Finnish The Job


Today’s post is brought to you by the letters N and P… the number 25… and the long our land shall sing…

{Vår fosterländska sång}.

Or, in length — Nicholas Pizzola, his $25 donation and that ->

Today is also officially hump day for me… or the midway point of my trip… I have marched my way to the Far East of my Eastern European point (Kiev)… and after a blackout weekend with all of my Russian brides, I will move towards Scantillycladinavia, where sport is life. So what better time to bring light to my own personal Norseman… who so kindly donated many markkas to my cause. For those that are unaware… the markka is now virtually a worthless piece of tin — but prior to February 28, 2002, it was the currency of kings. Then the Euro kinda turned it into something only a Lehman Brother could love. It was trash, rated (in Euros) at €1 = 5.94573 mk.

Suddenly Finland was one of Euro’s many whores just suckling off the mother teet. They got a snow job. Plain and simple. Wanna be six times as worthless as you originally thought you were? Join the European Union — know your role.

But the conversion looks exceptional if you roll the opposite direction and spin doctor it. Since the markka is still traded, despite being all but eliminated, Nick’s $25 donation is equivalent to 108.34 Finnish markka. Or €18.21. That’s higher than the Gross Domestic Product of some third world countries.

Not to mention, were you aware that a $25 donation, in the Ukraine can get you almost a third of the way to an hour stint with a top-shelf hooker lady-trying-to-put-herself-through-school? DEFINITELY NSFW) I found that out while checking in today because Kiev is the sex tourism capital of world. Exchange rates are fucking delicious and sexual.

Originally, that was going to be Sexchange rates are fucking delicious. But then visions of Chaz Bono dancing propped into my head and I realized that’s vomit worthy — and not delicious.

Now, truth be told, I did not and will not buy a hooker. I’ve never paid for sex and never will — unless you count all of those beers and dinners I bought… but that is just being a guy in college… and technically, let’s be honest, the Government paid for that. As did the University of Florida. I believe it’s called the Pay to Lay (or Play) Program. No, I don’t pay for that shit. I’ve learned all about all of the Kiev scams and whatnot… and I don’t want to be tied up or associated with any surviving member of the CCCP.

Yeah, so hot that tourists were taking pictures. What kind of tourist takes pictures of hot chicks?

We won, remember. Oh, and then promptly defeated the Fightin’ Pizzola’s in the Final round. Never Forget, because “if you lose this game, you’ll take it to your grave… your fucking grave.”

Wing span is different in Kiev...

Besides, the ridiculous tail that I’ve from just the airport to my hostel basically defines, unequivocally, that Kiev girls are stupid hot… stupid fucking hot. And when I say stupid hot, I mean that the coffee girl in the airport puts some of the best the United States has to offer to shame.

Now people ask about my ratings, so let me state the following: I don’t consider famous people into any equation of mine — because that, by default is unrealistic. But it should be mentioned that 1/2 of the most overrated-carpet-munch-fest-2010, Mila Kunis — who sometimes does look like she just farted in pictures —  is, in fact, Ukrainian. And she’s kinda hot.

Now, I’m never going to sex a Hollywood A-list star, but I’ve banged my fair share of up-and-comers that just will be swallowed up by the system. Hell, on this trip alone I’ve done that. And believe you me, Kunis is nothing up against half of these girls from her motherland.

Cute, yes, but Kunis is a 5, at best, on the Kiev scale. And I just made the Kiev scale based on being here for a few hours. If cute coeds with great bodies aren’t your thing, then you’d hate Kiev. If you have a penis, it’s heaven on Earth. That is what this place seems to be all about. Heaven. And tits. And super long legs. Give me a chick that looks amazing without make up on or has the body that’s just flat out built for sex… and I’ll put that chick in the upper stratosphere with regards what is considered hot.

Case in point, my Brno, Czech Republic “discovery”. Now I knew who she was, I’ve established that, but most of the time I’ll go after the unknown girl with the great potential over the pre-ordained “hot chick” based on the media’s standards. Except I do love Marisa Miller, and no marriage or restraining order will ever stop that love affair. She IS about as dull as dishwater… but with a body like that, who gives a shit? I just want to change her oil… and drink her sweat.

Skinny Jeans... on a girl skinny enough to wear skinny jeans.

I still haven’t figured out what Nick’s assistance will purchase me — but I’m leaning towards something actually in Scandinavia. Whatever it is, it will be used well because I promised to actually do something epic. I had the intention of trying to secure tickets for the Euro 2012 games but forgot that Ukraine and Poland are co-hosts so they are automatically in the field… and England is playing in Macedonia today — and, sadly, Macedonia is in the completely wrong direction.

So I’ll have to find a bar that is televising the game, but I’ll wait until Riga, Tallinn, Stockholm or London to cash in the Pizzolaians. Or I’ll just buy that hooker after all. We’ll see, depends on what Kiev shows up the rest of the way [awesome stag party Kiev (which is what the early returns are showing) or Mother Russia Kiev]. Judging by the sights, however, this place is going to be my own personal Las Vegas.

I think I get why stag and hen parties are so popular here.

I do have to say though… the women need some buttering up. They aren’t as friendly as in other places. But I will crack them like omelette. With cock. My hostel girls are awesome though. Fun, friendly and cute to boot.

In Soviet Russia, Nostalgia Break You! (with Spinning Piledriver)

Now I really shouldn’t knock the former Soviet regime. First off, Ukraine can not help that it was born into communism. After all, communism did bring us Ivan Drago, Dr. Zhivago and Boris and Natasha. Not to mention, it brought two of the greatest computer game characters of my generation, or any generation for that matter. Fuckin’ A, right… Viktor “I AM THE RED CYCLONE!” Zangief and his superly, Sovietly powerful Spinning Piledriver and the Double Lariat in Street Fighter 2… and that drunk motherfucker in Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out, 33-2 with 24 Knockouts, weighing in at a hulking 237 pounds, Vodka Drunkenski Soda Popinski. That always pissed me off because the original name was fucking fabulous. That just goes to show you that, even in 1987, the FCC blew on a cock that rivaled Lexington Steele’s.

White women, beware.

HA. HA. HA-ski.

Stereotypes save time, that’s what is so great about them… and racially whoring out a 35-year old Russki comrade that loved vodka, was perpetually drunk, handled the cold weather with aplomb and used the 8-bit midi Song of the Volga Boatmen for entry music… especially in the last portions of the Cold War… was just about as fucking boss as anything prior, or since. Plus, the motherfucker was pink. That’s both hilarious and gay.

But enough about all of this nostalgia. I’ve known Nick for quite a long time. I met him in middle school, I’ve been to his house, put AURA Bass Shakers in his car, laughed at his exceptional delivery of impeccable hilariousness and rapped alongside of him as only two suburbanite white kids living in the mid 1990s East Coast-West Coast rap game could. The Notorious P.I.Z. was the stuff of legend in the Neshaminy High School halls of history. Even his in encore at that school was the stuff that dreams, and 1980-teenage comedies are made of. I’ve seen him play street hockey and also distinctly remember an epic house party for his brother that I’ve sworn before God that “I don’t remember anything that happened at,” even though I remember everything. Including the entire bottle of Captain Morgan Parrot Bay Coconut that I drank to less than 30 seconds to win $100 off of some high school kid. I’ve even had the pleasure of a front row seat to his critically acclaimed Pirate-remix duet of Arse, arse, tittays, tittays, arse and tittays! in the years since.

Wild Thing... why does your butt sting?

He also happens to be one of the biggest Philadelphia Phillies fans that I know — a fact that I routinely teased him about before, during and after Joe Carter crushed that 2-2 pitch in Game 6 back in 1993. Touch ‘Em All, Joe! You see, I’m also a massive Philadelphia Phillies fan, but for some ridiculous reason, Joe Carter was my favorite baseball player. So I couldn’t ever lose in ’93. And it was a win-win… Joe became legend, and the lovable losers continued to be, well, sucktastic. Not sucktastic, but still not winners. And although it took forever to regain our baseball pride, it also made the 2008 World Series win the sweetest moment in Philadelphia sports history — while the Flyers continue to rip out our collective hearts year after year… after year.

See, I’m a fake Philly fan — I only like half of the teams. I’m a Washington Redskins fan and don’t think basketball constitutes a sport, so I’m only 1/2 of the Big 4 Philly fan (Phils and FlyGuys). But that never seemed to bother Nick. And he knew that my man crush on Joe Carter was palpable. To the point that I would’ve dropped to my knees to just stare down his Wichita State Shockers boomstick. In the most non-gay, I-respect-his-ability-to-tote-that-kind-of-lumber way. Clearly no homo.

But Nick was/is the kind of person that was always, “hey, come as you are.” I think that’s why we get along… we’re different, but in a lot of ways we’re the same. We march to the beat of our own respective drumlines. Win, lose or draw. And that’s fucking cool. Nick doesn’t necessarily give a shit about what others think, but believes in having a backbone. That’s fucking important. That’s something my Dad always instilled in me… “whatever you stand for, you fucking stand for it,” he used to say. And that’s fucking words to live by.

Nick’s a Fin. And although I’m not going to his motherland, I will be giving the double thumbs up and two finger salute to Helsinki and all that it stands for. The reason? He told me not to:

[[[ Avoid Finland. It’s cold, the people are bland, they have the highest alcoholism and suicide rate when ranking countries. Unless you are in the mood for a Nokia cell phone and some pickled herring, I’d say fly straight over and don’t stop- regardless that Sweden is right next door. ]]]

Point taken, brother. However, Finnish figure skater Kiira Korpi would like to have a word with you. Regardless, now you can live vicariously through my life on the second part of this crazy journey I’m subjecting myself to. From here on out, I’m working my way back to the real world, back to reality…

nom nom nom...

But not before I paint Kiev, Riga, Tallinn, Stockholm and London, well, nakedly. Or plow the hostel owner, Daryna (who’s about four bottles into some delicious Ukrainian brew). Or test Mila’s mouthfist. –>

[* — If you’d like to sponsor me, there is still time to do so — go through Paypal and contribute whatever you can. I’ll give you your own write-up.]

In all seriousness, Nick… thanks for your help. We’re brothers, forever.

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