Damien Galeone

I am walking along the streets of Old Town Prague and stuffing strawberries into my mouth at an alarming pace. I am mentally jotting down observations as I go: cobalt blue sky, strawberries everywhere (in mouth, hand, shirt and somehow ears), women dressed as though a house fire didn’t allow them to complete their outfits. So far, it looks as though my hypothesis is correct.

My interest has been sparked since noting recent changes. My interest in celebrity suicides has ebbed, actual sunlight comes through my bedroom window before 1 p.m. and the cat has started shedding her fur in such volume that I can finally build my evil cat navy of the Vltava. With these signs, I’ve taken to the streets for further investigation.

As I continue my walk the empirical data builds. People aren’t staring at the ground as they walk, there is even the occasional smile and most of the bums have moved from red boxed wine to white boxed wine. A wolf spider on a wall is a good sign.

Everything points to spring; still, I haven’t seen the clincher, and I suppose that is why I’m roaming the streets. From behind me, around a corner, comes a low rumble that breaks the air like thunder in the distance. I pause and prepare; this might be it.

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If I were to recommend an occupation for those interested in useless facts, teaching English as a second language would surely be the one. ESL coursebooks are (obviously) focused on language and geared towards keeping a student’s attention, therefore it’s chock full of factoids that will in no way enhance one’s chances of getting a job.

Via ESL coursebooks, I have learned that the first microwave was as large as a refrigerator, that post-earthquake search and rescue teams use rats instead of dogs and that scientists are developing a wall climbing suit.

Parlay this consistent use of ESL coursebooks with a lifelong fascination with the weird, twisted, stupid and arcane and you have, well, you have the list below.

This list is made up of the five most interesting and unusual customs in the world that have never caught on in the rest of the world.

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Reginald slips the 9 tram into the terminal station as smoothly as laying a worn dollar bill on a satin G-string. As he does, I scurry to the cockpit to peer out through this window. The 1 tram is parked in front of us and Joyce the driver is moving around the car performing post-drive duties such as bum removal, condom scraping and clearing empty boxes of wine and bottles of Tučnak. As we queue up behind the 1 tam, the 16 tram ticks past us on its way out of the station. The 16 tram driver is Jane, a light-haired brunette with a nose you could land a 747 on, who smiles as the two trams pass each other.

And so, for the third week in a row, the love story continues.

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If you’re anything like me, and dear God I hope for your sake that you’re not, then nothing infuriates you more than a pet store employee. Just the sight of one of those smug bastards sorting dog toys and cleaning bird poop awakens the devious sadist within.

Surely it’s no surprise that I have devoted a good portion of my life to torturing these name-tagged zoophiliacs. After a lifetime of research, I have compiled this list of the five best ways to torture them.

5. Speak in Latin. Actually, you can speak in any other dead language, but Latin allows you to use the scientific names of the animal about which you are inquiring.

“Hello, could you please show me your best Felis silvestris catus?”
“I’m sorry, what is that?”
“It’s a common pet. Is this not a pet store?”

I think you can see where this is heading. This can be both accompanied and made more effective by a combination of muttering and crying. Also, wearing a shirt with the Latin phrase and picture of a dinosaur on it seems to really seal the deal.

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The man in the picture on Lee’s iPad depicts a seemingly good-natured, friendly person. Otherwise, however, he doesn’t really exhibit any attributes deemed valuable by females. Honza is not an altogether unattractive man, it’s just that he seems to have gone out of his way to choose the single worst picture ever taken of himself. He is wearing a light red workout suit and he is engaged in some kind of demented dance move which makes him look like the least cool Mick Jagger impersonator on Earth. This effect is enhanced, I guess that’s the best word, by the fact that he is holding ski poles.

He has clearly aggravated his barber in some way and his mouth is held in such an unnatural contortion that he must be singing Tuvan throat music Karaoke. He has a mole on his nose, which at this point I am fairly convinced that I transplanted onto him to complete the Arc de Triomphe of his dismal appearance. I’m surprised that I haven’t given him buck teeth and hair plugs.

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As with every visit to The Šaš (my physician), we are discussing Thai women. The Šaš is holding an Otoscope into my ear and offering sage advice on what I should do as a young man in this world.

“Go to Thailand, perhaps Bangkok, and open a language institute that caters to high-class Thai prostitutes,” he says.

“You mean open my own harem?”

He removes the Otoscope. “Sure,” he says. “They need English.”

“I need to buy a whole lot of pillows, then?” I ask

“Your ears are fine,” he says. Then adds, in the same Marlon Brando meets Kermit the Frog drawl, “No pillows, rubber sheets and coconut oil.”

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Whenever I wake up in a grumpy or sad mood – every day, different reason, this morning is a stubbed toe – I go to the most cheery webpage online. Recent Deaths on Wikipedia.

Before you judge me as ghoulish or morbid for reading the obituaries over my morning coffee, let me explain a couple of things.

First of all, Recent Deaths is just the start off point. Any given Wikipedia page has the tendency to lead to several other, totally random pages, and Recent Deaths is no exception.

The problem with this is that it makes me a font of useless information, even more than does being an ESL teacher. And that’s saying something.

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Milton Snavely Hershey and J.P Morgan were supposed to be on the Titanic. Hershey, of course brought delicious, calorie-packed milk chocolate to America, revolutionizing the fat industry. He evidently took a chocolate ship to Happy Land and J.P Morgan instead journeyed across the Atlantic on a yacht made of cash and investors’ souls.

In reality, Hershey had to return from France early and Morgan stayed at a spa in France, deciding to deal with his investors’ souls at some later date.

According to Greg Dougherty’s Seven Famous People who Missed the Titanic also among those supposed to be on the Titanic were radio pioneer, Guglielmo Marconi and the novelist Theodore Dreiser. Contrary to popular belief, Celine Dion was not on the guest list.

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There is a full length mirror in the hallway near my office that I am almost always able to avoid. Once in a while I’ll check my teeth after a salad or check my beard’s progress as I walk by at a quick pace.

But sometimes, like this morning, I let my Inner Sadist out for a walk and take a good, long look at myself in the mirror. Normally, the Inner Sadist would focus on my belly or ridiculous nose, but before He can indulge in such a self-beating, we both realize I am wearing all brown. Every stitch of outer wear is some hue of brown. My camel brown pants complement my burnt umber shoes. In an unintentional breach of fashion laws that suggests an inability to discern colors, my jacket and hat are both chocolate-brown with olive trim. Adding cosmic insult to injury, my bag is the same.

Removing my coat reveals a seal brown shirt.

Oh the Inner Sadist is going to have a field day with this whole thing.

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Two pigs are to be slaughtered today, which is 200% more pigs than I have ever seen slaughtered. The first one, who I secretly name Forsythe, is led out of her cage while emitting cries and squeals that are sure to make cameos in my future nightmares. These squeals are truncated when she meets her maker via bolt pistol at 7:14 a.m.

At 7:14:30 the first shots of domácí slivovice (homemade plum brandy) are passed around as everyone snaps into action like a reverse ER crew. Forsythe’s carotid and jugular are sliced and the women catch her blood in pots; then she is hoisted into a wooden trough and covered with resin to make her hair easier to remove. Then the  men  pour boiling water over her. We three Americans—Collin, Conrad and I—are immediately put to work. They scrape off Forsythe’s hair with metal bell-shaped tools and I scoop the water, resin and blood out of the wooden trough with a brown bowl decorated with cartoon hens.

After her eyes are cut out, Forsythe is hung by her Achilles’ tendons to a metal rack and her head is cut off. At 7:31 a.m. the next round of slivovice is brought around as Igor and a man called Uncle (no joke) begin eviscerating Forsythe. At 7:35 a.m. Conrad and I are assigned the task of going to pick up the second pig with an older man missing his bottom ridge of teeth.

A half hour later, we load the second pig into the cage on the man’s truck as it exhibits a clear sense of understanding that this is not going to be its day. On the way back, the man tells Conrad about his pet goats and I sit in the back of the truck, the slivovice rushing through my blood as I pledge a life of vegetarianism and plan out a tofu farm.

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