember what letter it starts with or how many syllables it has. All I know is, she was hott, rather large breasted, and only spoke one English word: my name. It was actually pretty freakin’ cute if you think about it. Of course, it could swing either way. Like, God forbid you should hit her car or miss an alimony payment.
Armenia.
And then there came the Rumba bar. A whole new definition of ‘sexy.’ Colombian women clearly have the ability to do some PG-13 rated things when they dance. And it kept me from standing up for about 30 minutes. I’ll even go so far as to say the men have this talent too. I took notice. There. I said it.
Outside Downtown Bogota.
But I did learn a few new words. Like, “Papasita,” and another one that sounds too much like the word, “Moron” only ending in –reno. I think word got out that because I have an American Express, which will henceforth be known as, “Americano Rapido,” and have €’s in my pocket, that I’d make a pretty good catch. And yes, that’s true. Which is why I told whatsherchestface that I had Euros taped in ticklish places all over my body. Fu*k if she didn’t just skip the giggling and dive right in. At a dinner table of 20. Didn’t see that coming either.
How’d it end? I told her I was broke. But it wouldn’t stop me from carrying her child to full term then smearing it with Colombian coffee beans, wrap it in Plantain leaves and smuggling it onto the next delayed Avianca flight to Cartagena whilst I let her puppy dry-hump my immigration papers.
A Colombian Speed Bump. And not the good kind.
