We woke up, and again, the sky diving got cancelled—SPOILER ALERT: skydiving never happened which wasn’t that big of a bummer for me (It’s me Rob!) because I decided that one day stressing over the whole jumping-out-of-a-plane scenario only to get cancelled was enough.
The good news was, there was a national rugby 7’s tournament going on that day, literally a stones throw away from our hostel (we were told to NOT throw stones at the field of play). The tourney would be all damn day, there was not one cloud in the sky and it was encouraged to git-on-the-piss—things were looking up!
We assembled our crew, Team America, as well as a Scotsman named Steve, and an Englishman we called Josh. Luckily, they knew all about the sport, so they could field all of our questions. Though I played rugby in high school, I still didn’t get all the rules by my senior year… go Prep! Halstead! Want it, don’t need it! Damn it Adams! (Prep Rugby inside jokes lolz)
The scene on the pitch was ripe; hundreds sat on a hill overlooking the field, everyone was enjoying ice-cold beers, and there were beautiful women everywhere. I think we may have done more people watching than rugby watching; the Kiwi bru uniform is an NBA throwback jersey, some sort of US sport snap-back, and a weird haircut. We saw a Danny Granger jersey three times while we were at Rhythm and Vines, and when Doug asked. “Why Danny Granger?” the bru responded, “I like the colors,” which is apparently the common reason.
The best thing about 7’s is that each game is only 14-minutes (7-minute halves) and games start quickly after the other ends—it’s nonstop, and fun to watch; we saw some really strong calves! Are those implants bru?! As our non-American friends fielded our questions, one of them, Steve, told us to look out for a piping-hot girl dressed in yellow walking our way, “She’s a friend, and also a stripper,” he said in his Scottish accent, trying to contain his cheeky smile.
She came and sat with us, and then another one of her friends joined us, she was also a stripper, and once the topic of professions came up, they were more than willing to field our questions about their work life. It was extremely interesting… extremely. What’s your favorite song to dance to? Do you have a stage name? What are the best stripper names you’ve heard? Is there really no sex in the champagne room? What’s your favorite pre-work snack? If we come visit you tonight can we dance on the stage?
The last answer was a yes, so we had it in the back of our minds to head to the booty club at some point that night… “She got a big booty, so I call her big booty!”
Back at the hostel, people were getting ready for the evening. While some of the boys showered, I joined three German guys playing a little board game. It involved rolling dice, and a sheet of paper with a grid with different demands. For example, “If your age is an even number, drink.” The game/drinks went very fast!
The other boys joined us, and we eventually stopped all the horseplay and got to talking. We found out our new German friend Book, was a lead singer in a German band and one of their title tracks was called Unfuckable Ghetto Bitches, a cover of an old Beethoven piece, of course! The song was awesome, and the chorus was undeniable catchy—for the rest of the weekend we’d all go out and sing the chorus, “Unnnnfuckable Ghetto Bitches” from bar to bar, punching the sky with delight! They also taught us the German term, “Alless Shizer” which loosely means… FFFFF this! So we’d also holler that the rest of the weekend.
We hopped around from bar to bar, and ended up at a pub where our group of ten found a massive table and began plating an NZ Army game called Pompey, named after a promiscuous army female, who we also named our car after. It involves slapping the table and hollering, “POMPEY, YOU FAT BITCH, YOU DIRTY F&*$ING WHORE!”
Needless to say, it’s very fun, and after a while the bar staff told us, “You boys need to settle down, this isn’t a rugby bar.” It seemed like a rugby bar, but we decided to start dancing with some cougars to quiet down a bit. During a ballroom dancing clinic I was putting on, I looked up to see our boy Marty shuffling on a table—he did a great job!—but we were encouraged to find a different bar by some of the massive bouncers.
“Why don’t we visit the girls?” That’s a fine idea! Sure enough, Steve led the way, and we entered the booty club… we looked around, and it became shockingly apparent that NZ booty clubs are much different than US booty clubs… not that we know… we’ve just been told by friends… and we’ve scene some movie scenes in booty clubs… and also some TV-14 TV shows with such scenes… other than that, no real experience.
The place seemed like your standard trendy lounge, nothing special, and there were only about five guys in the entire place. The vibe was weird. Super duper weird. We declined the $20 beverages and just hung out until our lady friends came out… which they did twenty minutes later… with there clothes on, and I use the term clothes loosely. After chatting with Steve, our blonde friend who had spent the day regaling us the intricacies of the stripper-lifestyle, disappeared.
And then… she retuned.
Just kidding… her body was ridiculous!
It defeated the whole idea of stipping—as in taking one piece of clothing off at a time, but it was still very interesting.
We ended up leaving shortly there after and getting after it, all the while singing, “Unnnnnnfuckkkkkableeeee ghetto bitches!”
Moral of the Story: Strippers are interesting.