As I mentioned in my last post, I recently embarked on an extraordinarily exotic and much-needed vacation abroad. And after viewing the inspirational travel video, Dongs All Over the World (above), I knew my mission. I was to take on the role of “International Nasty Girl” and intercourse with as much foreign dong as possible.

My first stop: Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. That’s right, I was going to put the “Ho” in Ho Chi Minh City, bitches!

I reviewed the instructions on the video:

1. Get off the plane.
2. Go find the dongs.
3. Destroy the dongs.
4. Back on the plane.

Sounded fairly simple. And sure enough, as soon as I disembarked the plane, what did I see?

Holy crap! The Vietnamese anticipated my and the other International Nasty Girls’ arrival and made it clear we were most welcome in their great land. But my Visa card? Pffft, I wouldn’t need that.

I walked out of the airport and began to explore the city in search of my inaugural dong. Within the first block, I spotted this storefront:

Dang! It’s just 10:30 in the morning and yet so easy to locate dong – I had feared I might have to wait till after dark to find it in some nightclub, or perhaps a dark alley. I was delighted to discover that I didn’t even need to use the Internet!

I walked through the door into what looked like a run-of-the-mill clothing store. Some ladies were standing behind the counter chattering away in Vietnamese, which, sadly, I didn’t speak a word of.

“Hello,” I said, hoping they spoke English. “I’m looking for dong?”

They said something in Vietnamese that I didn’t understand.

“Dong?” I asked again. “Where dong? DONG.”

They exchanged a few more words, and then one of the women disappeared into the back. After a few minutes, an old Vietnamese man with a white beard in the shape of an isosceles triangle emerged.

The woman from before looked at me then pointed to the man and said, “Dong.”

Oh, geez. I really wasn’t anticipating 80-year-old dong. I felt bad, but surely this wasn’t part of the ING plan. There had to be some standards.

I took the woman aside and said, “Um, I’m sorry, this isn’t quite what I was looking for. Where could I find, you know, young dong?”

“Young dong?” she said, and pointed to a building on the opposite side of the street.

I walked outside, peered across the avenue, and lo and behold…

Oh. Mah. Gawd. I could have me some hot young dong and grab a snack afterwards! I found it exceedingly resourceful of the Vietnamese to combine dong with a restaurant, as I would inevitably be working up quite the appetite.

I sashayed in and announced to the hostess, “Hey there! I’m here for the young dong!”

“Young Dong,” she said with a nod, and then just stood there.

Um, was there some sort of secret handshake I was unaware of? Was there a password I had to utter? Go get the dong, bitch! I honestly didn’t have time for these games. There were many more dongs on the agenda and I really didn’t want to dilly-dally.

“Yes, can you show me the young dong NOW?” I asked.

“Yes. This Young Dong,” she repeated, seemingly a bit irritated. But she didn’t budge.

Now I was irritated, and running out of patience. Then I remembered that foreigners understand what you’re saying much better if you yell really loudly.

“GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR DONG!!!” I shouted.

She did not react amicably. She began gesticulating wildly and screaming, and then a man appeared with a shotgun. I covered my head and hightailed it out of there on the double. I wanted to fulfill my mission but I was not willing to die for dong. Why they hell did they go all Pulp Fiction on me? I guess they were still pissed off about the war.

Undeterred, I pressed on in my quest. I meandered about the city for a few more blocks, until I ran into:

A dong bank? I wondered if it were anything like a sperm bank, or maybe it was an institution where you could simply borrow dong? I went in to inquire.

The first person I saw was in fact a decent looking guy. Right away, I asked about his dong, and he pointed to an ATM.

I beg your pardon? No, sir, I don’t intend to pay for the dong. I tried to explain that in the states, women don’t have to, you know, hire dong. For the most part, it’s readily available to us for free at any time. The only people in the US who pay for dong are right-wing politicians and John Travolta.

But he insisted, and kept pointing to the ATM. Jesus H. Christ, things really are different overseas. I didn’t realize how easy I’d had it back home. But I was growing weary of the whole goddamned dong-finding rigmarole, so I resigned myself to it. Fine.

I put my ATM card in the machine and learned I could get 21,195 dongs for one dollar! Evidently, you can’t get dong for free but you can get A LOT of it for cheap. Did they know about this in Thailand? I was impressed, but I really didn’t have that kind of time. A few moments later, the machine spit out some money.

I went back to the guy and handed him a bill. “I don’t need 21,195 dongs. I suppose 10 or 12 should be fine. You can keep the rest as a tip.”

I thought he’d be ecstatic at my generosity, but he looked at me quizzically and insisted that I already had my dong. Now this guy was trying to rip me off! What the hell? I’ve got the money, now just give me the damn dong, dick!

Just then, I heard a familiar language. I looked behind me and discovered a middle-aged man speaking English into his cell phone, and then Vietnamese to one of the tellers.  I ran up to him, hoping he could translate for me.

With the wad of cash still in my hand, I explained how I was desperately seeking dong and that no one seemed willing to provide it to me.

“Looks like you’ve got a lot of dong right there,” he said gesturing to the cash.

“I wish!” I said. “I was told this could buy me some dong.” He looked at me as if my tits had suddenly burst into flames.

“Ma’am, the currency here is called dong,” he said. “It also h appens to be a fairly common surname.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, and then blinked twice. In that instant I wished my tits actually had been on fire, because it would’ve given me an excellent excuse to run out of the building screaming.

Instead, I gathered up the scraps of dignity I had left and said, “I see. Well, then, would you be kind enough to tell me how to say ‘dong’ in Vietnamese? As in, penis-dong?”

“Yes,” he said. “Phân kín cùa dàn ông.”

I blinked three times, scratched my head and then cleared my throat.

“Fuck it. I’m going to get some pho.”