I had the pleasure of attending a small apartment soiree this weekend. It was just a casual evening, themed “watching a movie at my co-worker’s place after work.” In my immediate proximity for the last forty-five minutes of this gathering was a young man erupting with the most asinine and ill-informed diarrhea of non-facts I’ve laid ears on in ages. We’ll call him Dick.
“In Portugal, you’re not a man if you haven’t f***ed a donkey.”
Yes, that’s right. He had “watched a documentary” (but couldn’t recall its title) that informed him of this rite of passage. In this film he’d learned that “any man who gets married there has had sex with a donkey.” I posited that perhaps it was not so much a scientific type of documentary he was watching, but in fact a film of a more pornographic variety. Iberian Ass-Bangers, or something like that.
Dick then proceeded to outline the obvious disadvantages of such bestiality. He would never get freaky with a donkey because “they’d kick you, man!” –essentially pointing out the blatant gap in logic that allowed him to believe whatever the hell he was claiming in the first place.
Super bonus round: This kid had brought with him to our mutual friend’s house a young man he’d met outside a bar that night. This was a fellow originally from Turkey. His name was Hasam. As the evening drew to a close and I was leaving, the aforementioned scholar was requesting Hasam’s contact information. Dick held his cellphone, asking, “How do you spell ‘Hasam’”. Hasam began, “H-A” and was quickly interrupted by Dick.
“No, in Turkish.”
“But how do you spell it in Turkish?”
I don’t know if Dick was under the impression that “Hasam” was not Hasam’s real name, or what the hell was going on in his mind. If he was asking Hasam to say the names of the letters as they’re pronounced in Turkish or Kurdish, how would he know then what Hasam said? Was he imagining an Arabic script rather than the Latin alphabet? How was he going to put that in his cell phone?
I sprinted out the door.