We arrived in Amsterdam at 1 AM, with no luggage, 52 hours without sleep, and not a thought in the world about going to the Amsterdam Banana Bar.
THAT is how you start an Amsterdam trip, ladies and gentlemen. An added bonus to our arrival was our far-too-eager-to-share-his-thoughts cab driver, who proceeded to tell us about how “the Russian bitches will take the best care of you in the whorehouses.” And that, “They look REALLY young.”
Fantastic you sick man. And duly noted.
Fortunately, our walking Mapquest, Tyler was able to navigate our way to a hostel in which we
hopefully probably would not be kidnapped, held for ransom, robbed, and had our identities stolen by Yuris, and Markos, and other shady Eastern European names.
Was the “extra mattress” at the Flying Pig hostel made of cardboard and nails? Maybe. Did it feel like a veritable sea of clouds likely as a result of extreme sleep deprivation? Absolutely.
It most certainly did — until Oz woke me up at 6:27 AM with a half drunk, warm Heineken he found in a vending machine. Not that I wasn’t appreciative, but vending machine beer is…well, not so good. Naturally I slammed the beer, which I immediately identified as tasting of warm snot. Frankly, It was just what the doctor ordered.
For those of you who have been to Amsterdam (and remembered it), the city is gorgeous. Lots of beautiful, historic buildings, amazing people, and — oh yeah, drugs. Lots of ’em. But we will get to that later.
I could tell you about all the amazing sights; the original Heineken factory, the “coffee” shops, the people, and so on. But you would rather trim the fat and get to the Bananabar wouldn’t you? It’s like eating dessert before dinner (pun intended), but let’s jump right in!
Amsterdam Banana Bar
Oz, Buffalo, Tyler and the Witty Badger were walking along the slums of the Red Light District, half drunk and trying to fend off the incessant buzz of “Hey buddy, whatchyou want? X, Yay, Shrroms, Rock?” coming from every dirty nook and cranny in the city. We didn’t want any drugs. We had chewing tobacco and booze. Speaking of tobacco, we quickly came to realize something quite magnificent; Europeans do NOT chew tobacco, nor do they even have it available. Naturally, like the idiots Oz and the Witty Badger are, we decided to become chummy with one of the drug dealers. He tried to sell us “X”, and we tried to sell him “Skoal Mint.”
He became a client.
“So, what do I do now? Swallow it?” says the drug peddler. “Not unless you want to puke on your own bags of drugs” replies Oz. (Thus is the extent of European familiarity with chewing tobacco.)
We walked down the road a piece, until we saw an ever-so-inviting glowing sign reading “Bananenbar.” Do four 21 year-old men see have to see what “Bananenbar” is all about? No. three of them do. The Human Mapquest decided he was going back to the hostel to “bang Sienna.”
He didn’t. Instead, Sienna was had by our friend Buffalo, a six-foot-five moose of a man, whom we found suffering from diarrhea in the Banana Bar bathroom, and shouting outrageous racial slurs up and down the streets. (More on that later). Diarrhea aside, it’s really no surprise she was drawn in by his rugged masculinity; he wasn’t named “The Perfect Penis of Spain” for nothing.
Buffalo (the Perfect Penis), Oz, and the Witty Badger would not be deterred from the glowing allure of the “Bananenbar.” We walked in with full drunken abandon, meeting a doorman who told us, “50 Euros to drink everything you want for an hour.”
Hahahahaha. We knew a deal when we heard one, and were certainly up to the challenge. Our iron-clad livers were capable of devouring more than 50 Euros worth of the cheapest booze they could offer in half the allotted time. Needless to say, we were sold without a second thought.
Our first impression was that it seemed to be a very typical looking strip club; bad lighting, shiny-black stages, dance poles, cheap booze, and a strong aroma of low self-esteem and dried up tears. This place was perfect.
We started the party off with six three cocktails. Apparently, you are only allowed one at a time. What an odd place for rules, eh? Speaking of the place, let me clarify the setting a little better; the stage was fully stocked with legitimate “B-Squad” strippers. How do I put this lightly? They were not… hot. One of these hard working strippers, who likely took the gig to “pay her way through college”, slithered up to us and said, “Hey boys… How about a banana show?”