Amsterdam Report From: (Zosodada), 05 Jan 2001

The initiates of the Amalgamated Anathma of Zosodada just returned from a scouting mission in the Lowlands. The mud-shoveling surrenderers proved to be mountable. Our men were invited to fuck their women; our women were offered service by their men. Such diplomatic negotiations were common. They are a race of traders and barterers and may attempt to trade rare spices, truffles and highly polished mirrors for your landholdings.

Gun smuggling Yugoslobian mob hits in malls and restaurants front of police stations were kept to a minimum, as were the retaliatory raids upon public establishments used to house armaments destined for various terrorist organizations by the Hollandaise militia. Deadly raging fires in narrow, steep staired motels and meat markets were also infrequent these past few months.

"Water Hash" was the surprising winner of the Anubis Krop Award, with Barney's Sweet-Toth, once again earning the favor of the Vox Populi.

My lodging consisted of a room decorated by the great Monty Cantsin of the Neoist movement. We left our unused Frop -- about a year's supply -- in the hotel as a tip for the maid.

My favored haunt was defaced by the previous presence of some odd SubGenii who fastened a Dobbshead to the slackful cigatette machine of de Kuil (pronounced like "da cow"; meaning the pot hole"). De Kuil has a slack-stinkin' website,, and is located Oude Brugsteeg 27. One of the rare coffeshops that offers liquor & beer along with the good coffee and penchant for Frank Zappa music. Oh yes, more about that he confounding cigarette machine that sports a decal of J.R. "Bob" Dobbs. Watching stoned people become fustrated in attempts to operate this tank-like nicotiene dispenser can be very entertaining. The trick, which one would do well to remember, is to insert exact change and hit the green button that * isn't* lit up. As attractive as that illuminated red button may be, as much as it begs to be pushed, it is clearly labeled with the indecypherable 23-letter, 7 syllable Dutch word for "Change Return".

A survey was made of the area surrounding the landmark Oude Kerk (Old Church), roughly extending from Warmoesstraat to Kloveniersburg in an east-west boundary and Oude Kennissteeg to Oude Hoogstraat from north to south. We don't claim to have obtained the service of any of the lalala nice ladies, but if we did obtained it surely would have been the service of Renee -- halfway down that narrow alley next to the Bulldog of OZ.

We met with Swartze Piet for our annual Sinterklaus spankings and stocking full of "droop" balls, but declined getrting fucked up the ass by the all the nice English people. I requested that Mr. Piet take appropriate action with the leigons of big fat Franco-Arab horenlopers who were hassling the hookers.The appearance of the women in the windows ranged from Yeti-like and probably diseased to the rare, but occasional, Connie doppelgangers.

In an alley, in the back yard of the Winston, our lodgings, we saw a middle aged man above one of the rows of red lights, monitoring video feeds at what appeared to be a red light command and control operations desk. I could not see the videos, so I don't know if the cameras were on the street or in the "privacy" of the high-tech, red-lit,blacklight lit, sometimes mirror balled or strobe light blasting ubicles. The rooms are about 5 feet by 12 feet, and feature stereo systems, toilets, sinks, rookwursts, haring, makeup mirrors and a small bed. They are all -- as far as I could spy -- outfitted with panic buttons. Perhaps they are equipped with flashing lights and sirens?

When researching our sojourn we read reviews of a place caled Cassa Rosso. According to the internet-advertised hype about this place that we encountered,we thought it would be worth checking out. We thought we had found the place and purchased a f50.00 ticket at what appeared to be the ticket window/entrance. It clearly said Cassa Rosso on the sign. The guy gives me the ticket. I head towards a door and was told not to go in there. "This is a ticket office" he says. "You have to go down the street to see the show."

we headed off down the street in search of the real Cassa Rosso. the next Cassa Rossowe came to was also a ticket office. There we were instructed to cross the street two blocks further down. On my third attempt we found the real Cassa Rosso which didn't look as attractive as the two previous fake Cassa Rosso ticket offices. With some trepidation at the possibility of this, too, being a fake Cassa Rosso we handed our ticket to the goon squad at the door and was huddled up a steep and narrow stairway to the show.

The show room was about 12 feet by 20, and packed with attendees elbow-to-elbow. The seats were all taken and there as obviously standing room only. Being somewhat claustrophobic in small places with lots of people, we needed a drink.We thinkwe spied a bar at the other end of the room -- only a few feet away, but it seemed like an eternal sea of humanity that we would have to cross. As we had smoked some of the smoketty-schmoke, I became a little anxious. Something was going on on stage that involved a naked woman, but we couldn't really see what was happening. More people were then guided up the stairs and packed into the already crowded room. There must have been at least 60 people in this small place. We weremore entertained by the Boris Vallejo-looking Barbarian girl murals that whatever the main attraction was. More people were then packed into the room and no one was leaving. It was then thatwe remembered that the Singer fire disaster was an American experience, and that building occupation codes in Europe were probably somewhat slackful. We imagined a fire breaking out, and the inevitable stampede of humanity trouncing each other as they tumbled down the steep, narrow stair case and got the fuck outta there.

A wasted Nfl 50.00 and a small anxiety attack later we found ourselves at a local bar with room to breathe and ein klien bier. Twee biers and some "thai bud" from Rusland later we wered unrumpled enough to venture forth again. Our next Amsterdam adult entertainment experience was equally annoying.

Encouraged by the klien Grolsch we ventured into a pornography store that featured private cabins. We were curious about the cabins. Were they like American hunting cabins with fireplaces and moose heads on the wall? The image of a cabin that foremost came to our mind was clouding whatever reason the little schmokie, shrooms and bier didn't alter.We sauntered back toward the alleged cabins, not bothering to decypher any instructions written in the complicated Dutch language that may have been posted somewhere.We opened the "cabin door" not knowing what to expect and were greeted by the sight of three people groping each other to the tunes of a porno video in a booth the size of my refrigerator.

Witnessing our apparent faux-pas -- the trio was not part of a scheduled private cabin show -- the proprietor yelled something at me in Dutch followed by "and that's why they're called "PRIVATE CABINS!" in English and we got the fuck out of there, too.

More entertaining and pleasant was the Moulin Rouge where we witnessed an uberfemme eject a dildo three feet straight up in the air directly from her snatch and re-holster it upon landing.

Tot ziens, Subs!

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