The Grumps' Italian Adventure: Day 1, or Kiss Mein Weinershniztel Lufthansa

As promised last Thursday, I'll be spending every weekday for the next two weeks covering my honeymoon with the newly minted wife to the Chianti region of Italy. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this yet. I've been given specific instructions by Mrs. Grump not to just bitch and moan about everything, so I guess I'll just give some this and that about the sights, some of the stories....and fuck it there will also be a lot of complaining.

Today's post, in fact, will be a heavy dose of venting at the sauerkraut slurping assholes at Lufthansa Airlines. And before you say anything, yes, I'm well aware that ranting about airlines is about as fresh as a knock knock joke. But I'll be damned if ever single complaint ever said, written, or sung about the airline industry isn't one hundred percent justified.

These polesmokers at Lufthansa are responsible for taking a trip that had been relatively smooth and taking a nice healthy scheize all over it. We flew out of Philly, but had a two hour layover in Frankfurt, Germany. As we boarded the bus that would shuttle us to our connecting plane to Florence, we realized something was wrong when the fully loaded bus sat motionless for about 20 minutes. Our suspicions were confirmed when we were told that the pilot for our flight was sick, and that we had to return to the terminal while other arrangements were made.

Well, apparently the "other arrangements" were for the entire flight to go fuck themselves. They just canceled the damn thing, and told us that a portion of the passengers would get the remaining seats on the next flight to Florence. Well, in another piece of good news, it turns out that Mrs. Grump had been included in the next flight but I had not. That's all I need. Mrs. Grump goes to Florence by herself where she's surrounded by gorgeous, olive-skinned men with sexy accents. No dice.

So I mention this foul up to the workers at the gate, but they tell me they don't have any control over who gets chosen for the next flight. They did seem to have the authority however, to rip up Mrs. Grump's ticket right in front of me when they realized she would not be going without me.

So our next move was to get our tickets transferred to a flight four hours later that would take us to Bologna, Italy. And since Lufthansa really goes the extra mile, they agreed to get us the rest of the way to Florence by bus.

But we couldn't get the tickets from the people at the gate, which I found odd considering they just gave tickets to all the people who got on the next Florence flight. We had to take a journey that literally had us go through customs three fucking times just to get a new boarding pass for the flight to Bologna. To put that in perspective, we didn't go through customs a single goddamn time when we got to the Bologna airport.

What the fuck, Germany? You are the country that brought us Mercedes, BMW, and, uh....less pleasant forms of meticulous planning and efficiency, but you can't even think far enough ahead to have a pilot on call for the days when the scheduled pilot couldn't keep his fucking hands off the Beck's and Jagermeister the night before? Or, failing that, perhaps you could hire employees that don't react to unexpected problems by turning into quivering piles of fucking stupid. Congratulations, Lufthansa. You really set the tone for our honeymoon by making my wife cry and giving me a migraine. Danke schoen, you bunch of pricks.

Excuse Me, Can You Tell Me How To Get To The Sexy Time?

This may very well be my last post for the rest of the month. I've only got 6 more days until I've officially tricked Mrs. Grump-to-be into marrying me, and there is much to be done until then. After that, I've got ten days of Italiantastic adventures planned for the honeymoon.

One of the things we did today to get ready for the trip was to pick up a copy of Frommer's Italian PhraseFinder and Dictionary. We may look like douchey tourists with it, but I think it's a small price to pay to be able to phonetically stumble through phrases like "Do you know English?" and "We don't know Italian."

After a bit of studying, however, I've come to realize that the people at Frommer's know that people don't just go on family vacations or school trips to Italy. They also realize that some people go to Italy for the same reason that anyone goes anywhere: to find themselves a nice piece of ass. Tucked in between the "Golfing" and "Casino" sections is a category entitled "Nightclubbing." But I'm pretty sure they should have just called it "One Night Stands." Here is a sample conversation you studly fellas can have with the pretty ladies of Italy based on phrases learned in the Frommer's guide:

Stud:Mi scusi, posso offrirle qualcosa da bere?
Excuse me, may I buy you a drink?

Bella: Si.
Yes.

Stud: Che begli occhi che ha!
You have nice eyes.

Bella: Grazie.
Thank you.

(Cut to Stud's place)

Stud: Sei bellisima. Vuoi entrare?
You are beautiful. Would you like to come in?

Bella: Sei bellisimo....si.
You are handsome...yes.

(Cut to Stud's bedroom)

Stud: Vuoi che ti massagi la schiena?
Would you like a massage?

Bella: No, per favore, non farlo...hai un preservativo?
Please don't do that...do you have a condom?

Stud: Ho un preservato. Prendi la pillola?
I have a condom. Are you on birth control?

(30 seconds later)

Stud: Li?
There?

Bella: No, non cosi.
That's not it.

(15 seconds later)

Bella: Li...piu veloce...piu profondo.
There...faster...deeper.

Stud: Piano! Piu lento!
Easy! Slower!

(5 seconds later)

Stud: Stai qui, ti preparo la colazione.
Stay, I'll make you breakfast.

Bella: Credo che questo sia stato un errore.
I think this was a mistake.

Fortunately for me, I'll have Mrs. Grump to disappoint in my own language. My only worry is that with intimate phrases included in our translation guide, a few errors could lead to something like this:



Enjoy the rest of your October, folks.

This Week In Non-House Hugh Laurie: Blackadder 3

I really was going to try and stick to posting a Hugh Laurie clip in the hour leading up to House, but as you can see that steadfast weekly tradition lasted about one week. In my defense, however, I am up to my balls in wedding plans (T-minus 11 days) and today I had to get to my first dance lesson with the fiance. Hey, you can laugh if you want to, but if anyone is going to make an asshole of themselves on the dance floor it's going to be my alcoholic family and not me.

I'll at least be keeping in line with posting today's clip on the same night as House, although I think Laurie's depiction of Prince George in the third season of Blackadder is about as far from Gregory House as a guy can get. House is very smart. George is very stupid. House is dry and quick. George is flamboyant and rambling. In fact, close your eyes and listen to the following clips, first one of House and then one of George.





I don't know about you, but if I didn't already know it was the case, I'd have no idea the same guy is playing both of these characters. Oddly enough, it seems that in real life Laurie might be closer to House, one of his more recent characters, than any of the goofballs he made a name playing in England. He's fought clinical depression throughout his life, and in most of his interviews he seems to want to be anywhere but where he is. Take this clip of Laurie on Ellen, for example.



But, in all fairness, I don't think anyone wants to be on Ellen. Anyway, here's another Prince George clip.

Use Your Indoor Voice, Burger King

I'd always thought it was just me. I couldn't understand why I'd be watching an episode of Sons of Anarchy at a reasonable level so as to hear all the violence and racism, and the show would cut to commercial and Coors would have Sam Elliot yelling in my face to drink their crappy beer (I don't drink and even I know Coors is swill). As if that's not enough, next I've got Mrs. Grump-to-be yelling at me because it's obviously my fault that the TV sucks.

Well now I know that it is in fact not my fault. In a story posted on the A.V. Club they reported that the Senate has voted into law a regulation saying that cable companies have to keep the volume for commercials at the same level as the shows they play. So this is great news on two levels for me. Firstly, I'm not crazy and it's not my fault that that the TV gets to loud every time a goddamn commercial comes on. Secondly, it's going away!

And not a moment too soon. It's bad enough that I have to watch a bunch of alcoholics that can only have fun when there is a tanker truck's worth of Budweiser, or the vaguely racist black caricatures they have hocking McDonald's. I don't need them to be blasting at me at decibels that are certain to make my ears bleed. So screw you, Progressive Lady. You can no longer make me miserable with your shrill, grating voice. Now, if we can only do something about that face.

Jesus! I'll buy from Progressive, just don't eat me!

A B.J. Costs Aboot $50, Eh.

I am so glad I had to work late tonight. Otherwise, I may have never been in my car listening to the radio when The World (I roll NPR-style, bitches) interviewed a woman named Terri-Jean Bedford. I'm sure you've never heard of her, nor had I until this evening. But I think everyone should know her, as she has the greatest job title in the history of anything in the universe:

Canadian Dominatrix.

As it turns out, a judge in Canada has ruled against its prostitution laws on the basis that they are actually harming the prostitutes more than helping them. The judge reasons that since prostitution is illegal, women who are forced to take part in it must do so in dangerous environments and with no regulation. As part of the story, they interviewed Ms. Bedford, a former "street walker" who is currently self-employed as a dominatrix.

Let me pause here to say that prostitution and sex trafficking is not funny. I do not promote, nor find amusement, in any kind of sexual abuse towards women. I feel bad for any woman who feels she has no other choice than to sell her body just to make ends meet.

What I do find amusing, however, is listening to a woman who sounds like Marge Gunderson talk about how she did 2 years in jail for being a madame, a.k.a. a she-pimp. And now that she's a Canadian dominatrix, I'd like to submit Ms. Bedford's nomination for Oxymoron of the Year. How exactly are one of these sessions supposed to even approach the realm of sexual stimulation?

"Ok, now, buddy boy. Here's how this is going to work, don'tcha know. You're just aboot ready to pull thoose pants down so I can give ya a good spankin', aren't ya? Then I'm going to put on some skin tight flannel, eh. Maybe I'll letcha lick one of my snow shoes. You'd like that, wouldn'tcha? After that I'll carry ya out good and naked and roll ya around in the snow, by golly, until you're good and ready for a good plowin', eh?"

Note: I'm well aware of the fact that the character I've parodied is American and not Canadian. But if you listen to Ms. Bedford's interview and don't hear Frances McDormand from Fargo, then you can just get bent, ya hoser.

This Week In Non-House Hugh Laurie

Well, it seems that my doing a post on Hugh Laurie the night before the season premiere of House managed to hoodwink a few extra readers into stopping by my blog. This is a shameless use of keyword placement that has no place in my work. That is why I am going to be posting this weekly segment at a new time...Monday nights in the 7 o'clock hour, just before the new episode of House, on the Fox TV network. But don't worry, I won't give you any "House spoilers," or "House gossip," or anything about "Thirteen" being "bisexual."

Anyway, by a lucky coincidence my first clip of Hugh Laurie last week seems to be some of his earliest televised work, which means it will work nicely to at least start off going through his career in chronological order. Today's clip marks his first appearance (aside from a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo earlier in the season) of Laurie in one of the best comedies ever to come out of England, Black Adder.

In the upcoming clip, Laurie plays Prince Ludwig, a villainous master of disguise. The role is pretty funny, but it pales in comparison to Laurie's work as George later on in the series (we'll get to that on a later date). Laurie has some good lines here, but most of the fun is had by Rowan Atkinson, who plays an asshole better than just about anyone. Except for maybe "Hugh Laurie as House."

Grump's Bachelor Party: Just Like The Tom Hanks Movie, But With More Vomit

I've mentioned on here a few times that I'm preparing to make the big leap into marriage, and as of today I've only got a little more than two weeks until the big day. To celebrate, my co best men (I'm too much of a wimp to just pick one) put together a little fishing excursion for me along with my dad and soon-to-be brothers-in-law. I was really looking forward to this trip. It had been a long week at work and I was looking forward to kicking back for a little bit of man time with the guys. Little did I know, however, that my worthless fucking stomach was going to make it impossible for me to even pick up a fishing rod that day.

Before we get into that, however, let's take a quick journey back to when I was about 7 or 8 years old. My dad had grown up around the ocean and as a teenager worked on a party boat, which is basically a boat where paying customers pack themselves together for several hours while fishing/drinking themselves into oblivion. Dad must have felt bad that we'd moved to Pennsylvania when I was born and that I never got to enjoy such simple pleasures, so a couple of times a year he'd be sure to take me out to New Jersey for a fishing trip.

The only problem with that is as a child, the simple act of looking down at my feet while in a moving car was enough to make me turn 12 shades of green and puke my Captain Crunch all over the back seat. So, sticking me on a modestly-sized boat in rocky seas for 6 or 7 hours never ended well. If I took Dramamine to counteract the motion sickness, I'd wind up getting drowsy and sleeping for 90% of the trip. If I didn't...well let's just say throwing up when you have nothing left in your stomach is very painful. Fortunately, it only took between ten and twelve such trips for Dad to figure our that I really didn't have the constitution for saltwater fishing.

It wasn't until college that I stepped foot on a boat again, risking my previous day's meals to take a Father's Day blue fishing trip with the old man. Happily for me, however, the Dramamine no longer made me pass out and the seas were calm enough that I didn't have any problems. In fact, I've been going out every Father's Day since then.

So, when my buddies told me that they were taking me out fishing for my bachelor party, sea sickness was the last thing on my mind. That morning, I even treated myself to some bachelor party debauchery in the form of Dunkin' Donuts and Coke for breakfast. And yes, I mean the soda. I'm not exactly the guy you call if you're looking to recreate The Hangover.

My first inkling that I might be in a bit of trouble came before we even left, when my Dad told me for the 19th time that he'd checked the fishing report (he gets a little excited) and it said that there was going to be some heavy wind that would make for some choppy seas. I was a little nervous, but I figured with my reliable buddy Dramamine I'd be fine.

So, we're all loaded up on a very full boat and I'm excited. I figure even if we don't catch a thing, we'll get to eat and shoot the shit all day. I was ready to enjoy the ride out to the planned fishing spot from the back corner of the boat, when Dad suggested that we go into the cabin to avoid getting soaked by that day's rather sizable waves smashing against the side of the boat. I think this is what proved to be my undoing.

It was about 103 degrees in that cabin, and as you can imagine the air inside a party boat isn't what you'd call fresh. So I'm sitting at a table, watching everyone play Uno, when I start to get an unpleasantly familiar feeling. My stomach starts to rise and fall in sync with the waves, which is a problem because the weather has made it so that there is no fucking synchronicity to the waves. So not only is my stomach sloshing around my torso, it's also doing so with no rhyme or eason.

As it dawns on me that I'd felt this way before on a boat , I head outside and watch the land get farther and farther away. For anyone who hasn't gotten seasick, I can't explain to you the feeling of hopelessness that comes with knowing that you are moving in the exact opposite direction of the only thing that can make you feel better.

I'd say it was about 10-15 minutes after I first started getting nauseous that I wound up hanging over the rail, cursing myself for drinking carbonated liquid that morning. And the worst thing is that, unlike most stomach problems, puking won't really make you feel better. You'll have some relief for maybe about 5 minutes, but then you just start the whole thing all over again.

Add on to that the fact that I'm doing this in front of about 100 people and I'm really not looking forward to how the rest of this day is going to pan out. One of the mates came up to me and took me to the back of the boat, both as a way of making sure I didn't get puke all over the boat but also to get me to the part of the boat the rocks the least.

Actually, I was pretty surprised that he seemed so genuinely concerned. I figured that most of the mates on these party boats would actually take pleasure whenever one of the assholes on their boats starts ralphing as long as they don't have to clean it. But this guy game me some ginger ale (which, by the way, is a bullshit remedy for an upset stomach) and gave me some tips for getting my stomach to settle. Granted, none of them worked, but I did appreciate that he tried. As I've said before, if you're looking for a boat to take you on a blue fishing trip, go with the Golden Eagle in Belmar, NJ. It's a good boat.

The rest of the trip was pretty much a nauseous blur as I tried to pass out in my seat so that I didn't have to feel feelings anymore. The problem with that is that if you fall sleep while sitting up on a boat in rocky seas, you'll find yourself pretty quickly woken up as you realize you're about to take a face plant on to the deck.

Of course, it turns out that I missed some great fishing. Everyone caught blue fish, some tuna, and one guy in our group even managed to snag a fucking sea gull. I would have loved to have seen that whole scenario play out, but no, I have to be a fucking pussy and spend the day holding my gut and trying not to cry like a little girl. Eventually, we made it back to shore, and as I stepped foot on that heavenly, non-moving earth, I walked around, got my wits about me again, and one thought popped into my mind: Man, all that puking has made me kind of hungry.