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A Fat Kid's Trip to Tel Aviv.

Greetings all. Please sit down and prepare yourself for a tale of international travel, of intercultural experiences, and of foreign strippers owned by none other then Earth's very own Russian Mob. Yes I speak to you about my most recent trip to Tel Aviv, Israel.

Now I know what you're thinking, "Ernie... isn't it all bullets and suicide bombers over there?"

Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you the streets of Tel Aviv are ten times safer then the streets of New York City on any given day. Dare I even say as safe as SmallTown, USA. Honest Injun. Israelis aren't violent people, unless you star to fuck with their faith. But we'll get to that in due time. Please, get a drink, sit back and enjoy my tale of wonder.

The flight there.

For this trip, given that it was my second to Israel within six months, our employer allows us to fly "business class". For those of you unacustomed with airline travel, that's the politically correct, financially friendly term for "first class." Yeah that's right. This fat motherfucker flew in s-t-y-l-e. Boarded the widebody Boeing 777 first, got served drinks before we even took off. Even put on my complimentary pair of slippers and reclined in my power leather recliner as the rest of "you people" boarded my plane. "Hey, get in the back of the bus," I shouted in between sips of my gin and tonic, "and keep is down back there!" You know how flight attendents are always bitching at you to put your seats and trays in their upright position for takeoff? Fuck that. Up in first class, I took off from Newark in the full reclining position, with my footrest up, and began the 12 hour journey to Tel Aviv munching on warmed almonds and selecting my dinner from their four course menu. Ah, this is the fucking life, let me tell you. So after two gin and tonics, and a martini after we his international waters (don't ask me why vermouth is a controlled fucking substance, I have no fucking idea), they served dinner. "Baked assfish on dehydrated spoiled potatoes?" you might ask? Nay. Nay, while the rest of you people were dining on the shit they scraped off the bottom of first class passenger's shoes as we boarded (don't forget, we were all wearing our slippers), we the upper class enjoyed a meal of a ribeye steak cooked medium rare with a red wine mushroom sauce, garlic and dill potatoes, two rolls with real (kosher) butter, a salad with red vinagarette salad dressing, and not one but TWO, I say again, TWO different kinds of wine. Don't believe me, look here, and note the glassy look in my eyes.

I finished my meal and as the attendent came to take my tray away and hand me a hot towl to clean myself, I told her to take my scraps back to some hungry poor person back in coach. She smiled nervously at me and hastened on her way. Well, shortly after dinner was consumed, I was all tuckered out, not to mention it was 2am, I was loaded and relaxing in a comfortable leather chair with my feet up. I waved off my desert of ice cream with hot fudge topping in exchange for another martini, I reclined in my chair again, and went to sleep (you read as "passed out"). This was one and a half hours into the flight.

I was awaken by a rude nudge in the ribs by my co-worker and steady travelling companion, AJ. I promptly croaked for him to fuck off, and closed my eyes again. "They're serving breakfast." Okay, I'm awake now, and was overjoyed to find us a mere hour out of Tel Aviv, we were over the ass humpers in Crete, actually. Breakfast was nothing to speak of really, partially because I had a pounding in my head that could kill a rhinocerous. Our attendent (I say our because there's one attendant per four passengers), right on queue as if she were reading my tortured mind, came by with two bottles of spring water, "Care for some asprin, Sir?" Christ I love these people. So ,by the time we landed, all was well and I merrily climbed on our "business class" private shuttle to the Ben Hurion International Airport concourse to work my way into customs.

Customs.

You've heard me say before that 99% of Israeli women are stunning, naturally beautiful women. Well, I found the other 1%, and I'm pleased to say the Israeli government keeps them in cages behind glass so nobody can get hurt. We all file into lines to be processed by their customs department and wouldn't you know it, the pissant in front of me is a fucking Palestinian. Now unless you've been living under a fuckig rock for the past five monthe of your life, you know that the Israelis and Palestinians aren't exactly kissing cousins at the moment, and as one might guess it took about 20 minutes for this short little fuckhead to finally be let into the country. So I make my way to the window and greet the Customs girl, "Shalom!" She sneers at me, doesn't say a word and takes my passport. Two minutes and three stamps later AJ and I are on our way, we collect our luggage and head out to he taxi pool.

Now a fast word about the Israeli culture here and it took me many moons and a few hurt feelings to get this. These are people of business with very little time or care for the pleasantries we take for granted here in the west. When we walk into a store at the local shopping mall, the clerk invariably greets us with a, "Hello, how are you doing?" (Or if you're down south, it's "Ya'll"). We fully understand the clerk doesn't give a rat's ass that our dog just died, we just gave our wife the clap, and our fifteen year old daughter is pregnant. "Fine," we always reply even though it's visibly apparent we have terminal stomach cancer. Now to Israelis's -- and I shit you not -- "how are you doing" is almost rude to them given they fact they know you don't really care how the fuck they're doing. It's okay for a friend to ask this, but not acomplete strager. And if you do ask them then you are a hypocrite and will be treated as such. If an Israeli likes you you'll know it, but don't feign affection because they can sniff it out faster then my old dog used to find chicks on the rag.

The taxi ride.

That being said, allow me to continue my story. We go out tohe taxi pool and tell the coordinator which hotel we're goig to. She gives me no verbal or nonverbal acknowledgement of my request and simply hands a piece of paper to the next poor taxi driving fuck in line. "Come" he commands and fucking power walks off to his taxi. Now I'm pulling a moderately sized suitcase (keep in mind we were gone for nine days) but fucking AJ has what looks like a fucking walk in closet with wheels and a handle. I mean he's packing like he's a little bitrch on a first overnight date or something. So we get to this car, a "Citroen" (you read as "piece of French shit") and the guy pops his trunk and then turns around and then stares at us. We stare at him. All three of us look down at the fucking titanic size pieces of luggage. He stares at us. We stare at him.

Just then a thought occured to me. These people have been at fucking war with the Arabs for what... fifty fucking years now? I'm not going to win a staring contest with these people. So I venture into the great worlds of hernias first and heave my suitcase into the trunk, and it flops in with a mighty {thunk} that hasn't been heard in the likes of French products since, well, that Concorde into the hotel thing. AJ's next, and when his hits I shit you not you heard the fucking springs creak. In we go without a word to our beloved driver and off to our hotel without much more to tell. The average tipping in Israel if 10% (cheap Jews haha), so our cab fare to the hotel is 80 shekels (a shekel is about $0.25, so 4 shekels to 1 US dollar.... okay for you dumb fucks out there, our cab fare was $20). I give the guy $25 US and he almost blows a fucking load into his French steering wheel. He asks if we need help wheeling our luggage into our big fancy hotel and I tell him no, if he shuts his French car off, it might never start up again.

The hotel.

Now I'm making specific efforts to not mention any companies or business by name (i.e. my employer, the airline we flew on, etc) and will continue to do so through this tale. Our hotel is literally a twenty second walk to the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea. Beautful place, absolutely top notch. Check in goes pretty smooth (amazing how much a Corporate American Express can get people's fucking attention) and AJ and I score adjoining rooms on the 14th floor. His overlooks the sea, mine overlooks a fucking parking lot. Ah what can you do, eh? Don't plan on being in my room much anway. We could have proceeded to our rooms and had the little bellboy dude bring our luggage up after ten, fifteen minutes. I'm thinking fuck that, I want to beat off once I get here. So I scammed the little fuck out of his tip and took my own luggage up. AJ did the same, but only because he's a cheap bastard.

In my room I'm greeted by an oversized bathroom, which is always a nice comfort when you're away from home. Unlike one of my Tasteless Tuesday girls, I can pretty much shit (or sleep) anywhere , but it's always nie ot be comfortable when you do it, right? Also we have a wet bar. Yeah baby, yeah. Only this one is really fucking advances... in the back of each of the stuff inside the fridge (nips of booze, soft drinks, candy bars, etc) there's littl epressure sensors. "When you remove an item you will automatically be billed." That's neat. I check out the TV... Hebrew channels mostly but the hotel channel has an option to check your bill. Hmmm, so I check mine. Sure enough I'm already billed for one night, with seven more planned. Hmmm. I turn off my TV. Take a quick look around the room looking for hidden cameras and finding none, decide to beat off to relieve the stress of travelling. Three minutes later my business done, I need a drink. Grab a Coke out of the fridge (neat to see it written in Hebrew) and slug it down. Beating off makes me thirsty. Hmmm. I turn on my TV and check my bill. I'll be God damned if there isn't $3 on my bill for a fucking Coke! Two things go through my mind, well, okay three things. One, holy fuck three ucking dollars for a twelve oune coke. Two, fuck that automatic billing is neat. And three, man I'm going to get AJ.

{knock}{knock} I pound on AJ's door. He lets me in and we exchange the usual greeting, you know, "How ya doin?" The second he turns his back I'm on his wet bar like Richard Gere on a pet store's going out of business sale. I'm pulling vodka, whiskey, tequila, a "traveller's pack" (with condoms and a maxi pad!), Cokes, orange juice, you name it. "Whatcha doin?" "Ah, nothing," I reply...



click here for part two

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