America's Finest Ambassador Chapter 46 – Don’t Beat Yourself Up

Chapter 46 – Don’t Beat Yourself Up

Once Wendy and her fat old wrinkly-balled Taiwanese twat-plugger for the evening had left me cold at that Metro station, it was only quarter to nine at night. Since pussy was no longer an item on the menu, I reached into my backpack, pulled out a tourist map of Taipei and began searching for something to do.

Prior to visiting Taiwan, unlike my planning for visits to other countries, I didn’t spend any time researching “normal” activities and tourist attractions to keep me occupied during my time there. For some reason or another, I’d instead focused on trying to find the most bizarre shit I could see and do around Taipei.

As I looked at the map, I remembered reading about a place I wanted to check out called Modern Toilet. Modern Toilet is a poo-themed restaurant where every nut-laden, brown-colored dish they concoct looks like a big dump served in a mini crapper. I’d also read that all seats in the eatery take the shape of porcelain johns and all lighting fixtures look like dangling pieces of shit. Although that sounded like it was right up my alley, I’d just eaten with Wendy and didn’t wanna go there unless I’d had an appetite big enough to wanna stuff my face with all the shit I could handle. So, on that night, a trip to Modern Toilet wasn’t gonna work out and I continued to peruse the map.

As I carried on in my search, I’d also remembered reading that at funerals in Taiwan the families of the deceased sometimes hire a pack of strippers that come to the ceremony and “dance for the dead.” Although I tried to find out exactly why they do this via the World Wide Web, I couldn’t find a single definitive reason behind the bizarre practice. A couple articles had mentioned something about “bribing mourners to come pay their respects” and something about it having “a spiritual significance,” but I couldn’t find much else.

To me, pairing lap dances with mourning seems like a rather macabre combination. Nevertheless, I gotta give it up to the Taiwanese for doing their best to put the “fun” back in “funeral.” I can think of few other ways in which final goodbyes would cause certain parts of men other than the guy in the casket to become stricken with rigor mortis. Even though I would’ve been down to attend and to have been on the receiving end of a sorrowful lap dance or two, I felt that the odds of coming across a funeral with strippers that late in the evening were slim to none. So, I once again turned to the map and kept on looking.

Another thing I recalled reading a great deal about had been their world-famous night markets – specifically, the odd stuff that’s sold at ‘em. When staring at the computer screen from the comfort of my Chicago home, my eyes nearly bulged outta my head when I saw photos of the weird shit people put into bottles of alcohol for medicinal purposes out around those parts. Although the bottles of liquor which contained a heap of dead baby mice had probably been the most disgusting, the type that I’d been most captivated by were the bottles of deer penis wine.

Consisting of no more than a foot-long deer dick removed from its host and jammed into a bottle of grain alcohol for your enjoyment, deer penis wine is said to be a powerful aphrodisiac that’s guaranteed to increase the number of stiffies at any given stripper-bound funeral. Of all the things I’d seen being sold on that trip up until that point in time, I couldn’t think of a better souvenir to bring back home to my drunken perverted friends than a bottle of booze with an amputated buck boner in it. As such, after locating the one that the tourist map had indicated as being the biggest and most popular in the city, I hopped on the Metro and headed for Shilin Night Market.

When I’d arrived at the stop nearest, I got off the train and popped into a 7-Eleven. There, I bought a pack of smokes and a bag-full of Heineken keg cans to consume while wandering around Shilin in search of castration juice. After gearing up on the essentials, I set off on my mission.

The part of the night market that I decided to enter seemed to be the food section. There’d been quite a few snack carts and street vendors selling a bunch of stuff that smelled quite good but looked like it was from another planet. Also in the area, there’d been several restaurants and shops with shelves and racks full of herbs and spices. After wandering into a few of these to check if they had anything for sale that looked like a bottle of grain alcohol with a hairy-ass penis floating around in it and not being able to find any such thing on my own, I went to ask for some assistance.

“Uh, nihao,” I used all the Mandarin I knew to greet a shop owner, “do you sell deer penis wine?”

“English…” he shrugged and shook his head, “…no. No English.”

“Ahh, thanks anyway.”

I went into the next store then several others and tried the same thing. None of the shop owners I encountered at Shilin Night Market could speak any English. Nonetheless, I kept walking, I kept drinking and I kept looking until about an hour later when I’d come across a part of the market where the shops and stands ceased and carnival games pervaded. Tired of my fruitless quest, I found an unoccupied bench, popped a squat and lit up a cigarette.

Not too long after I’d sat down, two cute Taiwanese chicks came walking into the game area, hanging on the arms of some lanky-ass white dude in a Megadeth T that had long greasy hair growing halfway down his back and kind of looked like a young Weird Al Yankovic. At the time, I’d been quite bitter after having been ditched by Wendy who opted to go pork a dude three times my age, so seeing another visitor – especially one as freakish-looking as this guy – with a pair of good-looking local girls he might potentially be getting tender with that evening frustrated the hell outta me.

While taking the last few puffs of my dwindling butt, I looked upon the jolly threesome with disdain as they decided to stop and play one of the carnival games where the objective had been to pop balloons using a bow and arrow. After handing over their money to him, the guy running the booth started motor-mouthing into a microphone. I had no idea what he was saying, but whatever it was had been enough to draw the interest of a small crowd. Slugging down my Heineken and hating from afar, I watched the two girls cheer on their skin-and-bones buddy as he picked up one of the bows and got to work.

In the fist of the arm that’d been extended in front of him, Weird Al held the bow at eye-level. With his opposite hand, he pinched the string and the arrow between his thumb and index finger and, while holding the bow firmly in place, began to draw the arrow back. As he did, his arms became wobbly. The guy had next to no muscle in his upper body and as he tried to take aim, the convulsions steadily increased.

When Shaky finally let it rip, he missed the target horribly as the bow fell to the ground from his extended arm. At the same time, the hand that he’d used to pull on the string came flying straight backwards. In front of his two chicks, in front of the booth operator as well as the small crowd that’d gathered around, Weird Al managed to punch himself square in the nose.

The guy at the booth stopped jabbering into his microphone. Everyone in the vicinity had been staring incredulously as blood started to pour out the dude’s nostrils, down his face and onto his Megadeth shirt. In an attempt to not make a mess, he leaned forward and cupped his hands beneath his chin but the cup runneth over. The girls quickly ushered their weird scrawny-ass friend away from the games and disappeared into the crowd while I sat back laughing my ass off, feeling so blessed for having seen that which’d just taken place right in front of me.

While walking and drinking…