Fuck Eli Roth! Who is he to ruin the quintessential European male bonding road trip fantasy? Fuck him! Like you, I've heard and firmly believe the stories about traveling in Europe. I've watched those little five second movies on Internet sites like www.bigbreastedeurogirlsmakeyourdreamscometrue.com and thought to myself, "What a world we live in where I can travel to Europe and large breasted European women will sleep with me for no better reason than I am an American. Then, post-coitally, we will sit in bed and smoke the BEST WEED EVER!"
I love those fantasies. I love them so much I'm absolutely certain they're true. I'm sure about them just like I'm sure that that stripper in Vegas really liked me. Clearly, Paxton (Jay Hernandez), Josh (Derek Richardson) and their Icelandic traveling mate, Oli (Eythor Gudjonsson), believe the fantasies. They travel to Europe, but Josh appears dissatisfied because he doesn't get laid right away. Then he hears about some place in Slovakia near Bratislava where foreign language speaking Playboy Playmate types make all dreams come true. They travel there and sure enough, it's true. The boys get a room in a hostel, walk in their "shared" room, and there are large breasted Natalya (Barbara Nedeljakova) and large breasted Svetlana (Jana Kaderabkova) walking around topless, heading to the sauna, and looking so ready for some American sausage that you'd swear their nipples were throbbing our national anthem.
Well, I say fuck Eli Roth for suggesting this doesn't happen every fucking day. It's like killing Santa Claus. If I don't have this fantasy to keep my pathetic life going, what the fuck do I have? Every male college student in the world should get to have this fantasy before entering the shitty, hopeless world of professional life where, every day, instead of getting an awesome blowjob from some hot piece of Euro trash, you're stuck on the dick end of some slimy, no good, minimum wage paying fat ass who'd sooner slice his cornea open with the end of a Slurpee straw then give you a dime more in pay.
No, in Eli Roth's world, these women don't love you; they sell you out to some deranged experimental torture facility. You close your eyes with images of their breasts swinging gently above you, only to open them to the sight of some lunatic wearing a blood-stained smock, holding a pair of giant tweezers and a power drill in the other, eyeing your precious testicles like Picasso eyeing a canvass.
Go ahead and ruin my fantasies, Eli Roth. I'll hunt you down.
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