In flipping through my photos, I noticed this interesting description of a menu item in Prague. Maybe the Internet has made me completely numb and my formerly clean and pristine mind a disgusting, diseased gutter, but I got a pretty hearty chuckle out of this:

I imagined an eager traveler, anxious to enjoy some authentic Czech cuisine, excitedly spouting off his order to a less-than-amused waitress, only to say, “I’m gunna have the Argentinsky…am I saying that right? Argentinsky? with the sauce from my plea—my what now?”

Just shut up.

I drove for the majority of the day today, away from Prague and into the Golden City of Munich, Germany. We stopped at Pilsner Urquell Brewery to catch a glimpse of WHAT IT’S LIKE over here in the beer scene. We didn’t have time for the tour.

I was hungry at this point, but wasn’t necessarily fired up about the prospect of enjoying more Czech food. My dad ordered some elk goulash the night before. You read that properly—elk. Today, he decided to spring for some boar ragout. Here is a photo of my reaction, since I’ve been asked to include more photographs of myself on my blog:

;)

This was also something I was confused by. Needless to say, I didn’t drink this, because I’m not a moron. I can imagine some people who would though. I never cared for them.

Munich has been a time so far. Plenty of American pricks hanging around the lobby, wasted as hell from their day in the tents at Oktoberfest. It took me about 5 seconds to spot a girl who wasn’t enjoying her conversation with some asshole wearing a Billabong shirt. I crossed it off of my scavenger hunt list of Europe. Next up, skinhe—oh wait. Check.

A couple of fellas decided to start up a chat with me and my dad down in the depths of the Munich rail station. It started off innocent enough—them asking whether we wanted some cocaine and, upon hearing that we were from San Francisco, asking if we sucked cock. Nice guys with big time aspirations. Upper management. Sooner or later, one of them decided that it would be appropriate to say “fuck the USA,” to which I replied, “well, that’s like, your opinion, man.” This was after enjoying a nice, delicious pint of some authentic German beer and a dish called a “pork knuckle.” Here’s that:

The outer shell was essentially a pork rind, and now I’m essentially a fat piece of shit. No aspirations. No upper management.

Other photos:

YES. Goodnight.