I Put My Hoowili In Her Hoonani
I don’t mean to denigrate anybody’s culture. I really don’t. I’m just saying — the Hawaiian language, with its reliance on a sparse few consonants and the whole caboodle of nouns, well, c’mon. I have the brain of a 12-year-old boy (in a jar under my desk).
I’m just saying, it’s like the Hawaiians are out there laughing at us. I hear Hawaiian music, my first thought is, “Gosh, that’s really beautiful.” My second thought is, “I think they’re singing about vaginas.”
I’m also not saying that I’m drunk.
I’m also not saying that I’m *not* drunk.
I’m somewhere in-between. Some muddled meridian.
Drank a horse-kick of a Mai Tai tonight at the Beach House, then chased it with some crazy caipirinha concoction that demanded I molest a golfball-sized hunk of honeycomb in order to flavor the drink. Of course, when I did this, it made the drink taste like — what? Like medicine, I guess. Ricola cough drops. Not entirely pleasant.
I mean, fuck it, I drank it. I drank the ass right out of it!
Anyway. Where was I?
Ah. Yes. Poipu.
I think our housekeeping lady took a big ol’ Poipu in our suite’s toilet. We went to the beach for a little while (we are so not beach people), but then I had to run back here for a minute to grab something. Keys, switchblade, condoms, vibrating Fist of Adonis — I forget what it was. But when I get back here, the door’s open, and an older Asian lady is in here cleaning.
So, I waltz in — not a good sign, because when I say, “I forgot something,” she should in theory make sure that I’m the dude staying here as opposed to, say, the dude trying to steal from the dude who is staying here. But fine, she’s oblivious to my entry and just waves at me.
Thing is, a suite currently being cleaned should smell like — I dunno. Cleaning products? General cleanliness? Instead, it reeked of a tremendous bowel movement. I mean, we’re talking like, “I ate a coconut filled with rancid custard only moments before I consumed a sweater made of donkey meat that has been liberally seasoned with curry.” This isn’t just a bowel movement. These are *bowel problems* we’re talking about. Like, were I a caring sort, I would’ve told this housekeeping lady, “Seriously, ma’am, find a poop doctor. He’s going to want to see what’s going on down there. And maybe study it to determine extraterrestrial origin.”
And here I am wondering, what’s the protocol in a situation like this? On the one hand, okay. Hey, here’s a bathroom. And I know you, as housekeeping lady, are not a cyborg and must from time to time take out the biological trash. It’s just — do you have to do it in my room while I’m not there? It feels somehow invasive. Like, should I complain? And how does one parse that complaint, phrasing it for the front desk? “Yes, earlier today our housekeeper hosed down our hotel room with a big ol’ double deuce and now it smells like the sewer underneath a slaughterhouse.”
To be clear, when we finally returned to the room, it smelled fresh and clean.
Yesterday we saw gardens. Guided tour, and I don’t really like people, and they kept getting in the way of my photography. Which is rude of me, not of them, but hey, fuck it, nobody said I’m not a solipsistic sumbitch.
In the gardens, though, our guide did pluck a “Chinese Grapefruit” (I think it was just a pomelo?) from a tree and cut us all slices. Sweet Sid and Marty Krofft that was a fantastic fruit. I don’t know what it is, but the fruit here in Hawaii is somehow a billionty times better than the fruit anywhere else on this little blue green marble.
Except, of course, the longan. Avoid the longan. It’s like a hard-shelled goat testicle. Tastes like if you soaked a grape in Sea Breeze. Not the alcoholic drink, but rather, the lady’s astringent. A very angry, complicated fruit. No. Brr. Guh.
I ate fried rice and Chinese sausage for breakfast yesterday. Today? Today. Yeah. It was awesome.
I long to eat a loco moco.
And soon, malasadas.
Going to a luau on Friday. Figured, hell with it. Let us embrace the kitschporn of Old Hawaii. And all their ancient songs of papaya vaginas.