Madreed

Shalom friends. Welcome to a blog about some cool dudes doing stuff.  Happy reading. 

Madrid — The Second of February, Two Thousand and Eighteenth Year of Our Lord

We touched down in Madrid in the early evening, meaning we weren’t going to eat dinner for another 4 hours.  We bided our time in a bangin Air BnB in Malasana, a 2 bedroom flat with almost no hot water but 7 nespresso thingies and some tide pods which both made for great mixers.  The stain remover goes really well with bourbon.

As the night matured we finally ventured afuera and were treated to/forced to enjoy shots of absinthe by a local friend.  Although it looks like those delicious juice boxes you'd get with your Lunchables, they are not as analagous as one would like.  Without correlation, later details remain hazy but the night's venue played an Auschwitz advertisement in conjunction with a 2004 Enrique Iglesias music video. An old man/street promoter also showed us his nipples to woo us to his employer.  It was upon request.

Madrid — The Third of February, Two Thousand and Eighteenth Year of Our Lord

Our rag tag group of heroes enjoyed some seafood paella at a crowded mercado de San Miguel.  Raw fish, fine wine, and no shortage of international BO consolidated into our nostrils.  The lukewarm seafood paella didn’t help.  Blankfein had a Crones blast. 

That evening we adventured to Kapital, a storied 7 floor club in the heart of Madrid.  A sultry quaffed man took the stage sometime around 4:30 AM and struck his lute. Out came a catastrophically ridiculous electronic violin rendition of “Don’t you worry child” by Swedish House Mafia and the building became engulfed by it’s swelling melody.  He was on the stage for no more than 40 seconds before exiting left.  Is that exercise? Yeah.

Meanwhile, five floors up, something far more sinister was occurring.  For the safety of all those involved, we will use aliases for the parties mentioned.  Our friend, umm, Garth and his homie were at the table sucking down Beefeater gin when his friend, we’ll go with Sven (a crown prince), started laying some pretty solid game down on a nice girl from Valencia.  

The details remain a little hazy but fast forward about 25 minutes and an update appears on our whatsapp thanks to the high speed Kapital free wifi.  You can sign in with Facebook or email:  Garth had left because Sven was in the midst of ordering (one of) his hit-man to come kill the bouncer, and needed to be taken home before any international incident occurred.  Luckily the contract killer was not willing to travel all the way to Central Spain for such a menial job, and a life was spared that evening.   

Madrid — The Fourth of February, Two Thousand and Eighteenth Year of Our Lord

 3:00 pm wakey wakey for the bad boys. Felt like my kidneys had been treated to 1970s electro-shock treatment.  Llaollao launched a sever and instantaneous attack, again on poor Jason’s crones.  Then he bought a strawberry glazed donut from dunkeys.

The Gang then decided to get Cultured II and rip la Reina Sofia as freezing rain and haill lurched down at us. It took us almost 30 minutes to find our first piece of art.  I have never been accused of having street smarts, but sometimes when your in a modern art museum it can be difficult to tell if your in the boiler room, the women's restroom, or a priceless gallery.  Regardless, eventually we found some good ol artisan work, and perused how one comes up with such aggressively nonsenical work (in our feeble minds obviously).  We later found Guernica, a piece that if desired would require “a hard ass heist” according to Gerson. Together we debated some of science’s most pressing mysteries: “I’m pretty sure flash melts colors” Jason taught us. “Demetrius Jackson fucked the shit out of one of my close friends” was a conversation topic soon thereafter.

Dinner was economics.  The Museo De Jamon offers 1 euro ham sammiess and 50 cent beers that come with free dank meats. Its a coronary artery infections' wet dream.  .

Then darkness fell in Super Bowl LII and I don’t want to talk about it.  But I will.  That might have been one of Brady’s greatest performances.  We didn’t fucking punt once.  It was like we cast the goddam harry potter curse where you mind control the shit out of your foe (Imperio, duh).  But on the other side of the ball, Jesus fucking lord.  Forget this whole Malcom Butler conspiracy.  We didn’t even lay a finger on large fallick Nick.  James Harrison played like sweaty grey hoodie James Harrison, but even with aggressive blitzing there was no pressure. Behind them was a freakin naked, shivering, sieve of a secondary. Embarrassing.  We needed Boomtower bad.  We needed stops.  We didn’t get stops. We didn’t have Boomtower. Or jamie collins or chandler jones, or goddam asante samuel. I miss defense.

Bye Bye Bye