"Mike, join me in a pint of Guinness."
"What? You're breaking out. God help that country."
Before I board my plane to south Australia, I make a stop at "The Jolly Tinker."
Five long years had passed since mother's milk has touched my lips, and it's just as I remembered - brilliant.
The occasion is the Fire Department World Olympic Games. I'm no athlete. I'm a gambler; consequently, I shoot a reasonable game of pool. No matter; all I want to do is bungee jump, dive the Great Barrier Reef and devour Australian women.
***
Unpacked at the hotel, I lunge for the local listings. Scores of escort services line the pages. Baffled, I call the front desk.
"Hello, I'm with the firemen contingency. I'm in room 802. While thumbing through your phone book, I noticed numerous escort services."
"Oh, prostitution is legal in Australia, mate."
"Legal," I reply. "No shit, what's the going rate?"
"About $100."
"Australian or American?"
"Australian."
I do the fourth grade math - eighty American dollars.
"What about tips or cab fare?"
"No," he says. "All-inclusive."
"Really? Eighty dollars includes everything? How do they look?"
"What type you prefer?" he says. He recommends a service.
I hang up and think, "Leave it to the Irish. What a country. The consigliere doubles as a pimp, and even gambling is legal - civilization at last." I dial the consigliere's recommendation.
"I'm at the Sheraton. I need two girls."
"Certainly, sir," a professional voice replies. "What type of girls?"
My preference usually runs to women who are cheap, enthusiastic or refuse to testify. But I play the game and respond with the only attractive Australian name I can conjure.
"Send a girl who looks like Elle Macpherson, and send a blonde for contrast."
"No problem - about an hour. Cash or credit?"
"Credit? You take credit cards? Can I use American Express?"
"Certainly, sir."
What a f******g country. I'm getting laid and getting frequent-flyer miles. Australia and I will blend like lox and bagels. Within the hour, the girls arrive.
The first one's six feet tall, and, astonishingly enough, an Elle Macpherson doppelganger. The blonde sports short, spiked hair and a tongue stud. She's wearing f**k-me pumps and a Mackintosh. She sheds the raincoat to reveal sheer black lingerie that clings to her amazing body like skin to a grape.
From the bed behind me comes an enthusiastic "I'm definitely in on this."
I turn with a suave smile that says, "Leave it to me, kid."
In reality, I'm as surprised as he is. The blonde's not classically beautiful, like Elle, but she's a charming whore and a credit to her occupation. Although I miss the smeared lipstick - always a nice touch.
"You take Elle. I'll take the screwball. Then we'll switch."
The blonde says, "Come ‘ere, mate. You sound like a gangster."
"That's me, honey. I'm a gangster."
I've got iced champagne, a bottle of scotch and, of course, cold beer. I build the girls highballs and ask if they mind if I smoke a joint. They both join in. I ask the blonde if she's interested in something stronger.
I whip out an eight ball, and reach for my Seconals. She's in for the whole shebang.
Lest you think I waste drugs on hookers, get it out of your head. If it costs $80 an hour, I don't want the clock ticking. Once the Seconals and scotch kick in, they won't be able to walk, forget leave. They'll want more coke. As usual, my scheme's successful.
When I screw, I hold nothing back. I'm a howler. When I come, many women have put hands over my mouth and then go into convulsive laughter. Hundreds of women have yelled, "Quiet, please quiet; someone's going to think I'm killing you."
To make the howling more alarming, I follow my orgasms with uproarious loud laughter. When I laugh hard, I can't catch my breath. The resulting gasps sounds like a wounded hyena. Women, professionals and civilians alike, find it disquieting, yet gratifying.
The predictable outcome occurs, and Grace laughs hysterically. She sticks a pillow in my mouth. A loud, urgent knock interrupts us.
"Oh shit - the cops. Hide the drugs."
But then I remember prostitution's legal.
The knock's more urgent. I wrap a towel around me and crack the door.
"Is everything all right in here? I'm a firefighter in the room next door, and I thought I heard someone having a heart attack. I know CPR."
My hyena laugh kicks in. I bend over and hold my stomach. I can't catch my breath. I regain my composure and push open the door.
"No. No heart attack yet - check back in an hour."
He sees the naked knockouts. Wide-eyed, he asks,
"Are they prostitutes?"
"No, Australian girl scouts. I bought 200 boxes of Thin Mints."
Author's note: The above is my farewell column. I want to thank the unflinching Alligator staff for supporting the First Amendment. Thanks for printing an old drunk's ramblings. I'll never forget my four years here and my Alligator experience especially. I encourage any journalism student truly serious about writing to become involved with this fine publication. The invaluable experience honed with deadlines, and the realization that 35,000 people might read your drivel, can only make you a better writer. I will be doing my last comedy show free tomorrow night at Mother's. Come by. I'll thank you personally for teaching an old mutt more than a few new tricks. I'd love to buy you a squirt.
