While traveling in Queenstown, New Zealand a few months ago, I met a Californian hockey player as I sat on the front porch of Bungi Backpackers hostel. I was staring at a hammock, mentally threatening to castrate the couple fondling each other if they didn't bounce within twelve seconds. Hockey diverted my attention enough to introduce me to his friend Willy, another California hockey jedi. They were studying abroad in Hamilton for the semester, and currently traveling with two guys from the East Coast. Hockey and Willy referred to them as Coasties. After talking to Californians for five minutes, I didn't want to talk to a Kiwi or a Coastie for a month.
That night, Willy and I went out. Hockey didn't have enough money to buy booze or a hostel dorm bed. He fell asleep in the car at nine at night. Their road trip had comprised camping, showering in lakes, and sleeping in cars. Willy spent money like a balla for one night so he could sleep in Bungi Hostel's dorm. He texted me a week later. On the drive back to Hamilton, one of the Coasties t-boned the car the four of them had purchased together. Their one epic New Zealand purchase.
Willy, Hockey, and I had planned on road tripping to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Hockey's food and accommodation were paid for for the semester, and he had less cash than a bum. He couldn't come on the trip. Willy texted me the day before his bus from Hamilton to Auckland, confirming that I could rent a car. I filled out the rental paperwork and handed over my debit card with the same speculation I feel towards lighting fireworks near pubic hair. Something could go wrong. Renting a car required a one thousand dollar deposit. I didn't have the thousand. I had been lobbing money around on insignificant things, like hospital visits and tooth reconstruction. The payment processed. I felt like I must have stolen money, until I checked my online statement an hour later and my account reflected a six hundred dollar deficit.
I retrieved Willy at eleven at night from the bus station in our rented Nissan. His bus had been delayed three hours, but once on, at least he watched a documentary on donkeys. We rambled back to my house where I chuzzled a bottle of wine. Willy sipped three beers. We wanted karaoke. I located an Auckland karaoke bar online. We were orgasmic about singing and debated possible duets throughout the fifteen minute cab ride. Seven Drunken Nights beat out Aladdin and Jasmine's A Whole New World. We rocked up to the karaoke bar with smiles and bliss. The door was locked and the bar closed.
After walking a block, Willy attacked my arm.
"It's a hobbit!" he secret messaged me by screaming in my ear.
I looked where he motioned. It was a hobbit. A drunk hobbit. He wore brown loose pants to his calves, a white long-sleeved shirt, and brown vest. His toe hair could assault mice. He drunkenly swayed back and forth on a bench. Garbage can stench dripped from his pores. Willy asked Hobbit if he could take a picture.
"You sit next to me," Hobbit slurred to me.
"No, thank you, but can we please take a picture?" I replied.
Hobbit bellowed, "No." He shrieked. He howled. My ears almost exploded. As did Hobbit's eyes. Willy and I backed away from the rabid hobbit and continued to Boogie Wonderland.
At Boogie Wonderland, Grandpa's balding head and bushman beard enhanced his dancing. It was fantastic. He boogied to every song for the three hours we were there. When the music paused, Grandpa continuously discharged limbs and belly-dance shimmied. He had more energy than a toddler.
Willy and I danced to We Are Family, That's the Way I Like It, and Ring My Bell before Willy pointed to the obese raging dragon of an Indian man sitting alone at a table.
"I'll buy you a shot of whatever you want if you give him a lap dance. He's miserable. Look at that face. He looks like he accidentally chopped off his daughter's finger," he offered.
I was more sexy when I was fourteen. My boobs and butt still haven't hit puberty. At least a decade ago, I was thinner. Thus, I was surprised when I swung on his lap a few times and he sat as still as if he had Lou Gehrig Disease. When I bootyquaked once, he whispered in my ear, "I wet cum." I screamed and flailed from his genitals.
Willy and I sang. We danced. Other countries don't dance like Americans. The last time I danced with a Kiwi, I wasn't aware that we were still dancing. People walked in between us, other couples danced feet away from each other and still obstructed him from my view. Dancing with Kiwis is like dancing with Where's Waldo.
As Willy and I left Boogie Wonderland, India smiled and said, "Thank you."
A random man approached and announced, "Your dancing is giving everyone boners."
Willy replied, "The more boners the better."
We molested Auckland's sky tower that night.
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