The Evolution of Aashi

Picture this:

Spring 2013 - A young woman wrapped in a monkey blanket, new to Spain and very unaware of the fact that you are NOT supposed to eat the suspicious looking pita-pit sandwich’s that are on the side of the street. Dying of hunger she thought, “what could go wrong?” A lot. A lot can go wrong. Yes maybe she did throw up once in the bidet, but realized it soon after then slowly shifted to the toilet.  At 4am you would find this poor young woman passed the phuk out naked in a bathtub for a solid 4 hours. After a long night of vomiting and having fantasy dreams of a sexy bottle of Pepto-Bismol this now raisin of a woman would have to crumble out of the bathtub. She then somehow had to find the strength to get on a 17-hour plane ride with 120 of her closest friends from high school. This was the last time I was in Spain. So obviously I wasn’t terrified at all to go back.

Immediately upon arrival I broke my first rule. Don’t eat sketchy food. Granted at this point I was a mojito with legs and my drunk ass just assumed that the Indian place that was open at 3am was trustworthy. You would think that any place that has three giant rotating meat sticks would be OK. I successfully convinced my body that what I was eating beef tenderloin instead of what I can only assume was roasted possum tail.

Thank goodness I speak Spanish so I had the capabilities to drunkenly yell at cat-callers in broken Mexican slang starting with “EEEEYY PINCHEeeeEE”…I was a little rusty.

I came to Barcelona with a new gal pal I met through the program here. Her name is Molly. We bonded because we’re both alcoholics. Although she has the stamina of a 16-year old Ethiopian marathon runner and I’ve been using my tennis shoes to separate my nutella and peanut butter. She is also known for the amazing and charitable work she does on Tinder. I am garbage compared to her.  

We were drunk for a total of 78 hours and this is why:

Molly got the insider knowledge to find a man named Aashi on Facebook and become good friends with him. We were told “Aashi shows Americans a great time”. Hinting at the fact he could have been a serial killer or a male prostitute, we were down for anything. We stumbled on a Facebook page called ‘AASHI Guest list’. This is the sort of Facebook page that you see and you think, “well that can’t be real”…but I’m here to tell you it is. Very real. Here are a couple actual lines from the page:

“Celebrate the night like superstar with AASHI”

“Bottles and bottles of Absolute vodka FOR FREE”

“Skip the long line with AASHI and get VIP”

“We are party for America”

After this discovery, there was no hesitation. We needed to find Aashi. We followed direct instructions to go to a pregame at a place called Le Cyrano, where we were told “They give you bottle of alcohol for 3 Euro and cup. So fill cup to the top with alcohol!” And that’s exactly what happened. Molly and I began the night with five cups of tequila. I have no idea how that bar makes its money. So we were wasted by midnight, then everyone became silent as a gentle breeze brushed our cheeks and the smell of Versace cologne filled the bar. Aashi had arrived. There was a swarm of American girls kissing his feet and ass, so Molly and I waited patiently to meet the legend. He was small, like an Indian Lord Farquaad. But his tender voice and silk smooth hands could make a homeless man feel like a rich privileged white teenager. He wore not just one pattern scarf, but two. Revolutionary. After he agreed to be my dad, we finally understood the mythical being of Aashi.

As Molly and I loudly sung ‘The Ants Go Marching’ following our fearless Aziz Ansari look-alike emperor and a pack of 30 frat bros behind us, we made our way to the house of all things holy: Club Bling Bling. Aashi goes up to Flavor Flav (the bouncer) says literally one word and with a slight nod as promised gets us all in for free. These are the things I remember:

Vodka was poured in my mouth. //Danced with construction worker who had no clothes on. Seemed very cold. //Got a mojito. Aashi put vodka in it. Gave me a VIP wristband. //I thought I was picking up a fushigi ball, but it was just broken glass. //I lost Molly. // I got someone’s blood all over my left hand. //Found Molly, poured vodka in her mouth. // Realized it was my blood. // I asked the construction worker if he could help me remodel my human sized doghouse. Rejected. // Went to talk to the lady in the bathroom about denial and how that leads to life long depression. // Fire. Lots of fire. //I made toast at 6am. Went to bed.

This is what every night consisted of. It was a complete shit show and the director and choreographer was Aashi. Here is photo proof:

Don’t worry I asked Aashi and, yes, he is accepting interns but the next opening isn’t till 2023. He’s looking for other small Indian men who radiate power and sex appeal and know how to set up beer pong correctly. All other inquiries go to https://www.facebook.com/aashi.barcelona/

Also if you are looking to get a very invasive massage from an aggressive Vietnamese woman wearing a large hat and watered down mojitos, just go to the beach for three minutes and someone will gladly harass you. Furthermore, the hott dudes on skateboards are not your friends. They will have no sympathy if they bulldoze over you and commit a murder. No chill.       

Looking for Joffrey

Something amazing happened in Dublin a couple weeks ago. I’m sitting with Graham at Parliament watching some boring ass movie called The Government Budget for 2016. After two whole minutes of paying attention I got distracted. I started showing Graham my matches on Tinder. I was asking him his opinion on if this dude was straight or wat:   

 Ends up that this:                                                    Is also this:

 

So I had one of two options 1) I could say something along the lines of “GO TO HELL YOU EVIL LITTLE PRINCE B*TCH! TYRION 4EVRRRR XD ” Or 2) Play it cool. Make him fall in a deep everlasting love with me, while I ride on the coattails of his success. Then once I become famous enough, I'd divorce him because he is literally four feet tall and I'm only assuming pretty freaky. Well, I had the intentions of pursuing the second option, but I blew it. I was trying to be suuuuper chill right…. (Which has never worked out for me in the past). All I wanted to send was just a simple “Hey Jack. I also enjoy a good hang” but I ended up sending “Hey Jack” nine times and he INSTANTLY unmatched me. I had one shot to be this happy:

AND I BLEW IT IN LESS THAN 10 MINUTES. So I decided to go to Joffrey’s hometown of Croatia to get some answers.

Of course I needed my partner in crime to come with me on this quest, because lets be real I don’t watch Game of Thrones and am not down with that Viking porn shiz that happens on that show. The first city we arrived at was Zadar. Let me make this perfectly clear that Graham and I were very homeless for a solid 15 hours and that was my first impression of Croatia. I’m not pointing any fingers (GRAHAM) but there was some poor planning (GRAHAM) that may have occurred (GRAAAAAHHHAAM) on that first night. Did we spend the night at an outdoor bus station in Zadar when it was 40 degrees? Yes. Did we spend the first hour in a smoke filled bar that could have also been a brothel? Maybe. Did we also watch two hours of Amy Schumer videos until the bus showed up? Absolutely. Once the bus finally came thru I pretty much just blacked out until we ended up at our AirBnB in Split. Although the only notable thing that happened on the 3 hour bus ride was the giant Italian man who was simultaneously destroying a sandwich while also making VERY important phone calls to I’m only assuming the Italian president at 4 in the morning.

Split was very chill. I had the best pizza I’ve ever eaten there. I also had ice cream that made me question if Amy’s Ice Cream was really the best… I came to the conclusion that Luca was a close second, but Amy’s is just too damn special not to hold my number one spot. I mean I'm a 'Frequent Flyer' at Amy's which means I'm a certified piece of lardass and have a reputation to uphold. Any who, we went to a place called Froggyland, which was the most famous torture museum in all Croatia. Froggyland had the largest collection of 507 taxidermy frogs all made to look like they are doing normal human activities like building a house, rowing a boat, baking a cake, or killing themselves. Tripadvisor gave it the ‘Certificate of Excellence’ so if you’re even thinking of starting a frog taxidermy museum DON’T EVEN TRY.

While heading to the Autotrans bus from hell to take us to Dubrovnik we met a very nice person named Adam. Graham cut him in line at a bakery at 6 in the morning and the friendship just blossomed from there. Adam was 25 with the wisdom of a 67-year-old man. He quit his job at Blockbuster to travel the world. Very noble choice. We spent the first day in Dubrovnik with him after he agreed to join the quest. The three of us looked in every corner of the main castle but still no luck, so we expanded the search to the Island of Lokrom. A place ruled by peacocks, gigantic bunnies, a dude from Taiwan named Matt, and shark rocks. Still no Joffrey. Adam left that night but we would see him again in Hvar.

We spent way too much time in Dubrovnik. So much time that we became fully invested in 2005 episode reruns of NCIS. There were so many tourists in Dubrovnik that once you get into the old city it’s like fighting your way through an ACL crowd; A black hole of swangin’ selfie sticks and hanging around people who may or may not be homeless. We judged each museum we went to by the quality of their bathrooms. My favorite was the Dubrovnik National History Museum. Potpourri on FLEEK. We also became regulars at a place called Art Café, where I stressfully signed up for classes one day; shout out to the bae-rista who let me use her computer. People in Croatia are very cautious, because they know there is only one ambulance in the whole country that just travels slowly from island to island. The beaches were amazing (when it wasn’t pouring outside). Another good thing to note is that if it rains your not supposed to drink the tap water…that’s what all our waiters said…but I know they were all conspiring against me to make me pay for water. I SEE THROUGH YOUR SLY TRICKS!

Graham read all the Guardians of Ga’Hoole books. Possibly more then once. Just FYI.

We took a ferry to Hvar, which was by far the prettiest of all the islands. We came one week after the huge party season ended and I’m just assuming everyone on the island was dealing with a month long hangover from the excessive drinking that happened during the summer. It was nice because all the tourists were gone, but the nights consisted of only the locals and us. We met up with Adam and attended a Croatian charity concert with our new friends who were 16-year-old girls. But I swear to Yeezus these girls looked like they were 32 years old with steady jobs working at some cannoli bakeries with a dog named Finka. They also all spoke more than four different languages fluently, and that’s when I realized the youth of America is pretty shitty. 

The next night was slightly more normal. We went to a place called ‘Jazz Bar’ that played exclusively Ariana Grande. There was also a piano painted on a small table next to the bar. They really tried. Graham went back to the AirBnB but I was still feelin’ myself so Adam and I went to a place called ‘Pink Champagne’. After I tried to order a glass of this “pink champagne” and was told there was none…I asked to see the manager. I told the manager that if I had a club and named it “Neon Butt Plugs” I would f*cking deliver. Giving each person a butt plug upon arrival. I’d have them hanging from the ceiling and hitting people in the goddamn face. The manager didn’t understand me because he only spoke Croatian or something so I just tried to enjoy myself. Turns out that this club had the ability to warp time. We walked in there at 2am and after two hours walked out and it was only 2:26am. I went to bed that night thinking the ONLY probable explanation was that ‘Pink Champagne’ was a black hole that could bend time and space. Daylight savings may or may not have happened that night, but that doesn’t change the fact that Doc Brown winked at me while I stumbled out of that fallaciously named club. 

The Never Ending Search For Toothpaste

We arrived in Morocco at the end of the first day of Eid al-Adha. What is this? So on day one they take all the sheep in Morocco, slit their throats, then take all the sheep heads and burn them directly outside our Air BnB. Con: sad burning sheep heads. Pro: it was great for toasting kebabs.

The first prayer call is at 5:30am and if that didn’t wake us up then the screams from the morning bird massacre did at 6am. We would wake up every morning in our beautiful Air BnB with no electricity. But all we had to do was grab a broom and hit the sweet spot on the ceiling a couple times. Easy peasy. We spent the majority of the days visiting amazing museums, getting harassed by locals, eating delicious food, and being told we owe someone money. If you’re walking around and look even the slightest bit confused, you’re done. “My good friend!! The square is this way! Let me show you! (puts arm around you)  Come, come! I promise, no money! Come my friend!” You’ll end up abandoned, having spent 800 American dollars on a fake rug and an infected henna tattoo. Congrats.

Interesting thing about Marrakesh is that the locals know how to work the system. When all the other disgusting tourists are out during the day, pretending to know how to haggle and speak Arabic, the locals are sleeping. Once 8pm rolls around and all the tourists go home after a successful day of being scammed, the locals fill the streets and go absolutely insane. The orange juice men start fighting, the stray cats become bloodthirsty, the tap water becomes undrinkable…(no wait, it’s always like that), and all of Marrakesh turns into one giant Goodwill Bluehanger. People throwin ‘bows for used Nikes and pillowcases. I blacked-out and found myself in the middle of it all, playing tug-of-war with a woman for a pair of Abercrombie and Fitch capris.

Day two of Eid al-Adha: The sheep are skinned and the sheepskins once dried become fashionable Forever 21 parkas.  

It’s illegal in the Islamic culture to consume alcohol. Graham and Andrea culture is very different. After one sober day, we set out on a quest for booze. We walked 40 minutes to an abandoned mall center outside of Marrakesh, where a thoughtful mumbling homeless man closely followed behind Graham and me all the way to the grocery store to make sure no one else followed us. The alcohol situation was all very normal: We stood in a line with other scared white tourists while they wrote down our names on a sheet of paper and shoved Graham underneath a giant metal gate and yelled “HURRY HURRY HURRY!” Graham grabbed two bottles of champagne and was the last one to get out of the metal gate alive.

Day three of Eid al-Adha: The sheep are then resurrected and worshiped as Gods and carried upon the shoulders of their murders…Oh wait. That’s not right. I think people then just eat the sheep. Yeah, definitely eat the sheep.   

I spent all my money on fake things to try and make myself seem classier then I am, so we had to take a leisurely walk to the Marrakesh Airport rather then just paying for a $8 cab. Lemme just paint a picture as to what the situation looked like: It’s a lovely 107-degree day in Morocco; I was sporting a heavy long black skirt and a 11 year old child for a backpack; the Airport was about 5 miles away and the path we took was similar to the desert Aladdin walked through to find Robin Williams in the lantern. You would think, “Oh well there were probably other people walking as well”…NOPE. Just Graham and me. Walking. Forever. And a group of rainbow meerkats that were singing ‘Keep’n It Real’ while guiding us to the airport.    

In all seriousness Marrakesh was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to, and the only thing you really need to look out for are the 5 year old trained assassins who are driving the mopeds.

Irish People Hate Texas

My host mother is named Maeve. I think she's 103. And these are just a couple of the house rules:

-Orange juice is prohibited because it causes multiple types of cancer and OrenthalJamesSimpsonitus Disease.

-My blinds must be open IMMEDIATELY when the sun comes up, or else Maeve receives a very sarcastic text from the neighborhood foxes saying “bae. U up??”   

-Garbage bins are not allowed in the bathroom because her church friends will apparently go through it and steal all the good stuff.

- We have two-minutes showers, which gives me just enough time to shave three toes.   

-The stove, paper towels, cheese, “nice Christmas butter”, fire, dishwasher, ice, small spoons, oxygen, large spoons, and life are all off limits.   

- We are never to have any guests stay over, UNLESS Maeve has already deeply offended them on their cultural, religious, political, sexual, and racial beliefs.

- We must be home by 6:30pm for dinner every night or else Maeve losses her shit and calls the police, then finds her shit then is mad at us for being late to dinner.

-And NEVER let the dog outside of the kitchen unless she gives us “that special look”.

Every house in Ireland has its own unique name and upon entering you must receive mutual consent.

We went to some clubs right. They were chill. We are regulars at a gay club called PantiBar. Not as many panties available as you would think.

I would walk into the straight clubs feelin’ like that sexy Swiffer from those commercials where “Who’s That Lady” is playing. The confidence may have come from the massive amounts of alcohol I induced, or from the fact that Irish girls use funfetti icing in lieu of makeup. I was chatting with these dudes who told me they spoke Viennese. Sounded legit, so I just rolled with it. They promptly left me alone at the bar murmuring something nice like “dumb American”.

I got called a racist three separate times because I’m from Texas. Here’s how the conversations went:

Me: “No, no. I’m from Austin, Texas”

Irish Person: “It doesn’t matter. You’re still a f*ckin’ racist”

Me: “Why do you think that?”

Irish Person: “Cause’ George Bush is from there”

After that logic I realized, “Wow. I must be racist because, yes, George Bush is in fact FROM Texas.” The Irish person then turned to my roommate Emily whose from California and said "Well she's Chinese, so she can't be racist." So much knowledge and wisdom. I don't think I can keep up.     

All the drug dealers are 16 years old or younger. The Irish youths are not normal. There were some teenagers who got off the train and smelled like straight-up dead raccoon asshole and started throwing glass bottles at my crew and me. Since then I’ve been disguising myself as a man, successfully joined the bottle kids posse, seduced their mothers and fathers; made them question their sexuality, now they are all filing for divorce.

Below is an original sketch of what the bottle kids looked like. As well as the notes I’ve been taking in class to keep myself awake, because the cocaine/adderall/crack combo still isn't working. UGH, I hate having a high tolerance.