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A
DIARY |
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P A R T
3 |
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BOOZE FOR THE MUSE
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THURSDAY,
LATER... |
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I should have known. In one of his better books Terry
Pratchett mentions the Goddess of War - nowadays working as
a war correspondent, because wherever she is, even in, let's
say, bucolic Luxor, soon after her arrival brothers cut each
other's throats, ambassadors are assassinated, and the National
Guard marches in. He must have met Mona. |
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Taxman Brian arrived today - the British Consulate bailed him
out, and he dodged the officials on the way to the airport.
Today's casualty rate is low, nevertheless - thanks to the tender
age of the guides. Their only reaction to Mona is that they
try to sell her a hat lest she spoil that delicate skin with
sunburn. Their fathers most likely stay at home cursing the
first excavators who started all this tourist business. Tomb
robbers, mummies, pharaoh's curses - no problem, they 've been
handling that for ages. But our Mona... she switched to incredibly
tight pink leggings. Looks like they've been sprayed
on, not sewn. TraX says her gear makes him feel deaf - you see
her lips moving, but don't hear a sound. |
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FRIDAY |
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Brian in custody again. Seems that Dr. Garigolli is the Tae-kwan-do
champ in Genoa, Italy. Had him down, whimpering, in less than
20 seconds. And Mona crowned his catastrophe by querying, "Who's
that guy?". Turned himself in, trembling.
Met Mustafa in the hotel lounge. He's maybe ten or so, and,
carrying a small lightweight ladder, trying to attract the ladies'
attention. He would only talk to Teresa. Unusual. |
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And Teresa refuses to tell me what he proposed, "Ladies' business",
and she'll be out this afternoon with Hella. Very unusual.
TraX and I will join the rest of the party, including our innocent
goddess of kickboxing...who presently has decided to ignore
her white knight, Dr. Garigolli, completely. We all hope that
whoever taught him martial arts instilled in him the appropriate
ethics, too. It's no fun at all to live in a Kung-fu movie...
especially if you're short, fat, and have a tendency to misplace
your specs whenever something interesting happens.
We cross the Nile, pass the Mnemon Colossus, an artificial structure
that sings under special and - thank God - rare wind conditions.
We head for the Temple of Hatshepsut, a structure partly carved
into the mountain. It's been hard to determine who built that
temple - Hatshepsut 's successor, a brother of hers, had all
her names scratched out. I can understand it, considering my
elder sister. Oh well...
Is it just my reserve specs (hi, Dr. Garigolli), or are most
of the guides carrying aluminum stepladders like Mustaffer
did? Local habits? Or is it the UNESCO "Day Of The Ladder"?
This world is getting curioser and curioser.... |
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Of course it had to be Mona who found the second entrance. I
was still bargaining with Cap'n Kidd reincarnated in a 12-year
old official guide, trying to convince him that we had no desire
to buy the temple, just have a look at it, which should
be a little cheaper; anyway, we all heard her holler, and then
Kidd skimmed five percent off his price, "'cause it's easier
with only one guest".
I found the rest of our little band at an unattractive rectangular
hole in the hill. The ladies all seemed to be absent, while
the gents were moping around undecidedly. Someone was even suggesting
that we "go over t'other side an' have some serious booze, mate",
whatever "booze" may be. I peered into the cave or whatever
was behind that rectangular hole, and indeed, it looked like
the temple's founders were, in a most unorthodox way, depicted
standing stark naked between the traditional pylons. Those reserve
specs... it isn't usual to use snakes in founder's pictures.
Snakes? Where's Chili when we need him? We've found a backdoor
to his PE
Palace!
So that's why all the ladies are gone! And while I was approaching
the pylons - in a purely scientific spirit, of course - the
massive granite organ of the founder twitched & jerked, and
the ten-yard-high figure sported an erection that I refused
to measure, and refuse to describe. |
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Where's that fellow that proposed some alcohol? Call me old-fashioned,
but the sight of, well, yards of erection makes me feel like
I lost some Darwinian contest... the ladies, of course, don't
share that feeling. Last time I've heard such shrieks was when
I picked my wife up at that Exotic Dancer's Fair... especially
you-know-who, she was leaping up and down in front of the statue,
topless. And then, right in the middle of the pandemonium, Mustafa
arrived with the inevitable ladder, a broad grin and two blushing
maidens behind him, Teresa & Hella.
The memory of the rest of the afternoon is somewhat hazy, maybe
Omar, the cook, put some of his beloved kif into the
cucumber(!) sauce, I mean, in real life you don't see too many
middle-aged housewives trying to mount a giant, right? After
a while the male portion of the party decided to "go over t'other
side".
An' I tell'ya, we really had some serious booze, mate.
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The
usual thanks to St. Stephan, who undertakes the hard task of
purging my texts of Germanisms and adding those highlights that
my English teacher at school called "slang" (and refused to
tolerate). |
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