Did anyone ever notice before the pierogi are shaped like a twat ? No ? Me neither.

I swear that made sense before. Sometime mid-Friday, sometime before a course (really, multiple simultaneous courses) of events that resulted in complex chains of effects and side-effects intertwining each other ever crescendo until culminating eventually in that paroxistic gasp of half hour ago the whole pierogi twat thing made sense. I just don't remember what it was. Actually I mean whose.

I have to be very quiet as I type here behind a closed door in my separate bedroom. I can't even go to the bathroom, separate also as it finds itself, because I am afraid that if I flush I might wake one up, and if I do they'll probably all wake up, and the next tick they'll be on me kissing my glans and licking my balls. Come to think of it, flushing and using the bathroom ain't the same thing, is it ? Brb.

This is so much better. Let it never be said an acute observational mind and being a stickler for detail never served anyone or helped anything. Lo that it made my current sad state of being besieged by cunt bladderly bearable. Isn't it a pity there's no b-word for the c-word in this language ? It is my hereby considered opinion any self-respecting language should have a twatword stwating with every letter of the alphabet. You want more than three or four letters, start coming up withwat.

But let's get back to narrative format, it jostles my head less and that's definitely for the better. So the last I clearly remember -- actually no, let's do a few straggler bits of Budapest. Here's a nice buildingsⁱ :

And here's Hodl street intersecting Bank street.

I knew you wouldn't be surprised.

Furthermore, here's a modest course of Indian food, including three or four kinds of lamb, some butter chicken, basmati, naan with garlic and I don't remember what all else (though it was delicious, and also most of the sustenance that supported us through all of the recent Africa dipⁱⁱ) :

I made the image narrower so it appears not only wider but more dazzling, and also so you can't tell who I'm having it with. Isn't that clever ?

Actually, maybe I shouldn't be sharing these tricks of trompe l'oeil and skillful blogwriting quite so readily. I heard a story once of a man who told anyone who asked him how he went about doing the things he did, and then eventually someone started doing the same thing ; though honestly I don't believe it's a true story. It may be based on true fears, I guess.

Anyway, here's Hun-Gary in one word (well worth the ten thousand pictures bedecking yet beweighting my hard drive, such that on Judgement day it will definitely not be light enough to float to Heavens on its own buoyancy -- but hey, at least I have the excuse I made them all myself, out of my own whores and whatever shiny specs & motes they aspirated into the whirlwind that is my being in the worldⁱⁱⁱ) :

The hussy's only depicted clad (such as she is) because of her monumental size. Nobody wants to be looking at watermelon-sized nipples from underneath a subway tunnel twat.

I've put that there just in case the world doesn't have enough pictures of the Sun rising over airplanes -- arguably a distinct possibility. The very next frame in the black box that's my camera you've seen, it depicts a thousand + morons queuing for cabs. Let's then move on :

Niggers can't spell, news at eleventy. Would you like some delicious fried chicken ?

First class is the only class!

But let me recount the story of how we ended up boarding that LOT flight, with its excellent steak and cute stewardesses so blown away by my manly presence, one spilled her water on me^iv.

I would like to take a moment out of my busy schedule of cowering and typing quietly in my separate bedroom to point out that my desperate plea for help went out to the esteemed republic at eleven-ten. It is now half past noon almost exactly and I have not yet been helped in any way or manner that I can discern. Send help faster please!

Back to the recounting : our flight out of Budapest left at about six in the morning, meaning that in order to get there around four we basically just stayed out and partied all night long. Then we landed, eight in the morning or somesuch, went around for a mile and a half through Oslo's horribly misorganized airport^v -- can you walk a mile and a half after being awake for 24 hours ? In heels ? Without complaint ?

Once finally out of the disturbingly ovoposited mess, we encountered the now-famous, only & principal salient feature of Oslo and by extension all of Norway : the queue. Because they're fucktards. So I had the slaves drag our luggage across the fucking street and over a concrete bridge into the Radisson hotel, because ha-HA! I got slaves. Everyone else got stares, apparently this was never fucking done before or something.

The plan was that I'll either have them get me a cab or have them get me a room and fly right the fuck back out of that cesspool of idiocy and rotten wanna-be-human-ism. In retrospect, this latter course would have been correct -- an observation I oft am constrained to make by the flow of events. In my extensive experience, spanning two decades of intensive and well heeled travel, it has never yet paid to take a soft stance. It is always by very far the best course to drop whatever is being considered at the very first sign of inconformity, howsoever slight, than to attempt and "work with it". Such attempts only ever come to grief, yet somehow I can't seem to manage to educate myself to stop trying, and consistently drop bullshit at the first, however vague, whiff.

The receptionist warned us that it's "expensive" and I said whatever ; she called us a cab but couldn't tell us how long it'll take ; but she will come fetch us. We settled into dazed stupor, a state of mind only really comprehensible to he who's spent more than a few dozen hours in flight in any one given year. It's this thing, where your eyes are open, you're even making conversation, but nothing the fuck's happening in the brainbox. I suppose lots and lots of people actually manage to live like this their entire lives, but I find the state very distressful, and especially in retrospect.

Anyway, the woman told us the cab arrived, and after some zig-zagging through spurious curvatures, porticuli, ramps and assorted architectural insanity we came to a large black van. Which was the taxi. So we rode into town in style, found the apartment hotel where we had reserved a double bedroom apartment, but... yes, there's always a but, isn't there. Well, here there's two buts : on one but they only take their shitty kroner-knockoff, can't pay in euros, hurray for hospitality a la norge ; on the other but their checkin time is three o'clock, she'll try to expedite it but can't promise anything.

Wut do between ten and three then ? Well... let's go change some money. So we drop the baggage (a mere 100 kgs or so, including a variety of whips, buttplugs, high heels and platforms and so following) and have the friendly if mentally foggy taxi driver take us downtown. He happily takes euros, and he happily considers things he's never considered before -- such as the novel thought that come to think about it, the fish there isn't really that great, he had better fish in Italy on vacation. And actually working as a cab driving employee seems kind-of stupid, especially given that anywhere else in the world cabbies are indepedent contractors. And actually... activity's been dropping for at least half a decade, it used to be better in the 90s, but by now...

So we walk through Oslo. It looks, in bimbo's words, exactly like a movie set. There's one of everything -- one brand of shoe store, one brand of clothes store, one brand of whatever other store and these just repeat. The whole thing appears as if hastily put together out of cheap materials (cheap, first of all, intellectually), so as to fool the eye, especially if the eye's mechanical, regards everything from a very carefully controlled safe distance, and doesn't go poking around too much.

It's not that "Forex Bank" calls itself "the best bank" while shamelessly printing exchange rates like 9.2 / 10.4, as fucking if. It's that it's the only bank. The only one. They have no others, they have some credit union or whatever the fuck, pointless closed circuit "financial institutions" of the soap opera kind -- so useless yet precious cuntlets can park their butts in chairs while discussing soaps all day long -- exactly like the soaps showed them they should.

We had some pretty amusing exchanges, too. Imagine me, the same me fascinating the (Polish-born) first class cabin crew to the degree they literally can not look away, entering a reservation of Norway-born ~same cunt. "Can I exchange euros here ?" "Oh no, sorry, we don't do that." "Why not ?" "Oh... I don't know. But you could try Forex Bank, it's..." "Yes, it's a scam. I would like to deal with some honest Norwegians, for a change."

So we walk, a slog of pointless idiocy ever multiplying mechanically in all four directions, copy-pasted soundstage after copy-pasted soundstage. "O look, it's an intersection! With nothing in it!". The girls enjoy the absolute worst bananas ever put in mouth by woman, and so in this vein, for hours. Eventually I stopped going into places with white faces in them, useless fucktards. Got myself a nice muslim boy instead, running some kind of household item jumble, and fixed another problem. That's two before breakfast, and after not having slept the night prior, you with me ? As we're walking away, I say "we should probably just go to the airport directly, and get the fuck out of this shithole. It takes them all of five minutes to come up with some batshit insane problem that shouldn't exist, then I spend two hours fixing it, then they just pop another one five minutes later."

The girls know, in the gut they know I'm right, as we sit at the sidewalk cafe surrounded by 20 dollar muffins and donuts and whatever crap^vi with ever-smaller bites taken out that nobody wants to bite again. But we're all tired, so look, let's just go to the hotel and sleep.

So there we are, the girly at the reception desk watches me with greedy eyes as I count 13`300 kroner ("Oh, that's a lot of money, mind if I count it too ?") and then offers herself up, literally. Then we go to our apartment, and you should have seen this thing! Suffice it to say we checked out the very next morning, I filed a fraud complaint with the local police station and we went straight to the airport to get a flight the fuck out of there.

So we're at the SAS counter, we explain what we want, specifically, three seats to Warsaw. The woman tells me the price -- 6`646 per. Yes, that's right, about 750 euros to fly from here to there, My Timisoara driver would drive me the distance for less, which includes him getting to Oslo and getting back home from Warsaw. But what can you do, when in Norway, burn money pointlessly. So I excuse myself to go to the other fucking floor where their own exchange house money burning altar is, to sacrifice more euros for no good reason. And then I'm back, and then...

I don't think you can imagine the "and then". Here it is : and then, "but we only have two seats".

Pause. You know, for effect.

But eventually... well, the manticore I'm depicted riding in the header does her thing, and there we go, three tickets to Warsaw. Then the plane is late. You understand this, damned thing supposed to leave 19:45 is announced 20:30, because why the fuck not, people who haven't slept a night because out partying care not for measly 45 minutes!

And then, as 20:15 rolls around, they announce that the flight is overbooked, and they're looking for a volunteer. Apparently, they did indeed only have the two seats. Wut do ?

You know what generally happens, right ? They start offering incentives, and eventually some lone man takes the sweet pot. Well...

I dunno what happened here, but I suspect something else, for the following factual reasons :

1. they never started announcing any sweeteners. I mean, sure, it's not mandatory, but it seems in the circumstance publicity benefits the airline, having the only potential net effect of reducing the final cost of the settlement through reducing market opacity. But that's me, and what do I know about economy, a derpy airline has its own counter in Oslo and thereby a dais to promulgate its own opinions ;
2. well after 20:30, a very angry woman followed by a pubescent daughter left the (very tightly packed) boarding area, and boarding began immediately thereafter
3. we noticed there were two empty seats in first class, through the following procedure : a stewardess separated a woman and a small child from a man and a slightly older child, because "I'm sorry, these are first class seats, this is just how it works, you can't sit here". So they kept back-and-forth-ing the whole two hours, because that's perfectly fine an' legal, just as long as a woman doesn't sit with her family all's well

Now it'd seem to me, on the basis of these, that a perfectly possible explanation would be that not only did they not try and crimp the misfortunate, but wouldn't even bump her to first class. The plane was overbooked, and what the airline did was -- first, delayed everyone about half an hour (in the process fucking a bunch of connecting flights, at least two of which wouldn't wait for the misfortunates involved) while asking for a volunteer to, literally, not fly. That's it, not "a volunteer to not fly now but fly later and here's a lemonade", nothing at all. They wouldn't even fucking bump the poor woman to first class!!!

This is the world female participation in business has built. So unafraid are corporations (by which term we also denote governments) of their public and so convinced are they of their dominantly central social role as the only available dole conduit that a ticket on an overbooked flight is no longer a negotiable instrument, immediately worth more than what it originally cost to acquire. This is what women do to the world^vii, and this is why domestic slavery is way better a fate than any kind, version or formulation of female rights. Way better a fate not just for the women themselves, but for the world in general. Your daughter without a collar means a shitty tomorrow. Try and remember that.

But let's go into the nitty gritty of what comfortable accomodations look like. First, the views :

Yes, that's right, I have five hundred feet of balcony. Here :

Alright, let's see the interior then!

But enough still life, let's see the activites!

I bet you never thought you'd get to see it, huh. Well, here it is...

Here's a stray thought : if yours ain't bruised... they also ain't yours. Naimean ?

And now thus sated, time to go out!

Very nice Georgian restaurant, where the girls had their first sip of Georgian wine, and also things were discussed of a nature so deliciously subtle, so satisfyingly elegant, mere virtual digitized paper can not convey.

Then there was a night, and then the next day... hey! Did I mention I bought myself a cane ?

Remarkably light, too! And it hurts... like you wouldn't believe. I proceeded to try it on the asses about, very lightly and friendly-like, and I am satisfied it's one of the harsher implements in my current arsenal.

There is some disadvantage to the spending of an Eastern European's weekly wage on a polished stick and then proceeding to try it out on the asses surroundant ; other than the shell-shocked countenance of the mules about^viii a sort of passion rises inside one, like a heroic rage, dissimile a ogni altra. "I'm kinda tempted now to go use it on various girls, like that one there. Her butt looks like it'd love it.^ix" "What are you, on a rampage ?"

I will not recount what happens if you stop a Polish girl with a cute, well formed ass in the streets of Warsaw to inquire whether she speaks English (of course she does), nor what occurs if you inquire whether she's ever been caned in public before (of course she hasn't), nor whether she'd like to be. Nor will I say what happens if you point out to her that she will have to loosen her belt and lower her pants under the bubble, nor many other things. I will however say that on a different occasion, at a bus stop of all places, upon asking a girly wearing a leather harness atop her very conservative blouse+pants getup where the BDSM club is in town I ended up the center of the contributory efforts of three or four of the hussies -- who apparently all speak English and all know what they're here for.

But let's move on -- time for a spot of coffee and desert!

That's right, not only did I find myself some excellent cigars in a shop someone other than me pointed out but that's ok because I own them anyway, whole and entire and including all fruits of all their toils and labours, but even Diplomatico! Isn't that a grand old time!

Or so you'd think, at any rate.

That's a nice building. I don't know what it's for or what it does, but there it is, at any rate.

Shall we go into that church there on the right ?

I mean why not, right, we're only walking about...

Those two derpy kids spent the entire interval of my stay there moving the rug roller at the shaky rate of one inch per minute, with plenty of back and forth, dithering and unintentional slapstick. I eventually went over and explain to them how to do it -- specifically that you hold one end in a firm grasp and roll the other, but they were having none of it, "that doesn't work either" and assorted bullcrap. Part of the problem, of course, being that they sent two kids to do one man's job, and well... it doesn't bruise quite as well. Nor does it work nearly as well, nor anything else.

Catholics, what can you do.

Perhaps it's time for some twat I mean, pierogi ?

I do not at all remember why the hell I thought that was so funny even now, nor what exactly the link to this picture is (though I suspect there's one). Suffice it to say a chick named Daria brought us hundreds upon hundreds of pierogi, large quantities of unfiltered wheat beer as well as two or three servings of that cabbage with meat thing that they inconscionably deem some sort of antique tradition of theirs ; all lathered generously in remarkably sweet "sour" cream, butter, bacon etcetera. By the time we were done we were done, could hardly walk. But then again, they do have cabs.

Oh, speaking of cabs : time to get ready to go out again! Doesn't it happen quickly around here!

But first, let's take a shit, have a drink, the basics.

And here we are!

The fare tonight's gonna be prosecco by the bottle and Polish cherry vodka by the dozen shots (about a quarter liter). Like three or four of each, if memory serves (which it most eminently does not).

I bet by now you're noticing something about these shots. What can I say, must suck to be one of you average guys with a great sense of humor. The whores be lookin' for something else entirely.

I played with her clit in the little girls' smoking room, while she smoked a djarum and all the other girls tried their best to pretend like they don't notice. She gets wet if you play with her, it's the strangest thing -- and if you play with her good and hard and long she gets flooding wet. Fortunately there's always a helping hand at the ready ; I suppose if we were technically minded we'd observe she who prevents a flood's called a dyke. Maybe that's the origin of the slang term ?

But by now, enough of that, it's time to go!

Naked sluts in hotels, as per lengthy, immemorial if memorable tradition.

But... what's that ?! Oh no! The asses dun wanna go! Ho ho ho!

Holy hell no, that's not even my room -- I'm a quarter mile further down the corridor, past the bend. What would Dancing Baby Jesus do ?

And in closing...

Oh, I nearly forgot^x : at some point during the past days of chaos the whole slut conclave was gathered in the bathroom upon our return from town. I needed to pee, so I simply took out the item documented above and let go. All over them, clothes, skins, hairs, faces, dresses, shoes, indiscriminately everywhere. A mad dash ensued among the sudden mermaids to get the watering rod in their mouth and thereby stop the indiscriminate deluge -- and I'd even permit the enjoyment of the fruits of such heroism for a moment or two, but then out it went again and all over everyone it rained once more.

It was great fucking fun ; we ended up with a lot of laundry and some girls incapable of dressing for a limited period, on top of unwilling (for a much further extending period). But they got so wet! I might be the happiest five year old the world has ever seen.

Ta-da.

———

1. Instead of protesting, you could be making room in your heart for the Hungarian plural! [↩]
2. Norway is in no way a civilised, or an European country. The Norwegian is the nigger of Europe, every negative thing you ever heard about niggers in the southern US eminently true and absolutely factual a description of these sadly shambling bits of twat cheese. They're worse than the fucking gypsies. [↩]
3. No, really, isn't that poetically phylosophycal ? A tropical storm of dripping-wet cunt spinning around my authoritatian pole and reorganizing the world around us in the process.

   I like it, and I'm keeping it. [↩]

4. No, I mean literally, she was gazing while pouring so well, she got it all over me. To quote the perpetrator of this heinous wettening, "thanks god it's only water, else I'd really be in trouble".

   But in all seriousness, it's nothing a trip to the tiny first class bathroom can't fix. Or at least set right. Or I guess... hm. How shall I explain this.

   The sad truth of the matter is that most important things that happen between a man and a woman can't be explained -- and doubly so when any kind of wetness is involved. [↩]

5. I think these congenital retards may actually be trying to copy Heathrow deliberately, as the only set of biorefuse broken in the head enough to imagine Heathrow is a good thing, rather than the sad abomination and shameful macula on white culture every actual human being immediately and intuitively understands it to be.

   I'm not even fucking kidding, if you think Heathrow's anything but the devil's own work, you're probably Indian, or something equally unacceptable. Go be a "data architect" or w/e it is your replicant kind does and let you never be heard from again. [↩]

6. I don't mean 20 dollar total, I mean a greasy piece of fried dough that'd be fit to pitch in any trucker stop in the Midwest carries, along with a thoroughly spurious pretense that it's food, a price tag of roughly 20 bucks here, once you're done noticing that the dollar's not quite an euro and notwithstanding the local knockoff "currency"'s barely worth a dime nevertheless they try to get a quarter per. [↩]
7. Because they do not fight, and do not hurt (I don't mean "rationally", but quite on the contrary, irrationally : they do not hurt for the simple pleasure of inflicting distress and pain, as in proper rape), they therefore are predictable, the total space of their activity is not homomorphic to the actual space of possiblity, and therefore their activity is the activity equivalent of cryptographic weakness : it permits exploitation. The female state is exactly this : a large chumpatron built atop the systematised delusions of womanhood.

   As you might expect, from inside the chumpatron things that do not exist carry names, such as "trolling" or "rape", or "violence" or "short selling" or "inclusive" etcetera ; whereas things that do exist, such as culturally-aggravated female inferiority, are "unknown". Not that this makes any difference, but as it happens the longest running social game (besides science) is this "let's see how long I can go before I have to step in the mud" female game -- the source of such things as acrylic nails, for instance, if you were curious. "How long before I have to do some manual labour" is the whole of that game, and why they binge-watch soaps but only if there's others to compete at it with!

   And so... how long before someone steps through the bubble bearing a belt ? Inquiring cunts wish to know! [↩]

8. See what I did there ? Ass, mule ? Yes ? Yay me! [↩]
9. This is true, incidentally. Female flesh loves bruising, not indiscriminately nor anonymously, but in the right context from the right hand, utterly loves bruising like it loves naught else. [↩]
10. This is as far from a complete account as could be had ; a lot of stuff is missing, such as for instance that one time when I capped a five+ mile walk by having them kiss, and suck and lick and fondle my feet, spending the next hour pampered like an Oriental tyrant while inquiring tongues went in all places, dutifully replacing sweat with saliva only to remove the enzyme once again a moment later. It's a delicious scent, from what I'm told, that of Master's sweaty feet. Coming as it does with the achingly overwhelming hum of being a good girl, I'm not even surprised it would be. What else can ever be delicious besides the bliss of grace ?

    Or, for that matter, that other time when, deciding to fuck one in the ass, sent the other for a pair of handcuffs and then proceeded to have the buttslut tie herself to the ballustrade on the balcony, atop a busy intersection mid day. She waved to the passersby as I had my way with her, and then I was done, and I left, leaving her there. Because there's much more important things in this world than a nude slut with an enlarged rectum dangled seductively atop a crowd of locals, such as for instance I don't remember what. (Fret not, for she was not left there forever -- eventually I sent the other to undo her, except for that brief interlude of "hm... I wonder where are the keys ?!" "Don't tell me I didn't take the handcuff keys!".)

    But, all in good fun, yes ? And think of it, they have no naked girls on huge posters here like in that other catholic country famous for its sluts. [↩]