Salt Lake City, 1994
I was 12. My parents and some friends had planned the skiing holiday of a lifetime, spending two weeks using Salt Lake City as a base to explore the resorts in the surrounding mountains.

Anyway. As you might be aware. Salt Lake City is the home of the Mormons. As well as believing that Christ travelled to the Americas after the Resurrection, and that his teachings to ancient American civilizations were recorded by an ancient historian (Mormon) on golden plates, the location of which was later revealed (by an angel) to a young man from Vermont in 1827 (I'm not making this up, honest...), they're also pretty negative about alcohol.

In fact, they have some extremely strict licensing laws, and as a 12 year old, I was not allowed in the bar - however hospitable the hotel was on most matters, there could be no exception on this. This meant sitting in the hotel room watching TV while the grown ups sat in the bar and had a beer. The staff were very apologetic about the arrangement, though, and I was allowed whenever I wanted to raid the running buffet they had down in the restaurant on an evening.

Being bored out of my mind one night, I hit the buffet a bit hard. I was mixing my snack foods. Chips (sorry, fries...), salsa, mini hot dogs, burritos... Inevitably, I wasn't feeling too great, and an hour after we all went to bed I alarmed myself and my parents by throwing up quite profusely over the bed, then onto the carpet, then finally getting into the bathroom to direct my final barrage into the bath.

Despite it being the middle of the night, Reception had to be called, as none of us wanted to sleep in a room resembling the set from The Exorcist.

An old guy with a cleaning cart turned up and cleaned up my stomach's former contents with a remarkable nonchalance and good humour. We were highly embarrassed but he was lovely about it. On his leaving, my Dad, being a Brit with a few beers in him finding himself in a somewhat awkward situation, decided to hazard a joke.

'I guess the boy can't hold his booze yet, eh?'

40 minutes later, after persuading the cleaner, Duty Manager, and Head of Security that I wasn't drunk, and my Mum having turned out all our bags and drawers in desperation in order to show them that there weren't any hidden stashes, we were left alone and got to bed.

Lesson learnt though: 'Taking the piss' should not be attempted with Americans. My Dad had to apologise to the Duty Manager the next evening and promise not to give me booze before they'd serve the grown ups in the bar...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 22:49, 2 replies)

Yanks are fucking useless at noticing jokes
I live in a uni sharehouse and we used to get a couple of American exchange students every semester. Once I was showing the two American girls from our place and a couple of their other seppo friends around the town just after they'd arrived. One of the blokes said "I noticed there's a bar near your place, I'm interested in getting some bartender work while I'm here but that one didn't look very good, are there any other bars around?" Since we'd just walked past about ten of the things, I replied straight-faced "Nah mate, that's actually the only bar in town."

His face fell like a basset hound. "Oh. OK." His friend then slapped him around the head and said "No, you idiot, he was being sarcastic! Remember? They warned us about this!"

Yes, the orientation session they had before they left the States had actually included a section on Australian humour and how to notice it. I found out that they'd also been told to never try and outdrink an Australian, as "you won't win".
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:35, closed)

You forgot
the bit about translating the sacred writings by sticking his face in a hat. Honestly, now.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:54, closed)