The Very Long, Very Complicated, but Very True Story About the Whisk

The following is a very long, very complicated, but very true story, about the fate that befell my roommate's whisk.

As you may recall from my last post, the Kiwi and I had the bright idea to bake a Pavlova on Saturday, and failed at it miserably.  I think I also mentioned how she had to carry around my frying pan and whisk in her bookbag for the rest of the evening. Once we left the theater, we both went to my house so she could pick up some of her things, and leave the cooking utensils.  She gave me back the pan, but we both completely forgot about the whisk.

On Sunday, Roommate wanted to make pudding, but first she had to go through the entire kitchen looking for the whisk.  "Ah, shit," said I, "I know where it is."  So I instantly texted the Kiwi, and, sure enough, she still had the whisk.  No worries, we were seeing each other the next day anyway, so I apologized to Roommate, and promised to bring the whisk home safe and sound.  Not in time to help her with her pudding, but you can't have everything.

Monday rolled around, and the Kiwi and I were minus a ride to go see the witches dancing in the woods.  German Couchsurfer Friend, however, was moving to Frankfurt the next day, and invited us to have a going-away party with him.  We showed up at his house, ate some salad with him and the British girl, flushed nothing down the toilet, and the Kiwi gave me the whisk back.  The novelty of having a whisk in my purse was almost too much for me to handle, so I made a point of getting vehement/indignant/excited, just so I'd have an excuse to whip out a whisk and point it at people.  Which I did, more frequently than was necessary.

After dinner, we found out there was a free concert going on in the center of town to celebrate May Day.  Which is apparently a big thing in Germany, and when you can't go see witches, you at least go see German reggae.  While there, our little group ran into another little group of people we knew, and we all got to talking.  This other little group consisted of Tall Guy, whom we already knew, Tall Guy's Roommate, and some of their friends.

When the concert was over, our big group (formerly two little groups) decided it wanted to play a German drinking game.  And that German drinking game was "Flunkyball," also known as the most entertaining drinking game ever, and it needs to be imported to America like, yesterday.  Here's how it works:  two teams line up facing each other, about thirty feet apart, with a beer can positioned between.  Each team member has a full, open beer bottle sitting on the group in front of them.  Team A throws a ball, and tries to knock down the beer can.  If they're successful, members from Team B have to run into the center as quickly as possible, reset the beer can, and pick up the ball. While they're doing this, the members of Team A are chugging their beer as quickly as possible.  Then it's Team B's turn to throw the ball.  The game goes back and forth, back and forth, until finally, one team has drunk all of their beers, and that team is crowned the winner.

Once to rules were explained to the foreigners, everyone was pretty keen to have a go, until someone pointed out that while we weren't lacking in alcohol, we were missing a ball.  This silenced everyone for ten seconds--until I remember what I had in my purse, and triumphantly screamed "We may not have a ball...BUT I HAVE A WHISK."  You would have thought I was Jesus with a machine gun, so intense was the cheering.

As the official Holder Of Whisk (and seeing as how I don't drink beer), I was appointed judge.  We got ourselves set up, and the game began.  And it was drop-dead hilarious, and my stomach hurt from laughing so hard.  Even more amazing was the fact that every round of Flunkyball attracts a crowd, especially after German reggae, especially when half the crowd is also intoxicated.  Our crowd kept pointing and yelling, "ARE YOU PLAYING WITH A WHISK?"  Why yes.  Yes we are.

After a really long and intense battle (partly the fault of a thoroughly non-aerodynamic whisk), the Kiwi's team emerged victorious, and we carried over our whisk-throwing enthusiasm into the line to get into the club.  While we were standing around and being morons, someone appeared with a 24 pack, and suffice to say, everyone but me was really drunk, really quickly.

Right before we went inside, Tall Guy's Roommate tapped me on the shoulder.  "Yo, can I borrow your whisk?  My friends and I want to play another round of Flunkyball."  "Sure," I said, "but I need this back tonight, I have to return it to my roommate."  "Yeah sure, no problem," he said, and disappeared.

We waited and waited and waited, but Tall Guy's Roommate never showed back up, and we were half a second from going in the door.  "Has that dude brought your whisk back?" asked the Kiwi.  Negative.  "WHAT!  You need that back.  WE ARE GOING TO FIND TALL GUY RIGHT NOW AND GET YOUR WHISK BACK."  So we found Tall Guy, and the Kiwi and German Couchsurfer Friend, both of whom were fairly drunk, ripped him a new one, all in an effort to bring the whisk back.  They were screaming, Tall Guy was desperately trying to call his friend, and I was laughing because, even though I really did need the whisk back, the entire thing was too funny not to laugh at it.  Eventually we let Tall Guy go after he swore up and down that the whisk would be back in my possession by the end of the night. 

Fast forward to the club.  We were all dancing and having a good time, when out of nowhere, Tall Guy showed up next to me.  "Come with me!" he said.  "Is my whisk back?"  "Yes, yes, the whisk is back."  He dragged me onto the dance floor, but I didn't see his roommate.  "Where's the whisk?" I asked.  "I don't know," he said, "let's just dance."  "Fuck no, I'll dance with you when I get my whisk back."  And then I jetted.

Safe with my friends, I danced (read: bounced up and down) for a good while, and then the Kiwi got mad at a German guy because he was wearing an All Blacks rugby uniform, which you're not allowed to do unless you've ever shaved a sheep.  So she decided to head out, and I went with her, because I hate dancing and it was late.  But first, I got Tall Guy's phone number.

The next morning, I texted Tall Guy and was like, "Hey man, really, really need my whisk back."  No answer.  Slightly annoyed, I went into town to meet up with a new tandem partner.  We got ice cream and were walking around town, when I heard my name.  I turned around to see the British girl, who had been there the night before for the entire spectacle.  And the conversation went like so:

Me:  Hey!  Have you spoken to Tall Guy?  I need to give my roommate back her whisk.
Her:  Yeah...about that.  Apparently his roommate gave it to Mya.
Me:  Who the hell is Mya?
Her:  That's what I said.
Me:  The whisk is gone?
Her:  Yes.
Me:  I'm not getting it back?
Her:  Probably not.
Me:  ...Can you tell him I need five euros for a new whisk? 
Her:  Not a problem.  Oh, why was everyone mad at him again?
Me:  I'm not sure, but I think it had something to do with the whisk.
Her:  Got it.  Another question...do you remember where I parked my bike last night?  I think I lost it.
Me:  Yeah, you left it by the supermarket.
Her:  Great, thanks!

We parted ways, and I explained the entire episode to my new tandem partner, who probably expected a lot of things from his conversation with me, whisk drama not being one of them.  In the course of our wanderings through town, we wound up right near the supermarket, so I suggested we check the bikes and see if we couldn't find the British girl's.  Sure enough, there it stood, in all it's bicycle glory.  "Hooray!  We found her bike!" said I.  "That's her bike!?" said Tandem Partner, horrified.  "Yis. What's wrong with it?"  He pointed to a giant black, red, and gold sticker that was flashing merrily in the sunlight.  "Why does she have an NSU sticker on her bike?"  "I dunno," I said, "it's just a sticker.  Why?"  "Does she know who the NSU are?"  "Probably not.  I've lived in Germany way longer, and I don't know, so I doubt she does."

Long pause.

"In case you were wondering, her bike is currently a supporter of the Neo-Nazis."

And that is how I got a whisk, lost a whisk, and discovered my friend's bike had slightly terrible political affiliations, all in the space of 24 hours.  I bought Roommate a new whisk, so that issue is taken care of, but I can't say the same for the Nazi bike.

Happy May, all!