But after a few Non-Gay Cocktails the place does pick up a bit and you start to get hit on by a French Man who doesn’t speak a lick of English! C’est parfait! You quickly figure out that the Non-Gay Gay Bar’s Female Bartender speaks a little Italian, so you end up enlisting her as your translator and between your merde-y French and your BFF’s Italian, you wind up being able to cobble together enough information about him. The bar is a tiny dirty little underground hole in the wall with Two Bartenders and absolutely no boys. And you hate that.Īt midnight you and your BFF saunter over for your Non-Gay Cocktail and luckily the door has magically been unlocked. But you wind up killing the half hour in some straight bar where everybody is drunker than you. Midnight? Are you on the Champs d’ Elysee waiting to get into Le Queen? Unfortunately, when you look around the itty-bitty little ski town you confirm that you are actually standing outside of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. When you finally locate Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, you are very confused because it’s 11:30pm on a Saturday night and the damn door is locked? You ring the bell and an angry French woman (je ne comprends pas?) comes up the stairs and yells through the glass, en français, and you think she tells you to come back at midnight. But what the Italian Rapist doesn't know is that your liver is like a homing pigeon when it comes to Gay Cocktails! Le Italian Cabbie Rapist also neglects to drop you in front of the bar, instead choosing to let the two lost American Fags wander aimlessly through Chamonix in search of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. After a ten minute ride, Le Italian Cabbie proceeds to rape your drunk ass with a 35 euro fare ($51). Your BFF starts yapping with Le Italian Cabbie in his native tongue as your drunk ass is whisked to Chamonix. Your unbearable Jet Lag is quickly trumped by your collective need for more Gay Cocktails, coupled with le hope et le possibilitie of actual French French Kisses, en France. However, when le taxi arrives, the other Ski Fags quickly bail so you and your BFF are the only two die hards left. Et voila! Le petite mountain town has its first impromptu gay bar! The red wine flows through your veins in direct proportion with the Euros flowing out of your wallet, and after you are sufficiently liquored up, a bunch of the Ski Fags talk about heading to Chamonix to check out Le Non-Gay Gay Bar that the bartender turns you onto. This poor little mountain town has never seen such a parade of designer jean fabulousness as you all prance your Jet Lagged asses to Le Rusticana. Anyway.Īfter getting into an argument with the Merci Beau cunt at the front desk about the impossibility of moving to another room with an actual shower head, you, your BFF, and your all the Ski Fags in your gay ski group head into town for Gay Cocktails. But suddenly it becomes crystal clear why the French get a bad rap for not bathing.
So you kind of have to get down on your knees (a position not all that unfamiliar to you) and kind of carefully move the hand wand around your freezing body as if you're bathing in a bidet.
There is no shower curtain of any kind, so if you stand up in the bower you will inevitably flood the entire hotel. It's a bathtub with a hand shower that does not attach to the wall.
The shower situation in l'hotel est très ridiculous! Mais oui! In that same way that " brunch" is a combination of breakfast and l unch, you, my gay friend, have discovered yourself an authentic French bower.
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