Monday, August 22, 2011

Life sucks sometimes


Yeah, the one that fell on my head looked just like this.


An incident occurred today, dear reader, that I feel needs to be described to all one of you who wonders how I am rolling in The Congo. But first, a bit of back story involving the curse of the liquor.

Last weekend I decided to stock up on booze in an effort to entice people into my parlor, spider to fly style. On first arriving here I had naively assumed that my lack of food, propensity for oddly timed nudity, and meat sweats would be an instant golden ticket, and the world would be clamoring to see what my oompa loompas looked like.

That's what she said.

But she also went on to say many insightful things about the need for booze, so I went out and purchased a plentiful supply and brought them home, quickly falling into the deep, blameless sleep known only to the just. Or those dudes in Awakenings.

Turned out the liquor was cursed like the frogurt in that Simpsons episode. The morning after, I awoke to a flooded house due to a faulty pipe in my home. Three days and one burned out Wii system later, the plumbing was repaired just in time for the generator to grind to a halt. So the floods were replaced by the darkness.

The next one should have been snakes, or blood, or something, but what arrived turned out to be much less manly and far more annoying- leeches.

This morning, as I showered in near darkness, I felt something drop on my head. With a feeling of dread I haven't felt since my 3 am White Castle trips, I grabbed the spot and touched something squishy, which also seemed to be moving a bit. I squealed like a girl covered in leeches, yanked it off my head (which caused blood to run down my wrist and squirt on the far wall of the bathroom), and jumped out of the shower onto the floor. The leech, not very much the worse for wear, started to slide up out of the tub and come towards me. I looked up and there were three more on the ceiling waving their foetid mouth parts like lobbyists at a PAC meeting.

I ran out of the room completely naked, wet, and with a bloody palm, grabbed my phone, and almost called the school nurse, whose son explained the vagaries of love in a previous post (click here to read). I hesitated, realizing A) that this probably wasn't my blood, and B) I really needed to put some pants on so that the gardener outside the large living room window would stop waving at me.

As I was pondering, I saw a sizable gecko dart into the bathroom. I closed the door behind him, put a towel up against the gap between door and floor, and told him how much trash those leeches had been talking about him. Now I will go home to see if he was victorious or if there is a dessicated lizard mummy left on my floor, perhaps as a warning.

And that, dear friend, is how we roll in The Congo.


Sunday, August 21, 2011

Congo Strongo


If this tree doesn't come to life and topple Saruman's tower, I'm gonna be pissed.



So here I am, three weeks into my grand Congo adventure, and I haven't seen either Tim Curry or Joe Don Baker anywhere, although I did spot a greasy bastard who may or may not have been Andy Dick. In spite of that disappointment, I have had some good to great times and learned quite a few things about this country that Joseph Conrad never bothered to mention:

1) There are hundreds of people here selling the same three pairs of sunglasses.

2) Congolese bass players make me wanna kick my own "skills" in the neck.

3) I like being called "Pappa" in a non sexual way.

4) When Congolese people dance, they essentially morph into one gigantic pelvis. Much like The Judge from that scene in Pink Floyd's The Wall, but without the lipstick.

5) Pilie Pilie sauce is the second best thing to ever happen to my mouth.

6) That's what she said.

Tune in next weak when I finally begin my oft delayed Reality Deathmatch memorial tour!

Thursday, August 4, 2011

From the mouths of babes . . .

God,you adorable little sumbitch.


So I was walking around the Bonobo camp in Kinshasa (weird how life twists and turns around you, isn't it?) in the company of a five year old boy, Eli, a wonderful lad, filled with curiosity and a bottomless knowledge of invisible monsters. We approach a group of these furry bastards and of course they are all having feverish disco style sex, like Abba on crystal meth without the track pants. What follows is our verbatim exchange:

"Why are they fighting?"

"They're not fighting, buddy."

"Then what are they doing?"

"Well, Eli, that's . . . that's how they show their love for each other."

Eli pauses for a few minutes before responding.

"Love hurts sometimes."

Yes it does, li'l pimp, yes it does.