Egyptain Gooner Near-Death Experience
Ah, this story is all-too fresh in my mind.

Not two weeks ago, I embarked on what I thought would be the greatest holiday of my life. Since seeing King Tut’s tomb when I was but a wee child, I’ve always wanted to visit The Valley of the Kings in Luxor. Now that I am a big bad adult with extra cash, I booked the holiday.

I arrived in Luxor with a bottle of duty-free rum which wanted nothing more than to be emancipated into my bloodstream. What with me being so extraordinarily excited, I downed a fair portion of the bottle while dancing in my pants and found myself in a bit of an alcoholic stupor. Wishing to wash a flight’s worth of recycled sneezes and farts off me, I clambered into the shower. Carrying on my pant-dancing, I did a bit of a twirl like Heidi on her mountaintop, slipped, and smashed my face against the edge of the bath.

As happens in such scenarios, bits of my face fell out and I bled. A lot. I stumbled downstairs – an ambulatory mixture of blood, rum and tears – and requested that somebody send a doctor. The doctor arrived in a taxi cab to whisk me off to an emergency dentist whose positives included sanitised equipment and anaesthesia – at an extra cost, mind.

The cab didn’t have seatbelts or safety equipment. It was, however, mostly gilded on the inside with the added flair of tassels, stuffed camels, and a tattered Aresenal flag. “Mfffth phlat, mffff,” I said to the cabbie, and we were off; me clinging to the seat in front of me, screaming through busy city streets at speeds approaching 160km per hour, which is somewhere approaching the speed of sound. Cars happily swerved past us going the wrong way on a dual carriageway. We avoided certain death by only the cushion of single molecules. We ran red lights, we lifted off at speed bumps, sparks jumped when the bumper met pavement. If you’ve ever been to a country where traffic laws don’t exist (“Why are the curbs so high?” “So the drivers can’t drive on the pavements.”), you’d understand the abject terror and why I was worried about adding a bit more mess to the one I was already in.

Then, at a stop point, somebody waved down the cab. A man in uniform approached to speak to me. “Something in Arabic,” he said. “Mfffffth phlat, mfffff,” I replied. With that, the door opened and a military man with a machine gun sat down next to me.

So now I’m in the back of a gleaming golden Gooner cab, bleeding from the face, holding a couple of my teeth in my hand, with a machine gun resting on my lap. Was I supposed to make small talk? “How many rounds a minute?” (Actually, translated to Toothless is, “Phhhhhltttt.”)

We reached the dentist intact. “Phhhlart,” I said to the cabbie. “Mfffflt,” I said to the man with the machine gun. “Ffftannn phffft,” I said to my colon who, with wonderment, managed to keep the terror inside of me where it so rightly belonged.

I did get to see Luxor in the end. I don’t remember much of it, as I was high on days’ worth of emergency dental surgery and really incredible pain killers. At least this story lives on.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 26 Apr 2010, 16:22, 2 replies)

fttthhmbbbbb!! gglbbffbth!!
*clkthhh*
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 26 Apr 2010, 17:09, closed)

You're my favourite
toothless wonder, and where's my stuffed camel?
(TwinkleFuckingToes Has a ingrown toe nail, Tue 27 Apr 2010, 10:09, closed)