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Bukkake’s Bar Review
by mikhail bukkake
Hello. My name is Mikhail Bukkake. Perhaps you know my name from my now famous essay, “Bukkake: Getting Discursive All Over Your Face” included in many college anthologies. I came to Utah as a stranger, drawn here for the Olympic Games and to investigate the local culture I’ve heard so much about. Unfortunately, after a night of heavy drinking and snorting a two-kilometer labyrinth of cocaine off of the Grand America’s ballroom floor, I ran short of funds. (Editor’s note: Wild Utah does not vouch for free-lance authors’ outlandish claims) Luckily, while panhandling in Park City, I was recognized by my old friend Zhehai Chopin, a regular contributor to the Frankfurt art magazine “Durstig für Durchfall.” Old Chopin used his longstanding Sundance connections to get me a free-lance gig here at Wild Utah where I proposed a bar review since the only thing better than drinking out of a whore’s shoe is drinking for free.
So I headed down to Salt Lake City, and followed a trail of dirty balloons to the Sigma Nu frat house where a friendly group of tenth grade girls convinced me that Port O’ Call was the best bar in Salt Lake. I told them I’d get them passed the bouncer for a blow job; and though five of them agreed, the one with the jeep told me her boyfriend was going to “kick my ass,” so I took off with Mindy, Jesse, Sarah, Fran and Annalisa in tow—ducking into shadows, slipping over walls onto leafy trampolines—while the vigilant neighborhood dogs woofed and the school girls could not believe my stout sexual resilience and terrific aim. (Editor’s note: see above) But before long, the girls’ faces broke out in rashes and I was on my own, wandering the smoggy streets toward the glow of downtown.
Lost, alone, a stranger in this strange city, I decided to abandon my search for Port O’ Call and take a chance route, thinking that, as in any city, if I walked in a straight line soon enough I’d encounter a bar. Later, rather than sooner, I came across Bar X, a terrific place, full of gusto and merriment, masterful billiards players, broken peanut shells, but alas, no liquor.
Continuing on, I came to the corner of Second and Main, a delightful intersection, the true heart of the city, and hearing a penetrating female yelp, discovered only a skip away, a bar called Murphy’s. Murphy’s seemed like my kind of place. Dozens of thirty-somethings wobbling from Long Island Ice Tea to Long Island Ice Tea, flirting with their reflections in the bar mirror, and, if sober enough, slipping off to the bathroom to snort a rail and break down the back door against the wall of a dirty stall. Just my kind of place.
I went in, encouraged further by the wail of mid-eighties slasher rock, nowadays so popular back in my hometown of Pozdsnk. But just over the threshold, the bouncer cut me off in my tracks and demanded I buy a membership. I told him I was visiting from out of town, and that I was reviewing the place, but he didn’t care and told me I had to buy one. Since I only had a credit card I asked if I could put the price of a membership on my tab. He told me it would only be ok if I bribed him (poor nimwit) and again, I reminded him I only had a credit card and asked if I could put his bribe on my tab since it was a stolen card anyway. (Editor’s note: Wild Utah was not aware at any time that Mr Bukkake was operating on stolen funds) This was too much for him. And, short-circuiting all 88 volts of the dear’s IQ, he grabbed me by the throat, dragged me over to the door, and instead of throwing me out on the street, bashed my head into the door jam, splitting my head open, and then threw me out.
I couldn’t believe it. There I was to give them my money (sort of), to give them my time writing up a jaunty review, and they go and bash my head against the door jam. The next day I thought about it while Zhehai stitched me up and it occurred to me that it might be a local’s bar where foreigners are not welcome, but after asking around, I discovered that just last month, a local student also had his head bashed in before being tossed out on the street. Prosz! Then I realized, Mikhail, Mikhail, pan jedzie w zBym kierunku. Prost drog! Go back to Pozdsnk!
