Holiday in Cambodia?

Frosty's Mug

Who wants to hear a story?

Howdy folks! I’m Frosty Mugg, and I’m NOT an alcoholic! For you see, someone once told me that alcoholics go to meetings. Ol’ Frosty prefers going to bars. I do have a drinking problem though, and that problem is that my drink is empty. Let me go refill it.

Okay I’m back.

I’m a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures. One of those pleasures is alcohol. Actually, many of those pleasures are alcohol. As Homer Simpson famously said, “Here’s to alcohol, the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems!”

Another one of those pleasures is Captain and Dr. Pepper. I call it a “Surgeon General”.

Wait, no, that’s still alcohol. And it has nothing to do with this story. I’m sorry.

The pleasure related to this story is music. Get a few rounds in me and I can listen to anything, from ACDC to Billy Joel to Carrie Underwood to Dr. Dre. At house parties, I’m that guy everyone knows who won’t get away from YouTube, “Oh-shit-I-want-to-listen-to”-ing my way from one song to the next. At the bar I’ve spent enough money on the jukebox to put the owner’s kids through college.

Goddamnit, that still has nothing to do with this story. But you know what? I’m not sorry this time!

You know who’s good to listen to while you’re drinking? Toby Keith.

Shit, I did it again. I swear I’ll get it right this time.

Okay, so this one time at my usual watering hole, I’m sitting there listening to my usual Billy Joel and drinking my usual brew, when this gorgeous Asian dame walks in. Holy-shit-this-broad-is-stacked. I don’t know her actual BWH, but the song “Brick House” comes to mind here. My jaw hits the floor, and I almost break my neck watching her strut to her seat at the counter.

My buddy Slim immediately started with the obligatory “Me so horny me love you long time” jokes, to which she responded with an uncomfortable laugh, because Slim’s nickname is contradictory to his fat, grotesque appearance. How fat and grotesque is Slim, you ask? Let me put it to you this way. Slim did a stint in Washington DC’s JobCorp location for a couple of years. Remember that one time in 2011 when there was that quake in DC? That was when he slipped and busted his ass. Yes, this man single-handedly caused an earthquake.

I’m doing it again.

So the Asian dame is sitting about three stools away. The sound of men rustling for their cash fills the bar as everyone and their mother-  er, father- attempts to be the first to buy the Great Rack of China a drink. Luckily I had my cash already out, and hollered at the bartender to give her the first one on me. The first one of what? I had no goddamned idea, but I was more than willing to chance it.

Thankfully she wasn’t looking for anything too crazy, just a Heineken. Hot damn, this delicious little fortune cookie had class!

My beautiful geisha gal moved down, taking a seat next to yours truly. She thanked me for the drink and introduced herself as Chantou. Attempting to be suave, Slim said “Knee-how”, which my Chinese friend Peter tells me is the misspelled way of saying “Hello!” in Mandarin Chinese. Apparently Chantou knew what Peter knew, because she proceeded to explain that she wasn’t Chinese, but Cambodian. Slim made some stupid joke, to which I responded with a rather clever quip about his mother being the legendary Sasquatch. Chantou found this funny. For the next couple of hours, I continued with my flirty banter and hilarious quips at the expense of Slim and his mother.

Finally, it came: Last call.

“Wow, it’s getting late,” said Chantou. “I’m going to head home now. See you later!”

And just like that, she was gone. My Cambodian goddess, the Pol to my Pot, had left me. I felt broken, lost, incomplete. Chantou had made me feel whole, and now I was without her. Slim made yet another one of his patented stupid jokes. I wasn’t in the mood for it this time. I backhanded him with a beer bottle. My night couldn’t possibly get any worse, right? WRONG. The beer bottle was still full. Not only had I just lost the love of my life and hospitalized one of my best friends, but I had wasted beer. I wasted beer! I fell to my knees and began to weep uncontrollably. The bartender put his hand on my shoulder.

“Alright you lowlife, it’s closing time. Beat it!”

I was tossed out onto the cold dark curb with the rest of the trash. Actually, I’m pretty sure I tripped and fell while walking out the door. Although the bartender was standing right behind me as I left, so he might have given me a shove or something. I don’t really remember, I was pretty drunk and distraught.

Regardless of how I ended up on that curb, Chantou had left me a broken man. I felt as shattered as the bottle that I hit Slim with. My heart was in critical condition. As I staggered to my house, I was almost hit by a passing truck. Not that I would have cared.

I fell inside, hitting the cold wooden floor of my living room. I laid there for what seemed like hours, reflecting on my time with Chantou. How we had laughed merrily together! How we had shared many a drink together! I recalled her beauty and elegance. Her small, sleek fingers grasping the neck of her Heineken as she raised it to her dark red lips, those hazel eyes full of longing. She had given my life meaning, hope for a better tomorrow. And now, she had gone “home”. Where was home for Chantou? A condo in Center City? Some cramped little dump in the middle of Chinatown? Or had she actually returned home in the most literal sense, back to her native country of Cambodia?

As a laid there hopeless and lost on the floor, a melodic voice beckoned to me.

“It’s a holiday in Cambodia. It’s tough kid but it’s life. It’s a holiday in Cambodia. Don’t forget to pack a wife!”

Was it an angel? No. In a haste to get to the bar that night, I had left my stereo on. Now in a twist of humorous fate it was playing “Holiday in Cambodia” by the Dead Kennedys. I don’t believe in coincidence. This was an omen from God himself, dictating my next course of action. Much like the person in the song, I too must take a holiday in Cambodia. I must travel to Cambodia on a spiritual journey, which would culminate with me finding Chantou, and maybe even myself.

I rushed to my computer and searched for the next flight to Cambodia.

And then I saw the prices. Anywhere between $1,788 to $2,026 for a round-trip flight to Cambodia? Fuck that!

So I did the next-best thing, and grabbed a six-pack from the corner store to drown my sorrows. Beer, nature’s own therapist. But something still didn’t seem right. Then I remembered. Slim was laying in a hospital bed somewhere, his head busted open because of my emotional pain. Slim ol’ buddy ol’ pal, I haven’t forgotten about you! I made a couple of calls and found what hospital Slim was at. Frosty’s coming, Slim. Frosty’s coming to make things right.

After finishing the six-pack, I grabbed another six-pack from the store and headed to the hospital. Upon my arrival, I was informed by the security guard that I wasn’t allowed to bring alcohol inside the building. I’ve seen many movies about smuggling, I know how to handle this. Pulling a $20 from my wallet, I slyly replied “Maybe my good friend Andrew Jackson can change your mind sir?” It worked, and the guard let me through. I was led to Slim’s room. He greeted me surprisingly warmly considering how I was the reason he was there in the first place. I handed him a beer, and we talked about the night’s events.

As it turned out, Slim had succeeded in getting Chantou’s number, and in typical Slim fashion had succeeded in annoying her less than an hour later. Her last correspondence with Slim read “Fuck you and fuck your drunk dumb ass friend. I was just using him for free drinks anyway.” So the entire night had been utterly pointless. I racked up a bar tab close to $100, hospitalized my best friend, and nearly traveled to another country, all for a lie. The hilarity of the situation was too much for me. I laughed like a lunatic, until the nurse came in and realized I had managed to get alcohol into the hospital. I was then thrown out by the very same security guard who I had bribed earlier, and forever banned from the hospital.

The moral of this story? Mugs before jugs!

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Frosty Mugg

Frosty is a reckless idiot, a dirty lech, and a drunk bastard. When he’s not sitting on a bar stool pounding down one beer after another, he’s usually making poor decisions during moments of drunken impulsiveness. Due to an incident involving a college girl, Buddhist monks, and a trip across Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and Asia, Frosty is legally required to be intoxicated at all times. He resides in the city of Philadelphia, and is very much single, ladies.