Your Pathetic Cries for a True Alpha-Male Have Been Answered - 26 (Seoul)
Date: 2009-12-30, 12:34AM KT
Like a lot of people, I’ve come to Korea for the money. Now, I’m no bum, but reparations, class-action lawsuits, legal fees, and a steady supply of replacement kidneys starts to add up. I needed a little extra cash, so I came here. I would have asked my mom, but I of all people know that asking mother for anything is like asking a favor of the mafia – she’ll never let me forget about it, and my girlfriend is beginning to run out of fingers since I decided to start betting on the Denver Nuggets. My mother still thinks I owe her from the time she was supposed to have triplets and, instead, out I popped fourteen pounds heavier and an only child. What she’s always failed to realize is that instead of paying to raise three kids, she only had to pay for one, which is like a net profit of one kid.
I’ve noticed a lot of gynos post here seeking real he-men. Macho guys. Hard-drinking, hard-fighting, hard-loving man-mountains. Let me tell you, most of those guys are listening to John Mayer and admiring themselves in a full-length mirror wearing lady’s lingerie. I’m the real deal. If you don’t believe it, just let me tell you about the day I had today, starting with the airport:
“Thirteen.” I say to the cute girl at the check-in counter, adding with a wink “Inches, not bags.”
“Sir…you can’t check all these bags.”
“Why not, it says right in you commercial ‘no extra fee for additional bags’. You know, the one where one colored guy is talking to another colored guy about how he needs to get from Chicago to Boston in time to see his colored daughter’s recital? That one.”
“Well, perhaps you don’t need all these bags. Your itinerary says you’ll only be away for a week.”
I clench my jaw and glare. Reflexively, my hand slides down my thigh for the length of pipe I always keep there.
“What’s in all these bags, anyways?” She asks unsteadily.
“Yeah, you know – cheddar, Swiss, jarlsburg, parmesan. There’s no telling when some god-forsaken savage country won’t have a proper selection of cheese. It’s all I eat.”
As I say this a tooth falls out and bounces across the counter towards her. I pick it up with a tissue and put it in my breast pocket with the others.
“Don’t worry, I’m a fourth of an once under the total weight for it to be subject to import duties. I’ve read my airport policies. Maybe you should, too.”
“Well sir,” She glared with poorly-concealed indignation, “perhaps you could make some space by clearing out some different luggage…”
“Uh uh. Bags nine through eleven have all my glue. With any luck, it should be enough to get me through the safety instructions. Hey, I just realized I said nine-eleven in an airport. Remember 9/11? Huh, remember that, when all those planes got hijacked and all those people died? Wasn’t that totally lame?”
“And the other bags?” She gulps fearfully.
"Mostly hypodermic needles."
"For my insulin, of course. It’s always important to stay well-insulated up there at 30,000 feet… if…you…know…what…I…mean."
“Yes, of course.” I can hear the plastic of the counter cracking where she is digging her nails into it.
“So, you see, I really need every one of those bags. Of course, if there’s a problem I could always alert your manager to the fact that you’ve addressed me by several racial slurs since we’ve begun this conversation.”
“But that isn’t true!”
“Yeah, but is it worth the hassle?”
“He’d never believe you.”
“Excuse me, sir!” I call to the portly she-male type gaying it up a few feet away. “I want to make a complaint. Your employee has repeatedly referred to me as ‘Shiloc’ and insisted that I should not be taking a flight to Korea, but rather a cattle-car to Auschwitz.”
“Fine!” She hisses, stamping my luggage tags. “Just go away!”
The flight isn’t much better, I’m afraid.
I plug the cheap headphones into the armrest of the seat. The classical station is the only one that plays anything even resembling music. The rest are playing what sounds like a mixture of light rock/smooth jazz/Motown/delta blues/trance. It’s like having the entire cast of a Hair Club for Men commercial urinating in my ear. Partly from boredom, and partly from rage, I decide that the only way to make this flight less boring is to make my own entertainment. Twenty minutes later, I’m reciting my version of the battle of Agincourt to the enthralled passengers.
“Excuse me, sir.” Says one tranny-looking runt from row 11 – I have taught the other passengers to address me as sir or, failing that, Cardinal Vice-Doom. At first they were reluctant, but by now the memory of what happened to the others is still fresh in their minds. “But I was a history major in college and I don’t remember Agincourt being a battle between an army of samurais from the future and a horde of genetically-modified salamander people.”
I nod and say “I understand your concern and appreciate your willingness to speak up” as my finger glides over the button to depressurize the cabin in the vicinity of row 11.
A colon-cramping eight hours later and the plane finally lands. I make sure to shove my way to the front of the aisle to be the first to get off the plane. Overall, it wasn’t a terrible flight, but the re-circulated cigar smoke and glue-fumes has made the cabin feel a little claustrophobic.
I approach the customs officer and give him my heartiest hello. Still, I’m a little nervous – I always am around authority figures, because they’ve never gotten my sense of humor.
“Anything to declare today?” He asks condescendingly.
“Yes. I’ve been taking heroin and shooting little children from the jungle-gym in the park.”
The officer’s face flashes crimson. I slap myself on the forehead and chuckle at my mistake.
"Ahem, sorry. I meant I’ve been shooting heroin and taking little children from the jungle-gym in the park.”
Soon, all sixteen of my bags are lying open on the ground being torn apart by customs agents, who are making a huge deal over every little crossbow bolt and phial of ketamine. Meanwhile, I’m shackled to a chair while the customs officer asks me questions in a never-ending stream of verbal excrement.
“So, I’ve been looking up your file and it seems like you have a pretty lengthy criminal record.” He shrilled petulantly.
“Only a few traffic violations.”
He drops the file on my lap. The legs of the chair bow. I begin leafing through it, trying not to smile at all the fond memories contained therein.
“Why, this must be some other Dermitt McFury! I’ve never even been to half these places. Panama? Sounds like a made-up country to me.”
“I think the most disturbing thing is your many drug violations.”
“Slander! I never touch the stuff!”
“It says here you’ve been arrested 26 times on drug charges.”
“You misunderstand. They say ‘drug charges’ because I drug the kids from the sandbox to my van.”
“Either way, we’ll have to detain you… indefinitely.”
Suddenly, I turn to the page detailing my escapades in Kuala Lampur (spring break 03’). Suddenly reminded of what to do in these types of situations (arrested in a third-world country), I narrow my eyes at the customs officer and smile. He’s Korean, so his eyes are already narrowed, though I’m sure he reciprocates the gesture.
“Isn’t there just a fine I could pay… like, maybe right now? No use wasting our precious time with paperwork.”
The cop looks at me with understanding and we start talking business.
The last step is to get tested at the hospital. I hate hospitals. They’re full of sick people, and sick people are bad at two things: producing white blood cells, and staying out of my way. After what seemed like an eternity of shouting and shoving and hostage-taking, I’m finally face-to-face with the doctor, a short, tidy, hermaphroditic-looking Korean. He plunges the syringe into my arm and begins drawing blood.
“Hey, who put all that blood in my scotch!” I shout in horror.
Again, he is not amused. Authority figures – whether they’re cops, doctors, parole officers, or high-school teachers whose coffee you’ve been secretly urinating in for the last ten years – never know a good joke when they hear it. It’s like being a humorless cadaver is one of the job requirements.
So, the doctor comes back a little while later with a blustering red face. His hands are trembling a little. He’s brought two burly orderlies with him who have syringes full of, by the smell of it, sedatives.
“Mr. McFury,” The dykey doctor stutters, “you have every sexually transmitted disease known to science, and a few postulated to exist only in species of tropical fish.”
I wonder if this is a good time to bring up the fact I was just fired from the aquarium. I decide against it.
“Additionally, you appear to be stealing prescription pads from my desk drawer as I’m talking to you.”
“Go ahead,” I shout, “sic your goons on me. I guarantee you, whatever sedatives they have in those needles, I’ve got twice the amount of amphetamines in me to stay alert and fighting.”
“No, Mr. McFury, you misunderstand. These shots are for me. In the five minutes since meeting you, I have caught several of your communicable diseases. I’d put you in the ER, but I doubt you’d survive the trip across the hospital.”
“So, does that mean I can go?”
The doctor sits down and wrings his hand. An orderly gives him a jab of sedatives while he fumbles in his desk drawer for a bottle of Vodka.
“Yes…sure…whatever. I don’t care anymore. I can’t… can’t feel anything.”
Twelve hours, five murders, and two suicides later I’m finally in Korea. Now, you may be wondering what I gave the customs officer in exchange for my freedom. I gave him my cheese. My goddamn cheese, every last scrap except the emergency chunk of pepper-jack hidden in my rectal cavity (they never check there thoroughly enough). So, I’m pissed off and ornery and in dairy withdrawal – a perfect time for you to get an epic bang. So, if you want a real man capable of real cocksmanship, hit me up.
* Location: Seoul
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests