Motocyklowny and things

Isn't that a great tytle by the way ? Motorized Cyclical Clowns, what more could you ask for in your post-punk / neo-goth / flavour-metal band ?!

Meanwhile in other gifts from Minsk, I've apparently achieved a low-level bronchitis, sulfamethoxazole ftw.

Above and low below : the pouring of the soup, an ancient French traditional soupery tradition.

The girl doing it originally approached us from across the table (the empty spot visible there past Nicole) to take our order. I said "come over here", and pointed at the floor next to me. The girls both nearly stood up to come kneel there, because somehow traditional harem tradition has kind-of established this command in that role, and moreover traditional harem tradition's absolutely established that "better kneeling than sorry" as a life-light & guiding principle. The servant girl actually recipient of the command, however, she was very... hesitant ; but eventually her own legs took her to the indicated spot sort-of in spite of her head, like in one of those cartoons when a confused dog-head has its legs move away from underneath him inexplicably.

The moral would be that as per traditional human tradition, obedience is more important than heads.

Above : second course. I got the lamb ; she got the beef ; she got the lamb. It was decent ; like I told the girls as we were packing for Europe -- just because it's Michelin-starred doesn't mean it's in a different league or anything, it's rather like "web awards" : more a question of who participated than a matter of who's the very best.

Below : proof of said classification. They are very proud and make a truly big deal of it, there's a marking outside the building, also. I took its picture, a tableful of dorksⁱ kinda thought maybe I'm taking their picture ?

I'm not publishing it, though it's kinda funny, one of them thumbs-upping me while his friend behind him is giving him the "are you fucking stupid" glare, "he's with the women table over there, doesn't give a shit about us", about to turn into the mildly retrospective "what the fuck morons am I here with". I'm also not publishing the time we were eating outside and one chick passed and I asked my whores if she'd make an ok whore and this dork at the table behind got so fucking excited he just repeated declensions of kurwa at the rate of twelve to nineteen a minute each minute for the remainder of our meal. Nor am I publishing the time these two Indian dorksters ("oh, we go to the Casino whenever we're out of money, it's like our bank" -- yeah, I'm totally sure that's how it goes) with spurious hairdos and obvious t-shirts picked up this fat, tired and mentally confused Venezuelan in jeans with plastic beads on the side finishing her Indian meal. They didn't have anything (maybe a beer between the two of them ?), they just sat next to her, got lucky she was verboseⁱⁱ, then took off. 'Cuz that's totally how millionaires (yes, they claimed) spend their time. I'd know.

Why not, you ask me ? Because there'd be no fucking end to it, that's the fuck why, I'd rather spend my time christening silkworms at the silkworm farm, and then writing the book of their life & deeds. What the fuck's a silkworm gonna do ? Write some code with its ass, amirite.

The sad Josef Stalin guy above is actually Josef Pilsudskiⁱⁱⁱ. There's some spires and things below.

Above : the best mango cheesecake I've ever had! It's fucking delicious, we're going back there. I've not tasted mango since fucking May!^iv

Below : a scorpion in amber.

Above : the 3x zurek na wedzonce part of a meal that further included dobronski cydr, tatar z wolowiny, pierogi ze szpinakiem, pierogi z kapusta, bitki wolowe, kopytka, salatca z watrobka, poledwica wolowa, ogorki kiszone (and three or so liters of zywiec, used here to denote the mineral water). We... eat well, what can I say.

Below : ye olde Polish tourist buses, preserved as a memento in the central square. Notice the toilet paper.

Above & below : slut in harem houri outfit -- as far as I'm concerned female dress pretty much starts and centers there.

It's also crotchless, you realise.

Below : bimbo in stockings & garter belt (not depicted), doing computer work. Somebody's gotta keep the machines running and things amirite.

Above (and following) : the second course at this perhaps best Indian restaurant I've ever seen. Shit's fabulous ; included therein were mushroom soup & chicken soup with coconut milk ; keema naan, garlic naan, lotta raita & pindi chana masala ; mutton palak, bhuna gosht, butter chicken and lotta basmati ; mango lassi. We... eat well, what can I say. We're going back, in any case.

Above : the instruments of Mastery & Masterly power : the mantle ; the cap ; and the holy funster^v.

Below : breakfast at this Fenicja restaurant. Not that great ; but I'll leave the naming of the ingredients to the experts in the audience.

Above & below : delapidated, derelict building in abandoned part of town.

Do you ever take your sluts to where the bums dwell, to be stripped nude and made to walk dark, musky, echoing hallways, to be tied uncomfortably and then abandoned among unfeeling, cold brick and concrete, to be manhandled uncaringly, touched painfully and be "mistreated" and fucked roughly ? No ?

Me either.

The bar we ended up in, on our way out. They had no water ; they had no coffee, nor anyway to make coffee. All they had was beer ; an old guy sunning himself passively to tend bar and a middle-aged wanna-be biker dude riding a bike because he couldn't get his antique cherry-red Ford to even start (not that he didn't try). I am confident this was the first and will be the last time skirt-bearers walked in there, unless some wanna-be "Scotish roots" dood straggles in one day. When we called for the extraction vehicle there was a pause pregnant with confusion, and then "Is this even in Warsaw !?" came crystalline & genuine across the WD1.

Fun is what you make of it, you know ?

"Would I like to taste this ?"
"Mmm... okay."

The "beer" was terrible.

See you around!

1. Joly shit Europe's full of these gangs of 4+ nil sexual value dude-bros in their late 20s-early 30s milling pointlessly about like Homer Simpson's spermatozoa. The stupid fucking "brand" t-shirts, the utterly fucking ridiculous textile shoes -- motherfucker, if you can't as much as buy yourself a pair of man's shoes why the fuck would anyone put out for your sorry midrif pencil ?! -- the overcarefully hairdo'd pumpkins, sittin' around tryna convince each other they're totally crushin' it or whatever the fuck the calling-it-things-as-a-proxy-for-doing-it club's come up with yet. Slayin' it ? Makin' it ? Holy shit fuck it.

   You're wasting everyone's time for absolutely no reason, just burning gas pointlessly about. Go back to the fucking cubicals and stay there. [↩]

2. The stupid cunt was so fucking insufferable you couldn't believe. Let alone she spent the whole time before the Indian boys showed up yakking nonsense in Spanish on her phone ; leave aside she couldn't produce the count of cards of a kind in six card decks strung together ; leave aside that she kept rephrasing the question while futzing with her phone (that presumably has a calculator) ; leave aside that she didn't know what imaginary Indian state they were for -- after all, they also didn't know where Caracas is ; actually... leave it all aside, what the fuck. [↩]
3. Pro tip : he actually came up with Prometeizm ; just didn't live long enough to see it applied in the 90s is all. [↩]
4. Poland is extremely well supplied, by the way. I can buy my Costa Rica rum in a shop here, unlike anywhere else in Europe that I've seen ; as well as tobacco and anything else. [↩]
5. Seriously, it's not that bad, rather a pleasant ass-warmer that even noobs can ; not anything horrid at all. It helps bring out the natural blush of public exposure and humiliation in a girl, no more, just mildly brings it to the fore of her mind, gingerly and delicately so she can almost taste her own cultural womanhood on her own breath. It's a sort of haremesque junior mint, really. [↩]