After a solid week of bumming at Kelly's over generous family friend's house we took off for a few days to bum about with our other favorite hosts. By some miracle we were able to meet up with the Joblins in Mallow, Ireland. You might vaguely remember that the Joblins were the very first people we stayed with seven months ago when we began this adventure in Nelson, New Zealand. Fate is terribly convenient sometimes.
Maureen and Leigh are experts in the field of bovine artificial insemination. Yep, elbow deep in cow sphincter all day. And like any good snarky asshole, I made sure to make inappropriate comments at every chance I got. For example, on the picturesque train ride to Mallow I saw a bull mounting a cow and I thought, "Hey, stop it, that's Maureen's job"! So when Maureen got home from work carrying a ten-gallon bucket I jumped at the opportunity to sarcastically ask if she was shlepping around gallons of semen with her (my maturity level has sunk to new levels when I'm asking my friend's parents if they brought home a whole cattle ranch worth of bull jiz). Well, it turned out to be a valid question after all as Maureen, with an air of satisfaction, retorted that it was undoubtedly a gigantic vessel of cow spunk. Joblins: 1, Krista: 0.
The Joblins were very kind to entertain us (in addition to all of the semen jokes provided) by taking us to their local watering hole. Also known as The Mouse Trap, it is an old Irish pub about the size and similarly decorated as my grandma's living room. The patrons were fantastically warm and welcoming (well at least the parts of the conversation we picked up through their thick country accents) and we had ridiculously good time bumping gums with the locals. We had the luck of dropping in on the same night as their weekly sing along. Every Thursday the regulars get together to sing traditional Irish and other folk songs, each person taking turns starting and leading the group. Even as the new kids we were not spared and were expected (forced) to participate fully. I have no problems singing in a group (by group I mean a car full of my friends screeching along to Lady Gaga), but you will never (never = NEVER) see me get up to sing a solo. Even drunk karaoke is out of the question and I've been to karaoke night roughly 6.5 million times. All my friends can attest that, even with all of their peer pressuring, I have never taken the stage. Luckily Kelly is great at this kind of thing. She took the reigns and sang a gorgeous folk song that brought the house down. Thank god I have friends that who pick up the slack for me since coattail riding is one of my specialties. Despite the steady lager intake that evening, the Irish still caught onto my little game and were not going to let me slide so easily. F word. So now I'm nervous because I have to sing in front of a group of strangers and I'm doubly freaked out because I don't know a single Irish/folk/semi-appropriate song by heart. Now if you wanted me to rap Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice" from memory, sure. I somehow didn't think that would suffice in small-town Ireland. In a panic I pulled out an oldie from 6th grade choir...The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. Super Irish and folky, it's a wonder nobody joined in.
Now if singing folk songs with the countrymen in an Irish pub doesn't sound cliché enough for you, we also managed to fit in the number one Ireland tourist activity. No, not the Leprechaun Museum, though that seems to be disturbingly popular as well. We shelled out the 12 Euro and went to the Blarney Castle to kiss the infamously filthy Blarney Stone. 250,000 people a year visit the Blarney Stone to spit, pee, place their lips upon and god knows what else to that unimpressive rock. Even the guidebook, the bible of stupid tourist activities, suggested foregoing the geological make out session. Lonely Planet endorses the seediest of night clubs, but deems the Blarney Stone unsanitary. Perhaps the suggestion to abstain should have been taken seriously, but I paid 12 god damn Euro so I crossed my fingers and puckered up. Kissing the festering brick is supposed to give you the gift of gab. The more immediate effect, however, was the overwhelming urge to scour all of the skin off my lips. At least I can say I did it. Which will make the cold sores worth it?
One of the dirtiest things I've put my mouth on...and that is probably saying something
I'll give you one guess
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