The world is a bitter, deep-fried cocktail onion layered in pathos and prejudice; it just spins and it stinks and it spins again while we all have sex with gravity in hopes that it will keep us around, keep us down on the pickled, pungent surface of it all just long enough to be thrown up in ashes or pushed under, ever deeper into the skin.
Then again, the world is also a theme park, and a shop and a boyfriend factory.
"Hey, guuuurl," Taylor deep-throats the husks from a life of overweight drag numbers that feature the word "survive." "It's Mexico, guuuurl. I'm chica buena, guuuurl."
We've plucked ourselves up by our panties out of our regular rigmarole of doing things while hating them, and plopped ourselves down in the rainy body-odor stench of Epcot's World Showcase for a long Thursday of fanny-pack wandering. Last time we did this — many, many years ago — there were pot brownies and lost keys and spinning heads of anxiety clanking together like the pot-and-pan parasitic closing cannibal scenes of Suddenly, Last Summer. These days, we're older, slightly more ridiculous, and well aware of our limitations.
"Here's the rules, guuurl," Taylor's throat is a bat-cave coated in nicotine. "I will only date him if his work visa expires in less than two months."
OK, we know their limitations. See, in recent years Taylor has embarked on his own gaily romantic version of the game of Risk, taking an a la carte approach to personal matchmaking by using up countries and wearing them out, specifically targeting broken-English buff boys who would rather mince garlic than, say, words. In essence, he's a living TripTik with a dick, the "ass" in passport, an increasingly famous international playboy.
"They know me in the Commons," Taylor refers to the shenanigans-and-crabs soufflé that is the Epcot residence hall for momentary immigrants.
"I hear there's a lot of sex there," I scratch; he is silent. "OK, I hear there's a lot of sex with you there."
Today we're on a mission to compartmentalize the world's diverse idiosyncrasies into one lazy Susan of walky window shopping for Taylor's next abbreviated heartbreak. We'll pick 'em, and then because we are tragic old men, we will Facebook 'em. This should be fun.
"You know what you should have done," I frequent-fly past a fountain. "You should have printed up a bunch of green business cards with your phone number on them."
First stop: Mexico, the land of foam-core pyramids and exploding volcanoes against purple starry-sky ceilings. Not much to see here, really, except some fat families eating early lunches while crotchety sombreros slowly enunciate "gracias" for the sake of a tip. We can't drink without ordering food, which is totally not how it works in real Mexico, so we order something called "tinga," because it sounds like "pinga" and that's just filthy. There is exactly one hot bus boy, but one hot bus boy is not worth a green card and a hand job.
"Mexico es malo, guurrrl." I burp up some margarita mix, take a poop and then leave, because that's how it works in real Mexico.
Norway doesn't bring much better tidings. Taylor informs me, as only he can, that this isn't a good time for Norway, they're in between hot-guy shifts or something, and anyway, "Never date a Norwegian, because they all start out like a hunk and end up like a troll." Sigh.
The faint sounds of birds fluttering around giant brass percussive circles starts to fill the air, and I can tell something vaguely Asian awaits us next. Taylor winces and says something offensive like "only big-eye countries, guuurl," while I Facebook our failures with a "Japan = pass" status update.
"If you just left Norway, you should be in China," geographical whiz-kid devil Jeff Jones replies from a less international, more universal theme park.
"They're all the same," I hate myself, in text form.
"You're a ricist!"
"You're hilasiaous!" etc.
So far, all we've managed to accomplish is some xenophobia splashed with alcohol, and the world is swiftly shrinking. There must be some place that can cater to our disposable hatred, our desire for nice things, our hardening livers. Oh, wait! There's Germany.
"Bitte, guuuuurl!" Taylor's pants show some sign of a salute. Our hills are collectively a-livened by the sight of a strong-jawed, smiling blond specimen in lederhosen. He's tending a beer kiosk with some sad-looking hate-frau, and more than happy to pose in photos with us. Could this be the one? Taylor, a big ol' top, doesn't think so, but should I ever need a giant wall repurposed for political reasons, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't hesitate.
Alas, Taylor's wiles will only be satisfied by the structures of the more pigmented skin trades around the corner. He finds two potential new boyfriends slinging sweet liquor drinks in Italy, but is ultimately snake-charmed by a pocket-sized vest-wearer of idiomatic confusion in the very gay Morocco.
"That's the one, guuuuurl," Taylor Casablancas. "Salaam!"
Our world tour culminates in one last hurrah in the always-unattractive England attraction. We throw back a couple of snakebites to celebrate our own G8, or G-A(y), summit, and bask in the globalism of it all.
Our bartender, Carl, tries to amuse us with some parlor tricks before showing us, for no apparent reason, a picture of himself wrestling an alligator 20 years ago, back before he was here and he was this. And then, out of nowhere, he says, "Watch this."
On the bar, he tilts Taylor's pint diagonally and it stays there, on top of a dime. Amazing. Such is our horrible, delicate email@example.com
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