Bing Fraser's Blog

Choosing accommodation while travelling is a lot like picking a vehicle in Mario Kart. Unless you have the game’s cheat codes (Daddy’s money), you have to be willing to make a few concessions in your attempts to maximise performance. Except, instead of the metrics of ‘Acceleration,’ ‘Top Speed,’ ‘Weight,’ ‘Handling’ and ‘Traction,’ you have the hostel’s ‘Cost,’ ‘Location,’ ‘Accommodation Type,’ ‘Breakfast’ and ‘Atmosphere.’

Cost is where I usually go wrong. I’m a sucker for a cheap hostel, as the $2.50 saved opens up a world of potential at the bar. I remember one time when it was my turn to pick our accommodation in the South of Mexico, where I found a place for $5AUD! The only issue was it had a rating on HostelWorld of 4.1/10, which swayed Dillon away from allowing me to book it. I’m pretty sure you have to murder a few customers to get a rating that low. Dillon almost got raped in Panama, and we still gave the hostel a healthy rating of 6.5/10. Sure, the chef tried to violate him, but the ocean views were magnificent.

The Location of a hostel is critical. If you’re going to save $5 by staying somewhere between the sticks and the boondocks, then you’re going to lose that money on travel expenses anyway. I’m always under the impression that if it’s not convenient to get back to at 3:00 am after a bottle of vodka; then it’s not worth the price of admission. With that being said, drop me anywhere in the world at 3:00 am after a bottle of vodka, and I’ll be able to make it back to my hostel. Hell, I’ll even run.

Next, you have the Accommodation Type. Do you want to be crammed into a 14-bed dorm, splash the cash for a private room, or sell your self-respect and camp? A mixed-dorm is generally the way to go as they are cost-efficient, a good way to meet people, and are decent for travelling groups. But they do have their shortcomings, as they smell of feet, sound of foghorns, and are often occupied by French people.

Breakfast is key when it comes to choosing the right hostel. You must look not only into how good the breakfast is, but how late they serve it. It’s all well and good to be serving a continental breakfast with a blowjob as a side, but if I’m getting in at 6:00 am, I may not be up for your 8:00 am cut-off... unless you start serving breakfast at 6:00 am. Then, take my money, baby!

The Atmosphere of a hostel is where research is vital… I imagine. The utility of the common area could make or break your trip, given the necessity of finding a place where it’s easy to meet people. This is not to be confused with a bar. Bars in a hostel are terribly overrated as you have to buy their beer, which is far more expensive than drinking store-bought alcohol. Remember: when you’re on the road, anyone worth hanging out with doesn’t have money for full-priced beer.

Also, be careful with party hostels. Don’t get me wrong; if you find one with nothing but positive reviews, they can often be the best time you will have abroad. But any joe-blow establishment can call themselves a "party hostel" when they’re usually as much fun as chlamydia. They’re often full of try-hard workers, with a customer base predominantly made up of Australians. And we suck.

If you’re still undecided after weighing up all these options, you can look into the finer print, such as late check-out, quality of staff, or how hot the girls are on their website.

Unprotected Treks: Available now, baby!!

San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. November 2017

There are many lessons to be learned from a life lived as poorly as mine: white sheets are overrated; a barrel-bolt-locked door can be easily penetrated; handcuffs aren’t as romantic as Hollywood would have you believe, etc. etc. But from all of the knowledge spouted through my stories, I ask that if you’re to take only one thing away, let it be this:

Don’t cut costs when choosing travel insurance.

Travel insurance is the abortion of the travelling world: it’s inconvenient, it’s expensive, and it’s spitting in the face of God’s divine plan for us. But much like the headache aforementioned, travel insurance is a necessary evil and one you’ll be glad you took when you hit the speed bumps of the road.

Travel insurance is the sole reason I have any teeth left whatsoever and a functioning brain. I might be getting ahead of myself—travel insurance is the sole reason I have a brain. Not to mention the peace of mind it’s given me during my numerous robberies, countless close calls, and the inevitable shipping of my corpse back home. And at the end of the day, how can you put a price on peace of mind?

Cut measures where you can, but never on travel insurance.

***

Located in San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua, ‘Sunday Funday’ is the flag-bearer for debauchery in Central America. A drunken “pool-crawl” attracting hundreds of like-minded degenerates every week, its infamous allure proved too strong for Dillon and myself to resist. On the advice of three drunks at a Costa Rican hostel, we immediately changed our travel plans and made a beeline for the small Nicaraguan town to see if it could indeed, live up to the hype. Unfortunately, my brain was still on wobbly legs from the schizophrenic fit of two weeks earlier, so I wasn’t exactly ready for the biggest party of a region renowned for its depravity.

But I’m also not scared of fun.

Faced with this dilemma, we loaded up on rum and rocked up to the world-famous Naked Tiger Hostel on the Saturday, so that we could get our stretches in before Sunday’s gameday. But the news out of camp was that our ‘Sunday Funday’ had been pushed back a day because apparently Nicaragua has a government, which had decided to hold a vote on the day of our pub crawl. When will we finally accept that democracy just doesn’t work?

We polished off most of the rum, went to bed, and spent the next day at the beach, before settling in back at the hostel for the night.

Dillon “I’m going to call it, mate. Big one tomorrow!” Bing “My balls, Dillon. You’re breaking them.” Dillon “Says the man who’s had two drinks in the last two weeks.” Bing “When YOU get schizophrenia, then YOU can choose the days you want to drink.” Dillon “Catchya in the morning.” Bing “Yeah, I’ll be up once I finish this,” I said optimistically, brandishing the bottle in my hand.

I made my way to the bar—occupied by the few guys and girls left with a bit of ticker—and buried my head in the remnants of my rum. This was quickly followed with well-wishes to everyone for a safe and merry trip back to their loved ones.

Brock “Hey! You’re not allowed to go to bed without finishing your drink.” Bing “F**k off. Esta terminado, motherf**ker.” (“Go away. It’s finished, you sleep with your mother.”)

My statement fell on deaf ears as two more glasses of vodka were filled.

Brock was this big Aussie lad working the bar at the Naked Tiger Hostel. Painted head to toe in tattoos—with a ginger buzz cut and beard to match—he looked like Ronald McDonald with a criminal record. I had first met him in Bocas Del Toro on the night of Dillon’s “near miss,” so we hadn’t had the chance to properly acquaint. He had since found a job working the bar at the Naked Tiger, where he remained adequately hydrated around the clock. The guy didn’t sleep! He was currently into the second day of a bender that showed no signs of slowing down.

Anyways, he was an a**hole back in Bocas, and he was an a**hole now. I really did like the guy.

Brock “I beat you to the bottom, you buy me a drink.” Bing “You beat me to the bottom, I’ll buy you two!”

He beat me to the bottom.

The next hour was just a compilation of failed exit strategies, as I attempted to drink a bottomless glass of vodka being repeatedly filled by Brock. He eventually bought shots for the bar, which led to another round of shots, which led to another round of shots, which led Megs—the hostel’s owner—to pull out a hose and start dousing the bar floor’s tiles. I was just as confused as you are.

Megs runs the Naked Tiger hostel and is probably the nicest human being to walk the Earth since Jesus. Why a 30-something-year-old, good looking American girl was managing a bar filled with 20-year-old degenerates in Nicaragua is beyond me, but I’m not one to question someone’s appetite for a good time.

I digress; Megs flipped the hose from the tiles to the crowd, turning the place into an MTV wet t-shirt contest, as Brock threw Nicaragua’s finest liquid soap into the mix.

Megs “Slip ‘n’ slide, baby!! Woo!!”

The atmosphere in the room was oddly optimistic for something only ever ending one way.

The tiled floor which surrounded the bar was now a glorified Nicaraguan Water Park. I stripped down to my tighty-whiteys and thought we best get this show on the road. Within minutes, all hell had broken loose: girls were down to their bottoms, guys were down to their jocks, and the tiles were turned into a game of human air hockey. While this was going on, Brock had other ideas. From behind the bar, lathered up in oil, he came running out in his Adam and Eves, swinging meat.

Brock “Out of my way, you f**king pussies!” he yelled, as he gracefully launched himself across the tiles, cock first. He soared like an Eagle, blinding onlookers with his pale a**, posing what I could only interpret as a challenge.

Do I look like I’m scared of fun?

I disrobed, made my way outside, and marked my run-up from the furthest point in the yard. The longer the run-up, the faster the delivery.

“Get your white a** off my floor, puta madre!” (“motherf**ker”) I called out to the naked man, now doing what I can only describe as soap angels on the tiles. They’re like snow angels, but drunker.

I’ve only ever been in slow motion twice in my life. Once during a cataclysmic hangover eating KFC in Queensland, and now.

I pushed off from the pillar holding up my beautiful buttocks and leapt into stride like a gazelle in the wind. My chest was out, my hair was blowing, and all two inches of little Bing were gloriously slapping back and forth. I could already envision my voluptuous, naked body sliding majestically across the tiles; body glittering, women dripping, and men thinking, “Hey, I want to be that guy!”

As this splendid image played out in my mind, I failed to realise the leak that had escaped the confines of the hostel bar, and made its way outside, soaking the launch pad. As I planted my foot for take-off, it didn’t appreciate the detergent-filled/water combo it found itself on and slipped… in a bad way.

My feet launched backwards into the air, causing my head—already committed full-tilt towards the ground—to over-rotate and crash into the tiles. The pace at which I hit the pad and the momentum I had already thrown into the slide, resulted in the impact of the fall multiplying exponentially.

Thankfully, my salacious body came away unscathed, as I had completely broken the fall with my skull. In the same vein as my talent for breakdancing, it was about the moment when my head bounced off the tiles that I came to realise; I don’t know how to slip ‘n’ slide.

My body went into shock immediately, and my mind was cast back to the only other time my body had dealt with the condition—when I lost my teeth at Mardi Gras. I was sure I had knocked the bastards out again!

I picked my bodacious body up off the floor, grasping at my teeth… which were all still there! My fake, miscoloured ivories were still intact, in all their glory! I looked up with an air of relief, to a sea of shocked onlookers, looking at me like I’d just thumbed the hostel’s cat.

What? I know it’s small guys, but still, eyes up here.

Brock “You alright, mate?” Bing “Yeah, just need to realign the ego.” Brock “The ego’s the least of your problems, mate. Someone get me the First Aid Kit!” Bing “We all good, brother?”Brock “Yeah, just that the skull’s meant to be on the inside of your head.” He laughed as I suddenly noticed the river of blood that was streaming over my right eye. I looked down at my chest, which was already doused in blood, and my body suddenly kicked into gear:

This isn’t good.

The alcohol infesting my brain made way for an unsteady light-headedness, bringing with it a sudden wave of sobriety. Dropping a knee to the floor, I could do nothing but watch helplessly as blood gushed from my skull to decorate the tiles beneath me. Between the blood, the alcohol, and the colossal gash scarring my forehead, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, I should’ve gone to bed when Dillon did.

Megs “Bing, can I have a look?”

I looked up to her on bended knee, where she immediately took a step back with a gasp. All good signs so far!

Megs “It isn’t that bad.” Bing “I never asked if it was, thanks, Megs!”

Brock was handed the First Aid Kit and told me to stand up. Knowing that he hadn’t slept since my arrival the day before, he wouldn’t have been my first choice to administer First Aid. But as is so often the case, I was proved to be wrong once again, as he had my head wrapped up like Japanese origami in seconds.

Bing “Megs, nearest hospital, please.” I reached for my clothes. Megs “It’s one a.m. in Nicaragua, honey. There aren’t any hospitals.” Bing “Doctors?” Megs “Don’t worry! I know someone who does great stitches!” Bing “Are they a Doctor?” Megs “No, but he is the best!” Bing “Nurse?” Megs “No, but the good news is, it won’t cost you a penny!”

Won’t cost me a penny? What’s the point of even having travel insurance if you can’t use it on a brain injury? Although, this one might be a little bit harder to explain to the insurance company than my teeth, “Yeah, I was just walking on some tiles in Nicaragua—sober, of course—when I slipped on some soap… No, definitely not drinking. You’d be surprised as to how many people do ‘Sunday Funday’ sober!” (We’d share a friendly laugh over the phone, before recomposing ourselves.) “Na, the clothes came off during the fall.”

Bing “There’s not a single part of that sentence which is good news, Megs. I don’t want my head getting hacked together for free, in the middle of the night, in Nicaragua!” Megs “Just get in the car.” Bing “Yes, ma’am.”

We jumped in the back of the Naked Tiger shuttle-bus (which was just a ute with some makeshift benches and a canopy in the tray) and sat idly waiting for take-off. Megs was in the driver’s seat, which we could talk to through the non-existent rear windshield, and Brock had positioned himself on the bench across from me in the tray. There was no reason for him to be there, besides his own fear of missing out on something interesting.

Bing “What’s the holdup, Megs? Some of us are losing blood at a faster rate than others.” Megs “Oh, quiet you.” Bing “Seriously, are we going anytime soon?” Megs “We’re just waiting on Mike.” Bing “Who’s Mike?”

No sooner had these words left my mouth, than some other bloke had emerged from the hostel, running towards the car with a towel held up to his chin. I wasn’t the only casualty of the night.

Bing “You’ve got to have a serious rethink about your slip ‘n’ slide policy, Megs.”

Mike introduced himself as Megs reversed down the driveway, on the way to… I still didn’t have a f**king clue where we were going!

Bing “Megs, where are you taking us?” Megs “I already told you. I know this place that does really good stitches.” Bing “So, like, a pharmacy?” Megs “Not exactly.” Bing “… A friend?” Megs “You could say that. They’ve done stitches for a few people at the Naked Tiger!” Bing “Not a single thing you’ve said to me tonight has been reassuring.”

After thirty minutes, we were in the middle of Buttf**k Nowhere and parked outside what looked, to the untrained eye, to be a set of abandoned buildings. Do you know how abandoned a set of buildings have to be to look abandoned in Nicaragua? If you could bottle up the look on Mike’s face, it would outsell the Conjuring franchise.

Megs “Here we are!” Bing “Megs, take me to a vet. F**k, take me to that 24/7 shop. I’ll buy a needle and stitch it together myself. Just anywhere but here.” Megs “Can you stop being a little b**ch?” Bing “Yes, ma’am.”

We walked up to the door—which must have been there since the Spanish conquest—where Megs asked us to stand back so that she could “smooth things out.” Another reassuring statement from Mother Megs. After knocking on the door for several minutes, a long silence was broken by a voice yelling from behind the door. We were off to a good start!

Megs politely responded before the door was hurled open by the largest Latino man I had ever seen. Spanish Addams Family was missing Spanish Lurch, and Spanish Lurch was not at all happy about being disturbed in the middle of the night! He began unleashing on Megs.

My limited Spanish didn’t allow me to completely comprender, but I knew he wasn’t asking, “debit or credit?” I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh or cry, but I was sure that my useless grasp of the Spanish language, severe blood loss, and questionable intoxication levels weren’t going to help if I was to try and diffuse the situation. Brock was no longer finding the situation funny and made his way back to the safety of the car, by himself. He clearly hadn’t watched enough horror films. If he were a black man, I’d have feared it was the last time I’d see him.

Once Spanish Lurch had finished with his verbal tirade, the ever-optimistic Megs proclaimed, with a big smile across her face, that we were “good to go in!” With that, I made my way inside, passing Spanish Lurch with the politest “Muchas gracias” ever spoken on the shores of Nicaragua. I was just hoping that he wouldn’t eat me. He sneered at me instead, and ushered me down a dark hallway, leading to a large moulded door at its end. I came to a stop at its step, waiting for further instructions from Spanish Lurch, who just barged past me and threw his shoulder into the door.

… And I thought the place was rundown from the outside! Not a single part of the room would have passed for Kosher! Mould was eating away at every wall, broken mirrors were lining the room, and a century-old blood-stained chair sat in the centre, positioned under a flickering light. I had just walked into a real-life Saw scene.

Spanish Lurch “Sit!”

He pointed towards the blood-stained seat, and I accepted the fact that, at the very least, I was walking away with hepatitis. Megs took a seat next to me, as Spanish Lurch walked towards a table, showcasing tools that looked to have been sat there since the 1800s. He turned back towards me and removed the bandage from my head, causing Megs to grimace.

Bing “Not that bad ay, Megs?” Megs “You will be good as new in ten minutes!” She gave me a forced smile.

Spanish Lurch then emerged with a needle that Megs said was a local anaesthetic. I don’t like needles. I don’t like them at all. Just save us both the time, give me the hepatitis, and I’ll walk out the door now!

I felt him pierce the needle to the top of the wound, which seemed redundant, because of, you know, gravity. The anaesthetic was injected into my head, ran down the wound, and emerged back out of the gash, where it proceeded to ooze down my face. I love Central America. Spanish Lurch wiped my face, and to my surprise, the anaesthetic worked an absolute treat! My head went completely numb!

… For the first two stitches.

The 3rd stitch felt like someone was digging their nails deep into my skull. Then the 4th, 5th and 6th felt like a 6”5’ Nicaraguan man was hacking my head together with a rusty needle. If you’ve ever had someone hack your forehead apart with a blunt knife, I’m sure you can relate.

Spanish Lurch slapped a bandage on my head, yelled at me in Spanish, and Megs told me to go and get Mike. Mike had been in the waiting room, which was the equivalent of a boiler room with a chair. I walked up and greeted him with a smile.

Mike “How was it? You’re as pale as a ghost!” Bing “Disneyland in there, brother. Enjoy!”

He stood up, looking as assured as I had in all my previous interactions with Megs that night, and as I saw him disappear into the funhouse, I smiled; for what he was walking into was, objectively, very funny.

He emerged fifteen minutes later, looking like he’d gone the distance with Mike Tyson, before we both hurried out of the place, not allowing Spanish Lurch to change his mind. We ushered ourselves into the back of the ute, still not knowing who or what had just performed surgery on us, and made our way back to the Naked Tiger.

Bing “How many stitches did you get?” Mike “Three.” Bing “P**sy.” Mike “F**k off.” Brock “Please boys, please… you’re both p**sies.”

We arrived back at the Naked Tiger, where I put myself straight to bed. I couldn’t help but feel a little anger as I walked past an unconscious Dillon, who was probably dreaming about a slip ‘n’ slide experience with naked girls and adequate medical facilities. With my head bandaged up, and unnecessarily drunk, I started once again to ponder the possibility that maybe, I should have gone to bed when he did.

Why do I do these things?

It was about an hour later when I got struck with the worst case of nausea I had ever experienced in my life.

The aftermath of Sunday Funday, available now in Unprotected Treks

There’s nothing I hate more in this life than “sentimental” travel tattoos. Whether it’s an inaccurate compass “pointing towards home,” a world map to show everyone you were never able to grasp third-grade geography, or a quote in a foreign language, that for all you know says, “My Mother Never Loved Me,” you must know that when you plastered one of these atrocities onto your body, you permanently labelled yourself; a fucking loser.

There is a belief that infests some people’s minds on the road that they must ink themselves to set their own insignificant experiences apart from the rest, when the reality is that they have done nothing exceptional or mildly original. If this is you, please know that doodling on yourself “coordinates” of that place you visited for a few weeks where you “found yourself”; a quote that could be obtained off a simple Google search; or any quote that includes the words “Discover,” “Journey,” “Explore,” “Dream,” “Adventure,” or “Escape,” in a non-ironic way, means you gave up all intentions of obtaining an actual personality during your ventures abroad.

And don’t get me started on a “wave,” “seashell,” or “palm tree”—you’re not the only person in the world to have ever visited a beach. And a tattoo of an “aeroplane” or a “bird” doesn’t make you unique; it makes you a punchline. If you just have “Wanderlust” tattooed on your body, there are no words to describe you. But I will try:

You are scum, you have no dignity, and you should be euthanised.

So, before you decide on getting that “meaningful” travel tattoo, please ask yourself: is this really worth my self-respect?

Unprotected Treks! Here! Buy! Now!

Playa Del Carmen, Mexico. January, 2018

Warning: Quite explicit detail of Bing masturbating. Don’t eat and read.

It had just rolled over to 3:00 pm in the Mexican paradise of Playa Del Carmen. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and I was laid out on my hostel bed, convulsing hysterically in a full-body fit.

As a result of the mad-scientist experiment that saw me mix Cancun with a concussion, I was battling my sixth panic attack of the day after a night of “breathing complications,” where my brain switched off completely, and my body shut down its respiratory system altogether. Now, with my breathing throwing itself into a frenzy, I had barricaded myself into my bottom bunk bed with a selection of sheets and towels, shielding the rest of the dorm from witnessing my ongoing battle with death.

… Playa Del Carmen is my favourite city in Mexico! I mean this with sincerity, which is saying something considering I had the three worst days of my life there. But my immediate battle with death aside; its turquoise waters, swathes of white sand, cenotes, historical landmarks, nightlife, and cultural authenticity, certainly make the place an entity worth visiting.

Unfortunately, these portions of paradise weren’t within my immediate reach, as I lay outstretched on my bed in an empty dorm room, spasming frantically. My fingernails were lodged firmly in the coils of the mattress, my breathing was erratic at best, and sweat was gushing from every pore of my strained body. I was hoping that a priest would walk through the door any second now with a Bible and some Holy water. Or just a shotgun.

After a good tussle, I was able to calm my breathing again, and my body began to ease; but the voices that were ringing through my head remained rampant, and the negative emotion that had gripped me for the past 24 hours continued flushing through my body. I needed to feel something positive. Anything. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was the one thing I knew I had to do:

I had to have a wank.

I had no sex drive whatsoever, and the thought of dragging myself out of bed repulsed me, but I felt it was something I needed to do for my own sanity. With the amount of energy I had expelled fighting off death over the past 24 hours, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the bathroom, let alone be able to maintain an erection. But God loves a trier, so on newly-found grounds of optimism, I peeled my corpse off my sweat-doused sheets and made the gruelling hike to the bathroom.

The hostel room was empty, so I was lucky that I didn’t have to feign subtlety in my quest for some alone time. With no phone in my arsenal, I clutched my broken laptop under my arm and made the five-metre trek to the bathroom, located opposite my bed.

The bathroom, to put it nicely, was a disgrace. The sink, located directly opposite the door, was small and had grime growing out of its every crevasse. The toilet, to the left, was in equally good condition, while the shower to my right; well, it was a shower—it was standing and sprayed warm water. What else do you want a shower to do?

With the laptop down on the sink in front of me, I turned around and locked the door, which was just a small barrel bolt (or sliding bolt lock—the one you slide into the catch); but the lock was old, rusted, and barely able to reach the equally-rusted catch on the other side.

Undismayed, I locked the door as best I could, and stripped down to just my socks. Why did I feel the need to get completely naked to touch myself? Because my mother always told me, “If you’re going to do something, you may as well do it right.” On this note, I began searching the internet for the most depraved smut in its library, hoping to bring some stability to the situation. I was battling against the odds to be able to stand upright on the court, let alone shoot a three-pointer, so you can bet that whatever was on that screen wasn’t family-friendly material.

With my laptop viewing setup on the sink, I started pounding my meat like the cheap $2-steak that it is. I was actually hitting a good rhythm! The horse had made a clean jump from the barriers and was settling into stride, albeit in poor track conditions.

My brain had fragmented into that many different personalities, that I had a crowd cheering me on throughout the race, and at the turn for home, we took the lead!

Amid all the excitement, however, I had heard through the bathroom door, a couple of people enter our dorm. There was one male voice and one female voice speaking in Spanish to each other, as they scurried into the room, placed their gear down, and settled into their beds.

It’s fine, I thought. Just a slight bump. On with the job!

With my focus regathered, I set my sights back on the screen and continued with a pace that was outclassing the rest of the field. I must have been five lengths clear at the 400-metre mark as I whipped my horse with every ounce of fibre I had left, willing it down the home stretch. The winning post was in sight!

It was time.

I strayed my attention from my laptop to the toilet and repositioned myself over the bowl. I reached the 300-metre mark, still five lengths clear. The whip was consistent, and we were flying home!

I beat it harder.

And faster.

I could feel it!

It was coming!

I was coming!!

***BANG***

What was that?

Oh no.

No.

No!

Someone was making up ground along the inside rail.

Someone was trying to get into the bathroom!

***BANG***

There was another massive thud. Someone was seriously throwing their shoulder into the door.

The lock! I thought. You better f**king hold. You stupid f**king lock… HOLD!

I pled with the door, as my seed rose from deep within the loins of Bing. The gap was closing—200-metre mark. Three lengths clear.

***BANG***

Hold Dammit! I couldn’t reverse what was happening! It was coming! There was no stopping it! 100-metre mark. One length clear!!

***BANG***

HOLDDDD!!

Horses: neck and neck. It’s a photo finish!!

*******CRASH*******

“AHHHHHHH!!!” Bing “AHHHHHH!!”

There were screams, tears and cum, as I stood there, ejaculating into a toilet bowl in front of two horrified female spectators.

A big, butch Argentinian girl had just put her shoulder through the door (with her girlfriend behind her) to the sight of a man in just his socks, shooting his load into the toilet. They slammed the door shut amid the screams, leaving me standing there—stark naked, cock in hand, with my juices dripping out if its end. I just slumped over, staring at my splooge drooling down the inside of the bowl—it was a pretty accurate representation of my life.

I wasn’t embarrassed. I was just defeated.

Yeah, that seems about right.

The aftermath of 'A Flustering Fap' and my battles with death; all available now, in Unprotected Treks!

Mardi Gras is one of the most underrated days of the calendar year. Not only is it great to see the gay community strike back against the church by hijacking one of their festivals, but Mardi Gras is quite simply for guys, what Halloween is for girls: the ability to dress like a complete slut and be celebrated for it. Except girls are also allowed to get their tits out, which I think is just tops.

It’s a holiday like no other and one worth celebrating right, which is exactly what we had in mind as we drove down to the “Home of Mardi Gras,” New Orleans.

I hadn’t precisely kicked my semester in Mississippi off on the right foot. After missing my connecting flight in LA (which set me back financially), I was wiped out with the worst flu I had ever experienced as my body struggled to acclimatise to the Mississippi Winter. I was then battling the culture shock of seemingly catching a time machine back to the Civil War period, instead of the advertised aircraft for 2016 America: the sausages sold out the front of the Aussie supermarkets were replaced by KKK recruiters (no, seriously), and up until now, I thought nerd was the most disparaging ‘N’ word you could throw someone’s way.

But these were all just friendly reminders as to why God gave us alcohol.

During the semester, I was lucky enough to be rooming with two Aussie girls—Bayley and Ella—who had kindly invited me along to Mardi Gras with them and four of their English mates. The English girls had booked a hotel in the middle of the city and granted me the option of sleeping on the floor if I felt obliged to come along.

Considering I was a loser with no friends, I had no hesitations in jumping on board with the offer, and when I found out Pete—a fellow Aussie, and to date, the closest thing I had to a friend in Mississippi—was going to be joining us, I couldn’t help but get a little excited. This was going to be the turning point for ol’ Bing!

But, as with all good things in my life, something or someone had to come along and ruin it. The English girls felt the day before we left was as good a time as any to let us know that they would prefer it if Pete and I “slept elsewhere” once we arrived in Louisiana. With it being New Orleans the day before Mardi Gras, let’s just say that we were limited with our accommodation options.

But never one to let pieces of s**t get in the way of a good time, I said “f**k it,” and decided to place my faith in the bottle, who would dictate where we would sleep for the next two nights.

We were a couple of hours into our car trip to New Orleans—manned by two of the English girls, Rachel and Sarah—when we started to hit a few snags. Pete and I hardly knew each other, so after two hours of small talk about sport and porn, we found ourselves losing momentum on topics of common ground. I appreciated Rachel and Sarah driving us to Mardi Gras, but telling us we were on the curb the day before we left had shot down any interest I had in getting to know them as people. They were Uber drivers for all I cared. And perhaps most alarming of all, I had just finished my last beer.

With this, I asked the girls to pull over at the next gas station, where we picked up another case of beer and some shot glasses for a game of “Centurion.” For those playing along at home, Centurion is quite simply, 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes, which on face value is an extremely Beta game. But it’s not the volume of beer, rather the doses of 44 ml in which you inject it that ensures you get your money’s worth. There is something about drip-feeding yourself gas every 60 seconds that your stomach seems to take offence to.

As with most nights of heavy drinking, there was an exact moment in time where I could pinpoint things beginning to go downhill. This moment was at shot number one. The second it slid down my throat and sunk to the foot of my stomach, I thought, this isn’t going to end well. I think Pete knew it as well. There was something about the pained expression on his face, and his utterance of, “This isn’t going to end well, Bing,” that aroused my suspicions.

At shot number twenty-four, my suspicions were all but justified as my body entered its third trimester. With half a case of beer already in me before kick-off, my stomach was throwing in the towel. That was until Pete threw a barb my way about my sexuality… followed by a thorough questioning of my manhood… and the final blow of an enquiry about the size of my testicles.

Bing “Pull over!” Rachel “What?” Bing “That gas station. Pull over. We need beer.” Rachel “You just got beer!” Bing “No, we got Budweiser.” Rachel “We’re not pulling over.” Bing “I’m seriously going to vomit. It’s either in this car or at that gas station. Your choice. Seriously, ooooh man, my stomach’s bad.”

As I moaned like a little bitch, the girls heeded my complaints and reluctantly pulled over at the gas station. I quickly jumped out and returned, no sooner than I had left, with a smile and a case of Bud Light.

Bing “Good news, I didn’t have to vomit!” Rachel “You’re an a**hole.” Bing “You can never be too sure, Rachel. I have too much respect for you and your car to take these risks.” Rachel “Let me get this straight. You couldn’t drink Budweiser, so you bought Budweiser?!” Bing “I know. I agree! It’s crazy!”

We started throwing the Bud Light down like the water it is, with my stomach much happier for the flavour change. Before you knew it—well, exactly as we knew it; 76 minutes later—we had thrown down the 76th shot needed to make the original 100. We then finished another 24, to make the Bud Light 100, before demolishing any remnants we could find of the previous case of Budweiser. By the time we had reached New Orleans, we were in a serious state. I’m just not sure which one. Louisiana?

The girls needed to check into their hotel, so left Pete and me to fend for ourselves, dropping us off on Bourbon Street—the party street of New Orleans.

Woooah, Toto. I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.

Bourbon Street is what ecstasy would look like in street form: it’s erratic, it’s blurry, and it should be illegal. But it is a drug for all taste buds. From the unnecessary concoctions of alcohol to the assortment of musical genres at your disposal; the beads, the ice cream and of course­—the indispensable ingredient for any good time—the Hardcore Christians, you’re sure to find a flavour to suit your libido.

Pete and I took a moment to soak everything in, which was proving to be more difficult than we first thought. Drinking while grounded in a car doesn’t allow your brain to comprehend how drunk it truly is. Much like a gorilla raised in the zoo, we weren’t in any state to be released into the wild. I needed an adult.

And a kebab!

We stumbled into the nearest kebab shop, where I made the novice error of catching a glimpse of myself in the shop’s reflective glass. My eyes were making a run for different postcodes, while the rest of my corpse swayed mercilessly on the spot. That was when I looked over to Pete, whose drunk gaze made me feel a whole lot better about myself. He couldn’t have been far off being declared legally dead.

We paid for our kebabs, acquired some fish bowls (as the name implies, it’s a fish bowl, filled with rum, vodka and a headache), then took a front-row seat in the gutter to watch the circus before our very eyes. There were tits on men and beards on women and midgets on leashes and beads on beads… so many beads. I wanted them. I wanted them all.

Bing “Pete, I want beads.” Pete “What?” Bing “Beads, all of the beads. I want them.” Pete “You need tits to get beads. You don’t have tits.” Bing “Leave my tits out of this, Peter!” Pete “Let’s go and get you some beads then.”

The entire stretch of Bourbon Street is lined with balconies, occupied by smug Mother Marys who pay for a view of the festivities. As part of the package of buying balcony time, patrons are given beaded necklaces to throw down to those they believe are worthy of wearing a worthless piece of plastic. These are usually reserved for the drunkest sluts on the street. But for some reason, this reservation wasn’t being extended to the drunkest slut on the street.

I was throwing my tits and old codger about like a second-rate hooker, seeking any sort of bead appraisal from the bead-lords above. When this strategy failed, I turned to drunken abuse. When this strategy failed, I was out of ideas. I had failed at the only thing I ever truly wanted in this life.

We were eventually joined by the girls, where we found ourselves in line for another fish bowl—as was the case, things were spiralling. Pete couldn’t speak, and I; well, I couldn’t get any damn beads!

The issue was only exacerbated when after twenty minutes, each of the girls had their body weight in plastic around their necks.

That’s it!

I waved down a Virgin Bead Lord on the balcony—who had just thrown my roommate, Ella, a pair of beads—for one more shot at glory.

Bing “HEY! YOU! YOUR VIRGIN BEADS, I WANT THEM!” Virgin Bead Lord (with contempt) “NOT INTERESTED.” Bing “F**K YOU, B**CH.” I’ve always been known for my unprecedented wit. Virgin Bead Lord “NO, F**K YOU.”

He’s got me there.

Bing “YEAH, THAT’S FAIR. LISTEN, IF I IMPRESS YOU WITH SOME BREAKDANCING, YOU GIVE ME SOME BEADS. DEAL?” Virgin Bead Lord “CAN YOU BREAKDANCE?” Bing “LET ME WORRY ABOUT THAT.” Virgin Bead Lord “IT WOULD HAVE TO BE PRETTY IMPRESSIVE.” Bing “Please…,” I scorned. “JUST SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE SHOW.”

These unsubstantiated claims—and they were unsubstantiated—piqued the curiosity of my roommate.

Bayley “Can you actually breakdance?” Bing “Let’s find out, baby!”

The hype-man inside of me immediately started selling a show the masses couldn’t afford to miss! Thirty, maybe forty people would have gathered inside a minute, as a dance-circle formed around one lone idiot, who was leading the people in the most enthusiastic clap the Virgin Bead Lords had ever seen.

The liquor coursing through my veins swiftly fused with a momentous wave of adrenaline, which provoked an unjustified feeling of self-belief. Maybe I could breakdance. No, that’s not it. I CAN breakdance! I finally knew what it felt like to be black! I am talented. I am rhythmic. And man, could I go for some fried chicken! No!! The chicken must wait. The people! They must be entertained!!

I started cutting some of the finest white-man shapes ever performed on the streets of New Orleans. There were squares, circles, even a f**king triangle, all warming the people up for the main course currently brewing in the midst of my mind: I would throw my right foot behind my left knee, drop my body to the left, bounce off the pavement with a spin off my right foot, and safely return to a thunderous ovation, as beads and ladies tops alike would litter the streets.

I composed myself as the clap reached a fever pitch, when I could hear something in the distance… is that… is that the oven I hear? Your main course is ready, New Orleans!

LET’S DANCE, BABY!!

I threw my right foot behind my left knee and dropped my weight towards the ground, already envisioning my spin and triumphant return to the circle. As I fell towards the ground, however, I realised I hadn’t taken into account my lack of sobriety, nor my lack of talent.

I should be heading towards the ground led by my right foot, not the current trajectory as led by my head.

…

It was about the time my head bounced off the pavement that I felt comfortable answering Bayley’s question: I don’t know how to breakdance.

I landed hard. F**king hard.

With my face impaled in the Bourbon Street asphalt, I tried to fathom what had just happened as my body went into shock. There was pavement, there was blood, and there was a distinct lack of clapping.

I had lost the crowd!

…

And most of my teeth.

Bayley and Ella came rushing to my side as I scraped myself off the ground. Dragging me out of the circle, they seemed to be excessively concerned with the litres of blood gushing from my mouth, ignoring the more pressing issue at hand—the Virgin Bead Lord owed me beads!

Bayley “Are you okay?! Oh My God. YOUR TEETH!!” Bing “Relax, I’m fine. My beads,” I splattered back. Bayley “What?” Bing “Beads.” I pointed up at the Virgin Bead Lord. “That f**ker promised me beads.” Bayley “We’re taking you home.” Bing “My teeth are fine.” Bayley “Na, they’re f**ked. You need to get home.” Bing “Fine, just let me grab something really quick.” I ran over to the side of the road. “OI DICKHEAD, WHERE ARE MY BEADS?” Virgin Bead Lord “ARE YOU ALRIGHT, DUDE?” Bing “WHAT ARE YOU? MY MOTHER!? WHERE ARE MY BEADS?” Virgin Bead Lord “THAT WASN’T BREAKDANCING.” Bing “ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? NO ONE HERE COULD’VE DONE WHAT I JUST DID!”

The Virgin Bead Lord just shrugged and threw down a set of beads. Good ones too!

This was the best day ever!

Ella “You could’ve just taken some of mine!” Bing “It wouldn’t have been the same.” Ella “They’re the same beads!” Bing “Piss off. Mine are worth at least three teeth, thank you very much.” Bayley “You need to get to bed.”

We grabbed Pete—who was paralytically oblivious to everything that had just transpired—and stumbled in the direction of the girls’ hotel. Bayley and Ella forced the English girls’ hand and let us sleep on the couch. And by us, I mean I slept on the couch while Pete slept on the bathroom tiles. I was content to have lost my teeth and still not be the drunkest man in the room.

I then pulled out my phone to find it, much like my teeth, completely shattered. I don’t know when during the night exactly it had decided to shatter without my consent, but I couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

There was, however, something comforting about holding a physical representation of the night in my hand, as I looked through the cracks of the broken screen to my equally broken reflection:

My eyes were f**ked, my clothes were drenched in blood, and right there staring back blankly through the phone’s reflection, was a sight that would live long in the memory bank; perhaps the most telling part of a night that brought many highs and lows, and the reality check I needed as a reminder of what drinking alcohol excessively can bring. Looking back at me—a little broken and a little off colour—were my beads.

I got them.

More wisdom available here. Unprotected Treks!

There are three types of “travellers” roaming this great planet of ours:

Holidayers, Backpackers and Travellers.

Holidayers are those jumping between resorts and hotels, with enough sense to spend their time abroad in comfort. You do find these people in hostels, but when you do, you avoid them at all costs because they make you feel poor and have the personality of a foot. Sorry, what’s that? You have a stable relationship and career prospects? These things mean nothing to someone who’s going to be dead by 30.

Backpackers are a dime a dozen. They’re all your hippies, drunks, Live Love Laughs, surfers, running away from life types, me, and anyone who’s ever told you they "loooove travelling." They jump from hostel to hostel with any one of four objectives:

1- Feed their self-righteousness. These people are often running away from home, where they’ve been shunned out by the people in their lives, and travel as a coping mechanism for their s**t personality. They find each other, create their own biodegradable, virtue signalling, vegan bubbles to live in, and come to the conclusion that their ongoing social problems have nothing to do with being born an evolutionary cycle late; but it's the rest of the world that is terrible.

2- Feed their Instagram feed. And by this, I mean, have the exact same photo of their ass taken in different locations around the world. And nobody cares what you had for dinner. You’re not an influencer; your absent father just married good genes.

3- Get drunk. These people suck. These people are me.

4- See the sites. These people are rare, but are good people to meet when abroad. They’re open-minded, often have something interesting to say, and are just happy to be along for the ride... usually because they’re not hungover.

(And then you have the 'avoid at all costs' types: your ‘Crankies’ (Gingers, Fatties, Irish etc.), who you’re not even sure why they’re travelling in the first place; your ‘Couples,’ who are as much fun as Herpes; and then of course, the beret-wearing blights on society known as the ‘French.’)

Travellers, however, are like 10’s. They’re exotic, rare, and every deluded flog thinks they are one. But when you do meet one, your erection will confirm you're in the presence of someone above the pack.

On my travels through Cuba, I met one of these golden tigers; a German lad named Janik. Fluent in four languages, Janik had just finished a trip where he rode his bike from Germany all the way to South Africa. His travel stories were insane: cycling through the Saharan Desert, living with locals in India, being arrested for hitchhiking into a War Zone, sleeping with junkies on the streets, camping out with Moroccan nomads—the list went on. And he was only 21!

Bing “Why the hell would you even think of cycling from Germany to South Africa?” Janik “Because I could. And I got a bike real cheap!” Bing “Was it a good bike?” Janik “No. But over the course of the trip, I became a really good bike mechanic!” Dillon “That’s awesome. But surely, say, at the ten-hour mark, you realised it was a s**t idea and turned back?” Janik “Yeah, there were some testing moments. I got the s**ts in the south of Spain and took my anger out on the bike. I threw it against a wall, then put my foot through it. I looked up flights to South America, they were too expensive, so I picked up my bike, did my best to fix it, then rode my broken bike all the way to South Africa.”

Looking at some of the countries he would’ve had to travel through, I honestly don’t know how he didn’t die. I probably should have asked more questions but I was too caught up in his anecdotes and dreamy locks.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a traveller. Someone who’s willing to go out into the unknown and put themselves through hell for the sake of the journey. All of you who claim to be travellers, jumping from comfort to comfort thanks to the National Bank of Daddy, just know- you’re not. You’re f**king not one, okay?

“But I do loooove travelling”—who doesn’t like roaming the world, eating exotic foods, getting pissed, and meeting new people without a care in the world? Now p**s all that off, take $1000 and a backpack, and bugger off to Africa for four months. Then let me know if the Malaria was justified by your loooove of travelling.

Come on, it's time to check out Unprotected Treks. Everything: this book has it!

Throughout history, there have been some foul, vile, and downright despicable individuals; many of whom could lay claim to being the worst human being to have ever walked the Earth. Joseph Stalin’s Soviet reign brought the deaths of upwards of 20 million innocent lives (with many estimates accounting for 60 million+), while Hitler’s regime was responsible for the annihilation of 5.4 million Jews alone. Mao dwarfs both of these figures during his reign of terror, in which he was responsible for the deaths of more than 70 million people, as he held absolute power over a quarter of the world’s population. That’s not to mention: Vlad the Impaler; Bin Laden; Idi Amin; Himmler; my friend Malin; and of course, that person in the packed hostel dorm who snoozes his f**king alarm in the morning.

Prick.

People who don’t adhere to Hostel Etiquette are less likeable than Al-Qaeda. It’s not difficult to show some common courtesy when sharing a living space, but in case you were dropped on your head as a child, here’s the definitive list of Hostel Rules you must obey in order not to be a walking piece of s**t when travelling the world:

1) Don’t be an a**hole

2) Don’t be an a**hole

3) 11pm-7am

You adhere to these first three rules, you’re already 90% of the way there.

4) Know what you have signed up for: This isn’t going to be the best sleep of your life. Carry earplugs and an eye mask, and understand a hostel's limitations.

5) Sleep on your side/stomach: If you snore, just know I hate you, and the disappointments you’ll come to call your children.

6) Don’t be a creep: Guys, no Louis C.K.’s.

7) Pack your bags the night before (or as much of your gear as possible): If you’re leaving early, you’re not the self-appointed wake-up call for the rest of the dorm. I know you can’t avoid making all noise, but you can certainly take precautions to avoid making more than necessary. And for Christ's sake, plastic bags are to stay at the bottom of your bag; not to be touched between 11pm and 7am. And yes:

8) The light stays off: 11pm-7am. You have a light on your phone for a reason. And if, like me, you often find your phone “misplaced” (… stolen), you stumble around in the dark until you find your bed, you fall asleep, and deal with your problems in the morning.

9) Never snooze your alarm: You don’t get an encore. ONE alarm. That’s it.

10) Your bed is your space: You may treat your bed like it’s Hiroshima, but the rest of the room is to be kept neat and tidy.

11) Wash your dishes: What is wrong with you? You fully-grown child.

12) Keep the bathroom clean: This is my pet peeve. Don’t turn the floor into a lubricated ice rink after a shower. Wash your toothpaste down the sink like a grown-up. And if you p**s on the floor, clean it up. Our species has evolved beyond the realm of living in our own waste.

13) Keep showers short: But, for all that is good and Holy, please:

14) Have a shower: I’m shaking my head at you. Yes, YOU; you animal.

15) Headphones: No one’s nominated you as the hostel’s entertainment. For movies, music and videos, that aren’t being enjoyed by more than two people, throw your headphones in.

16) One power outlet per person (if there is a limited number in the room): When outlets are scarce, you get one. Not one per device. One. The room isn’t your personal power plant.

17) Label your things?: You should probably label your food items in the kitchen, but I’m not very good at this. I just trust people won’t eat my food. I would say, don’t be a prick by eating someone else’s food, but I once met a girl who claimed she had never bought food after a night out because there was “always plenty of unlabelled food in the fridge for a drunk snack!” I thought this was the biggest dick-move ever—and it answered the question of where my food kept disappearing to—but I also thought it was hilarious, so I’m choosing not to comment on the issue.

18) No sex in shared dorms (between the hours of 11pm-7am): Besides that, ... (Parts of this section have been removed as advised by Bing's publicist) … had no idea how my tongue even got in there!

That’ll do. If you follow these rules, you’re 99% of the way there. If you are one of the selfish people who choose to ignore these rules, please, from the bottom of my heart, go and off yourself.

For more unbridled wisdom, buy Unprotected Treks now. Papa Bing needs you.