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So he-ere we are.

It's been weeks, way too many weeks. I love writing, but I love drinking too, and though these two aren't mutually exclusive I tend to let the latter somewhat impede the first.

So here we are.

4 fucking months later I finally got a taste of Europe again. After a week of indecent lunacy in Mormonland (better known as Utah) I continue my tour of disaster in my favorite laidback medieval skiing paradise of Ramsau am Dachstein. It thawed, it rained, it snowed... And it already stinks of a squad of gelled up, silvery glitter-shoewearing, bi-curious, mentally challenged and extremely untactful locals terrorizing the main 'club' in town.

I've been cruising through this winter wonderland for a steady 8 years now. Every Christmas, every New-Years Eve in the past decade has been coated in expensive champagne (courtesy of our awesome neighbours from The Hague who happen to own a little house here, booya!), stuffed chicken, a lot of snow, quality beer, refreshing sauna's and a glimpse of one or two local hotties.

Not yesterday. Indeed, I'm still recovering - from the hangover and the trauma.

The Tenne. Christmas Evening. Christ would turn in his metaphorical grave if he had witnessed the party hosted in his name on this sad, sad evening. The practice of 'manning the fuck up' does not apply to the horrors we have witnessed. Then again, it came nowhere close to the Dirty Dancing competition I happened to be audience to in Utah (of all fucking places), but at least those people were having a good time.

Okay - for the sake of proper description, understatement and coming to my point: let us compare. Yesterday night was like a failed party in the Odeklonje, but with the crowd of 't Hof van Holland. It was like the Hooizolder in rural Zeeland, minus the awesomeness. It was like 'Het Foute Feest', but with a DJ that actually ate shit instead of pretending to. It was a massive congregation of local dipshits macking on 5 euro cougars and grabbing ass in the toilets.

Still, we had to go. We had to witness 'how they do it up in here'. The quality cheep bear kind of helped to mitigate the horror induced by the DJ singing every song a few seconds before fading- sorry, hard-cutting- sorry, slamming it in, including Sexy Bitch. Kind of.

I wish we had taken pictures, but it would not have done justice to the epic skankiness of Schladming Friday Nights. So what does the title of this post have to do with our nightly Austrian excursion? Well... After reluctantly scraping off the beer-goggles, I managed to claw open my laptop and let Toots and the Maytals soothe my pains, while Sexy Bitch still wreaked havoc in the back of my head.

Time to hit the fresh pow.