A Good Beer Blog

2007 Flying Dog Contest Prize Winner

It was the summer of 2002, and I had just graduated with dual bachelor's degrees after a grueling senior year spent being the editor-in-chief of the university's school newspaper, while juggling 18 credits and battling heavy eyelids after several sleepless nights per week. I had missed out on a lot of fun, spent very little time with the best friends I have ever had. So it was time to reward myself. My best friend and I bought tickets to Amsterdam and stuffed our packs with enough threads to last for two weeks.

For the first 5 days we made our home in the red light district, and we quickly learned that our trip coincided with the World Cup. Whereas this event is barely televised and celebrated in the United States, every flatscreen at every bar along the bicycle lined canals in "the Dam" was tuned in for one of the biggest sports events in the world. Sports fans from every country were packed in front of every bar to drink Heineken (definitely not our choice, but when in Rome...) on tap and root for their teams.

On our 6th day there, we went back to the bar on the ground floor of our previous hotel to watch the big England game that everyone had been charging themselves up for on the large projection T.V. that offered no bad views from any corner of the long rectangular pub. We were fortunate to secure the only pool table, and played a few games before we were approached and challenged by a motley pair of Brits that spoke much like Brad Pitt and the pikey gang from the movie Snatch. We understood that a round of drinks was on the line for the game and control of the table, and it took me a few moments to get my less-seasoned partner (who had been getting his ass destroyed until then) to agree to the challenge. Miraculously, we ran the table and agreed to yet another round. They substituted the shorter of their two players for a rather large gentleman, who had just wandered over from the Marijuana Museum across the street, and who had apparently just test drove their medical grade vaporizer to the point of changing ethnic origins. Another game in the bag...and another. We were feeling like champs and our friends were far from dismayed as England was in the lead on screen. After a number of free pints we bought a round out of pure generosity, and our new friends invited us to follow them for a cigarette of Moroccan hashish as we spilled onto the street with the rest of the drunken celebrating patrons.

We walked down an alley that had a number of erotic peep shows for 2 euros, and after a little less coaxing then we might have normally needed, my friend and I found ourselves entering neighboring booths in a circular structure, our UK cohorts to the right of us. I heard coins being deposited and mechanisms being activated and looked for a slot to insert my currency, which had been a donation from the pikeys and a selling point for the excursion, since I was out of pocket change. The trap door in front of me raised up to reveal a one way mirrored window, and a red rotating circular couch upon which a young lady laid in lacy lingerie. She went around a few times before her shoulder straps slid smoothly down her shoulders, and I could hear the time tick away like a wind up toy from the workings of the trap door. We weren't going to see much for 2 euros, I thought. That's where I was wrong. We were going to see too much.

From a door on the opposite side of the sex cylinder jumped in a young man in a leopard print banana hammock, who quickly began sniffing and dry humping the woman like a gorilla in heat. The sound of the whining gears of the privacy screen began to slow, and just as our world was about to be thrust back into nudie booth blackness, the veritable Tarzan before us tore off his grape holder to reveal his manhood of behemoth proportions that sported a bend that would make under the sink plumbing and the Colorado River jealous. It looked as if a muppet was crawling out of his ass, and that muppet would have surely been Gonzo.

A moment of silence passed after the booth went dark before laughter simultaneously erupted like a screaming herd of stampeding elephants from the four booths, and we spilled back out onto the street, scarred like schoolboys who had seen an over 60 porno mag, with tears in our eyes from the pure hilarity of the situation. It was definitely a Gonzo afternoon.