June 11th 10:12pm - Northland and Karaoke

New Zealand has three official languages: Maori and
English. New Zealand Sign Language became the third
official language in the country in 2006.
0.7% of New Zealand's adult population report disability
attributed to deafness. Less than five percent of New
Zealand's population speak Maori fluently. I speak
English and dog body language.
New Zealand's cities and streets have Maori names.
I now know two aspects of Maori.
Number one: anything beginning with wh- enunciates
as "f." A Canadian girl who had been in New Zealand
for a week taught me. At the time, I had been in New
Zealand almost five months.
Number two: ekeeke
in Maori means
copulation. This may
be because that was
the closest rendition
to an orgasm possible.
On our road trip,
Willy and I viewed
the Waipoua Kauri
forest and Tane
Mahuta, New
Zealand's largest
Kauri tree. It's a
fatass of a tree.
It could eat King Kong.
Walking into a gift shop, I told Willy I needed to get
my brother a birthday present. He didn't hold up a merino
wool sweater, a paua shell-inlay wooden bowl, or an ostrich
leather wallet. He erected a shot glass of a sheep
impregnating a kiwi bird. I smiled, rotated and sprinted
from the store to the car to retrieve my wallet.
My sandals splatted through puddles and whored
themselves to mud holes. My orange tube top dress
crapped to below my breasts. Rain grenaded my head.
As I charged back to the shop, one hand gripped my
jacket over my tits, and the other clutched my wallet.
I slowed as I stepped into the entryway, but my sandals,
purchased nine years before, had as much traction as semen.
My right foot flung itself forward. My left foot flung itself
forward. My body was airborne while my arms hurled around,
wanting to grab something. I landed on my back. My boobs
have never bounced in twenty-four years of life. They jiggled
when my jacket opened, flashing the cashier, three people in
the store, and the shot glass of the sheep doing the kiwi. I
lay on the tile floor with my boobies out. Willy didn't offer me
a hand up. He used both of his hands to applaud.
That night, while swigging beer, my muscles, bones, and
nipples recovered in Paihia's Pipi Patch Lodge's hot tub.
The next day, I informed Willy that we had to do one thing
before continuing north. We had to visit Cellini's Gelateria
on Williams Road. I ordered a double-scoop of white
chocolate raspberry. The server had such big knockers it
appeared she boobed the gelato out of the container. I
salivated as the waffle cone converged toward the
countertop and into my hand. Raspberry rolled through
vanilla and barrelled into white chocolate. My tongue
coupled with cream. I had to sit down.
I handed Cleavage my New Zealand card. She ran it twice
and returned the bank card.
I offered my
American debit
card. The foreign
transaction fee
would be as much
as the gelato.
Willy paid for the
gelato I considered
as beautiful as
laughter, and I went to the bank.
Balance: $238
Available balance: $2.32
I wasn't sure how it was possible to spend over two hundred
and thirty dollars looking at kauri trees, but I had the ninety
dollars Willy owed me for renting the car.
The following day, Nissan got stuck in the sand at Ninety
Mile Beach, the wind abused us at Cape Reinga, and
Whangarei - pronounced, "Fong-ar-ray," rejected our
efforts at procuring a hostel to sleep.
Willy drove us back to Auckland, where he slept on my couch.
The following day, he demonstrated his hockey master skills
at put put by wielding the mini golf stick as a hockey weapon.
The family I au pair
for returned and the
kids beat us until
we agreed to eat
dinner with them.
The three-year-old,
overly stimulated by
yet another older
male presence in
the house, giggled
from side to side,
wobbling like a
bobblehead. He rocked one way, and, in wiggling the other,
he summersaulted off the bench, his forehead cracking
against the wood. If he ever asks if he got dropped on his
head as a little turnip, his parents can reply that he
tumbled himself off the bench and onto his dome.
Willy and I consumed the remainder of our beer in the pool
house I live in. This comprised six beers each. Normally, I
massacre drinking games and annihilate males who suffer
from delusions that they can outdrink me. Such man
hallucinations often persist with penile size.
After four beers, I wanted tacos. After five beers, I could see
better with one eye closed. After six beers, we both wanted
I had two dollars and thirty-two cents in my New Zealand
bank account, and in my American account, negative six
hundred dollars. Willy had enough money to buy one beer
at a bar. I had enough money to purchase one banana.
As we had no money, riding bikes to the karaoke bar seemed
rational. We tripped to the garage and placed helmets on our
heads. The garage door was closed and raindrops violated the
garage roof.
"How are we going to get the bikes outside and around the
house?" I asked, my voice grinning.
"Fly," Willy responded.
"You know, we should wear the helmets out even if we don't
ride bikes," Willy suggested after three minutes.
"Protection," I agreed.
For seven minutes, we tip-toed with helmets on our heads.
Then I received an answer to the text message I had sent the
mom asking if it was okay to take the bikes. She said no.
We sang karaoke to youtube songs the rest of the night.

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