THE FINAL FAREWELL

FLORENCE 2012

Sponsored by Tequila and Bad Intentions.

So here we are, four short months later and I’m back in the US of A. Yes that’s right bitches, despite the odds and my mother’s secret wishes, I have survived the semester and returned to the land of Corner Deli and Bud Light.  

So, how do I feel about being back? Well, this sums it up pretty well:

When I left for Florence, I made sure to pack my dignity, however yesterday when I was gathering up my stuff to come home, it was nowhere to be found… If you were to ask me where I think I lost it, I would have to say probably in the mouth of that questionably aged Italian man I made out with the first week there…

Jokes and embarrassments aside, I must admit, writing this entry is easily the hardest one I’ve ever had to do. How do you write about something so amazing you can’t put it into words or were mostly too blackout to remember?

There will never be a way to fully describe how Gusta Panino rapes your tastebuds. How the warm wrap coddles the perfectly salted prosciutto crudo. Or how the fresh zuchinni and pomodoro secchi make you think you’re being healthy when really it’s wrapped up in a blanket of never ending melted mozzarella.

And what about late night Kebabs, Gatto and Secret Bakery? Or Tempi… Mmm, Tempi. The place where we had the infamous $700 goodbye dinner, ate 7 courses and had to be escorted out when we made them sell us 12 bottles of wine for the road. 

And friends. How do I even go about talking about the friends I made? And by “made” I really mean, forced into a corner with a knife and threatened to like us or else. Our little Pini Meali bitches.

Allie: 

The tiniest tank there is. The little engine that could and did finish all the wine before I could get any at the welcome dinner. The girl infamous for drinking herself to blindness and leading NORAtorious Biggs on a wild and braless goose chase across the Ponte Vecchio.

“Sweet Cheeks” Babij:

Mayor of Black Out City and vegetarian activist. Sweet Cheeks is currently at the famous Promises Rehab facility dealing with her Panino and cheese plate addiction. If anyone wants to donate money towards helping her recovery process, send checks made out to me to my house.

Kim:

The girl who undoubtedly will become that one mom who got way too drunk at the PTA Christmas party and started stripping on top of the baked goods table. Kim is also the only person to go to Italy and not eat pasta nor gain weight. Feel free to throw rocks and yell at her if you see her running in the streets.

and Ricki:

Sir Porks Vorks A Lot. Mi dispiace, non mi dispiace.

While on the topic of friends, I’d like to take this moment to ask if anyone has seen this lady:

She was a dear friend of mine who has been missing for some time now. If you or anyone you know has any information regarding her disappearance please contact me. I’ve been working with the local police to try and return her back into the wild where she will be at home to croak, beg and whack strangers with her cane once again.

(Thanks to Global Warming and the fact I never remember to turn off the bathroom light or recycle it’s already hot as hell in Florence, so here is a picture of our little lady in her summer garb:)

Well, here’s the part where I would talk about the history and art of Florence, except I was perpetually hungover and eating, which left very little time to take part in intellectual activities. I did, however, go see the David because there was no way I was leaving the city without seeing the world’s most famous penis — next to Tommy Lee’s of course.

So, now that I’m back in the States, what happens next? Well there are going to be a lot of tears and attempts at sticking my head in the oven with Sylvia Plath, that’s for certain. But just like Room Raiders, NYX and S Club 7, all good things, including Florence, must come to an end. It was easily the most amazing experience of my life, I got to do things, travel places and eat foods and people’s faces that I never would have had the opportunity to do otherwise.

But what happens to EUROBETCH when the betch is no longer in Europe? Well she becomes an AMERICUNT… Wow, even looking at that word makes you want to wash your mouth out with bleach. Even though I’m half convinced that I spent hours writing these posts only for my mom and her church group to read and then pray for me, I hope that you guys have enjoyed them…

On a somewhat serious note, even though I’ve left Florence, I have no desire to stop writing, so I created ELIZABETCHFARGO. The exact same blog but with a different name. I plan on documenting the summer and our senior year before everyone goes off and becomes real life adults and I become a weirdo blogger that lives in her mom’s basement.

So as I sign off EUROBETCH for the last time, I’ll leave you with this:

Yes Sharon, it’s because we went out.

xo

Heaven on Earth

I want you to take a moment and think about the greatest decision you have ever made. Maybe it was deciding to be my friend, or to not join that cult. Or maybe it was deciding to definitely get that smushmortion.

Well for me it was going to Springfest; the candy land of alcoholics and study abroad college students. A place where there are no rules and it’s demanded that you accessorize your bizarre German lederhosen with belligerence. If there is a heaven, Springfest is it and it fucking rules…

You know we live in a wonderful world when there is a place where standing on tables and drinking beer by the liter at noon is acceptable. Like really though, the mugs are bigger than your face; one and half of those babies and you’re more than happy to dance to the Cotton Eyed Joe.

So you may be thinking, “Wow, drinking beer all day must get so boring…” Well, stop reading this mom because no it doesn’t. Once you’ve gone ahead and gotten a good blackout buzz on, you step outside and realize you’re actually in the middle of a carnival. Where the food, the drink, the rides, and the opportunities to throw up are endless.

Well if puking on the side of a carnival rides is not really your thing, why not start a fight?

So yeah, there I was, day two, in search of an elevated surface to dance on. My judgment impeccable as always, I decided that the girls standing by the nearest table wanted to give us their spots. As we pushed them off ever so ungently, one of the them suddenly went all Laquisha on our asses and threatened to “choke” us. 

Not having it, I picked up off the table a bun covered in mustard, gave it to Sharon and enthusiastically screamed “THROW IT AND RUN!” 

Sharon said no.

Thank god our friend Kenny was there to step up the the plate and ask if he should throw his beer on her. Again, Sharon and everyone else said no… I however, have never given a thumbs up faster and soon enough she was soaked.

One thing led to another and soon, expletives and more beer were flying in all directions. 

The amount of fucks I gave at the time? Zero. Mainly because we were in Germany and I never thought I would see this girl again… Except, I was wrong because I, obviously, saw her in Florence two days later. 

Although no swings were made, Springfest was ultimately still a dangerous place and thanks to broken glass and poor footing, hospital trips had to be made. 

A glorified blur, Springfest was easily the most fun I have ever had. Because really, what’s better than thousands of drunk kids under one tent singing Sweet Caroline? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

BFFN: BEST FRIENDS FOR NOW

What exactly is a best friend? Well it’s certainly not someone who leaves you passed out in the Toads Lily Pad, sleeps with not one, but two of your boyfriends, and forges xanex prescriptions under your mom’s name…

No, a best friend, according to UrbanDictionary user Kenz40, is “A person who lets you cry on their shoulder when your cat died even though they dont even know your effing cat that well.” (Thank you Kenz40).

Well today, I honor the birth of a special betch; one not only lucky enough to call me her best friend, but also one stupid enough to call me her best friend.

Where would I be without “Fridgette Brossel”? (Although I’ve acknowledged the fact that future employers will not hire me due to my questionable actions that I document online for the entire world to see, I try to save others from the same fate, hence the name change.)

I’ll tell you where I would be… I’d still be stuck in a puddle of my own sick from the night Midget Wrestling came to Keys circa 2009. Really, I wish I was kidding.

I mean, who else would pee in supply closets with me at all of New Haven’s finest establishments? Or let me roll joints on their roommates’ desks when they were out of the room? But most importantly, who would make sure that I made toilet paper pillows when passing out in public bathrooms?

Fridgette Brossel, that’s who.

So here’s to you Fridgey! Because if you didn’t love me, maybe no one would…

Happy Birthday Betch, you truly are the best. xoxo

PRAHA, JOKES ON ME.

Okay, so I’ve gained weight abroad. I know it, you know it and all the Match.com guys who have stopped asking me out on dates have definitely noticed too. But I mean, what do you expect when you send me to Italy, land of my three favorite food groups: cheese, meat and bread.

But although I knew that I now have a little more cushion for the pushing, I wasn’t aware that I had actually turned into a big, fat, giant tub of lard.

So, you may be wondering where all this self-loathing, that is kind of making me want a panini, is coming from. Well something happened this week, something I’m not proud of…

But in order to understand the final events of the night, we must first start at the beginning.

Setting: A cuban restaurant in Prague (obviously). Post Czech beer tour, we are drunkenly stuffing our faces with meat lovers paella, fried goat cheese, buffalo wings and salmon. To wash it down? A glass of Long Island Ice Tea but when I say glass, I really mean a bucket. Like really, if I hadn’t just eaten a four course meal and pregamed dinner with churros (What?) then I probably could have fit inside this thing. Naturally, games seeing who could drink the longest without getting brain freeze ensued and I cut to black.

Next thing I know I’m lying on the shower room floor of our hostel, violently bleeding from numerous parts of my body, water spewing from the wall everywhere and there are shards of porcelain wedged like shrapnel in my hands, back and ass cheeks (Oh sorry, did you not want me to paint a picture story??).

My first thought? I’m going to die and I’ve never been to Aunchies. My second? I hope everyone knows to serve Cali Chicks and play Show Me Love at my funeral. And my final thought? Holy shit, I tried sitting on the sink, it broke off the fucking wall, and my 23 chins and cheeks came crashing down with it.

So there I was, laying in the indoor pool that was originally a shower room floor placing bets on whether I’m going to die from drowning or excessive blood loss. As I headed towards the white light, that may or may not have really been a ceiling lamp, I realized I wasn’t ready to die. Aunchies, Roberto and Corner Deli needed me. Assessing my situation, I knew I had to act quickly, the dangerously high water was already at ankle level. Gathering all the strength I could muster, in an act not different than mothers picking up Suburbans to save their children, I rose to my feet and walked out.

Unsure of my next move, I didn’t know whether to quickly run away from the situation or alert someone that a tsunami had hit the 3rd floor and they should probably start building an ark. My questionable judgement told me to go with the second option and I ran down the stairs to get help.

Side Note: Let’s not forget here that this story takes place in the Czech Republic, a country similar to communist Russia, with a language that sounds like gibberish and a dictionary that looks like it was typed by a seizing epileptic. So therefore, it’s not exactly easy to strike up a casual conversation with a Czech person, let alone tell them they need to call in the flood unit of the National Guard. Correctly translating the explanation of how my double-wide 18 wheeler of an ass had broken the sink off the wall, and why, in the first place, my ass was on the sink, would look something like this:

“dügkcøfk íwåspëeīnggïnthêzînk bvågtyskvny”

As I ran towards the woman working at reception, her face turned white and she stood up screaming, “Öh vy Gåühd, öh vy Gåühd!”. Momentarily confused as to her reaction, since I hadn’t even mentioned the complimentary addition of their new infinity pool yet, the look of pure horror quickly reminded me that I looked like I was the sole survivor of a rape and pillage attack.

As I brought her to the crime scene, I tried explaining the situation as best as I could without throwing my ass under the porcelain. But it soon became obvious that the new infinity pool was less of a luxury addition and more of an overflowing swamp. “ØHVYGÅÜHD! SHĪËT! SHĪËT!!!” screamed the weird little Czech lady as she took in the damage. “VË NĒHËËD TØ STÅHÖP DĀ VHÅTŪR!!” Here, I was confused by what she meant by “We” since I felt like I had already contributed enough towards the improvement of the hostel’s new spa. 

At this point you must be wondering, “Dude, where are your friends?” Well, there’s a funny answer for that. During this entire fiasco, and in reality it’s probably only been about three minutes, my lovely two travel companions have been on the other side of the bathroom wall, dealing with their own situation. Meaning, Jayme took the liberty to redecorate the separate toilet part of the bathroom with her vomit. And what about Sharon? Well she was, unknowingly, been hired as the cleaning crew of the new spa. 

(Actual footage)

So, here we are: a screaming Czech lady, a walking stab wound, a vomit covered brat, and Sharon. Up until this point, neither side of the wall are aware of what is happening to the other. However, that all changes when the lady, who at this point really needs a Valium, starts banging on the door of Jayme’s stall because the lever to turn off the “vhåthür” is in there.

Suddenly you hear the little mouse like retching stop, and Sharon frantically flushing the toilet in fears that we will get kicked out for being drunk… Little did she know, we’d probably get kicked out first for flooding not only the third floor but now, thanks to old ceilings, the second floor as well.

As CzechMix turned off the water and the life threatening flood came to an end, I looked around to see the damage. Water everywhere.

Overwhelmed with guilt, accomplishment, and the beginnings of a hangover, I felt relieved to know that not only is the shit show almost done, but the color red really does suit me. Just as I’m about to look for a boat so that I can sail back to my room, I was greeted with a mop, a bucket and a very distraught foreigner begging me to help clean up. Half an hour and a very broken conversation later, I finally said goodbye to my new neurotic friend. Unfortunately we didn’t exchange information so I guess we won’t be pen pals and laugh about this whole situation in years to come… What a shame.

But really, there are so many lessons learned from this series of events; however, I think the most important one to take away from this incredibly long and detailed rambling mess is:

DØNT PËÊ ÏN HÔSTËL SĪNKS ÏN FŌRÊÏGN CØŪNTRÎĒS.

Sleeping at the club? I have reached a new low.

A Strongly Worded Letter to Toads Place

To Whom it May Concern,

I am writing this letter to request the placement of more elevated surfaces throughout Toads Place. Why, you may ask? Well, because dancing at a slightly higher altitude than your friends, and more importantly the people you go out with but who you actually hate, rules.

So, let me define what I mean by an elevated surface. It’s a platform that could either be a table, a chair, a speaker, a bar, an extremely fat, unconscious person on the ground… really it’s any surface that is exclusive to you and a couple friends.

Now, before you read this and say, “Well, we do have elevated surfaces…” You need to shut up because no you really don’t. Although fun, the box in the corner of the Rainforest holds much too high a temptation to swing shirtless from the vines while the benches by the entrance are patrolled viciously by your asshole bouncers and usually occupied by fat girls or douche bags.

“But what about the stage!?” you may ask… The stage doesn’t count for numerous reasons. First off, referring back to the definition of an elevated surface, it has to be exclusive. The Toads stage is much too large to count as a real elevated surface, it’s hard to move around, far too crowded and you won’t be seen… and isn’t dancing on an elevated surface all about being seen? Yes, yes it is.

Also, it doesn’t hurt to mention that the stage is where the numerous Toads Place stabbings have occurred…

So Toads, what can you do to make this dream of dancing so high you might get nosebleeds happen? Wooden boxes, balconies and metal scaffolding? Now we’re talking business. Give us an elevated surface from which we can further elevate ourselves on to an even higher surface and you’ve got a recipe for a very fun, yet slightly dangerous, time.

Not only will the placement of elevated surfaces make girls with the constant desire to be the center of attention happy, but it will also make the horny college boys and ethnically ambiguous creeps happy too. Case in point below:

On a personal note, I am already the tallest human being to enter Toads on a weekly basis and that includes the Yale basketball team;  therefore I like to embrace the motto “Go Big or Go Home”.  (That is not to be confused with “Go Big and Go Home”  which refers to hooking up with a Black Guy.) If I’m already going to be towering over all the Quinnipiac meatballs and Yale idiots, I might as well do it with some pride. Who cares if I can touch the ceiling? Obviously not I…

The Time I Remembered Nothing.

Someone tell me what’s wrong with me.

The Animal Whisperer?

So, you know in Mean Girls when Cady’s gone and pissed everyone off after she accidentally, yet understandably, made Regina George get run over by a bus and the whole Cafeteria is like this…

Well that’s how I felt when I visited the Barcelona Zoo. Everywhere I went, the Animals kept giving me the dirtiest looks…

Right now you may think I’m crazy and have taken too much of my Mom’s Ambien, but trust me, I know a dirty look when I see one. (Junior year of high school I made numerous girls cry with out saying a word… Sorry, I’m still not sorry about it, I’m sure you all still suck.)

Yeah. You fucking try telling me that they don’t hate me.

SHOW ME HOW TO HAVE A MENTAL BREAKDOWN IN A PUBLIC PLACE

MICROWAIT…