Through the Biliary Tract with Kraut and Bowling Ball

Recently a delegation from the People's Democratic Republic of Insomnia visited the Pot-Bellied Republic in an attempt to strengthen diplomatic ties between those fine nations. The delegation returned with strange blisters and a severe hangover, as well as some bizarre expense claims. The delegate's report follows:

Initially, I found the people of the Pot-Bellied Republic to be short and unpleasantly taciturn. No matter how I hailed, greeted, or presented my diplomatic credentials to their gatekeeper, he merely stood there, holding his lantern and wearing the strangely-colored silks that are considered fashionable there. It was only after bribing a passerby with beer that I learned the functionary I had been addressing was a statue. Moreover, I learned that the passerby in question was none other than the ruler of that noble republic, Kaiser Andy I.

The Kaiser was most welcoming, allowing me to stay in the royal castle and informing me that I could even sit on the throne should I feel the need. My lodging was thoughtfully stocked with all manner of literature, including the biography of their national hero, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I recommend this heartily to all and sundry.

After meeting the Kaiser and his Cabinet, I was introduced to the national sport, "Empty the Beer Cans", a diversion for which it seems I have a knack. I was quite impressed by the natives' clever methods of keeping warm in absence of female companionship. They use large amounts of something called "fire" which is contained in a hot metal box.

The next day, we toured the larger realm. Previously we had believed that the PBR's sole exports were empty beer cans and poorly-formed opinions. We now know that another product, "bourbon", is also produced there. The Kaiser personally took me on a tour of two such facilities. It was heartwarming to see the love that his people have for the Kaiser, as they presented us with glasses of their beverage as a token of respect.

The drink itself is interesting. It is a brown, odd-smelling liquor, tasting somewhat like Scotch that has gone bad. This makes sense, as the beverage is made similarly to Scotch, but the locals only use the barrels once. This quaint local superstition leads to a clearly inferior product, but "when in Rome..."

On the subject of PBR cuisine, it should be noted that all manner of gas-producing foods are favored. The natives are fond of sausage, but make it strangely. They seem to prefer it boiled in beer and wrapped in cabbage, and are totally unfamiliar with the proper use of alligator as a foodstuff. On a related note, they put copious amounts of salt on everything...even their roads. This may be the source of the PBR's famous thirst.

After touring their industrial facilities, we attended a cultural event called, as near as I could tell, "Stupid F***ing Ball, I was Robbed". This quaint custom involves rolling a large, heavy ball down a smooth floor. At the end of this floor some sticks are placed so that they stand upright. The goal, it appears, is to avoid hitting as many sticks as possible. Should one fail to miss any of the sticks one is required to perform a folk dance. Some of the ladies elsewhere in the hall danced quite prettily, but I found the Kaiser's dance to be somewhat vulgar. He was apparently not very good at the game, knocking over more sticks than anyone else in our party despite his custom-made "Stupid F***ing Ball". However, such was the love of his subjects that they all congratulated him on a game well played. One imagines that the affairs of state leave little time to practice.

As a gesture of goodwill, I prepared a traditional Insomnian meal for my hosts. The retching and gagging sounds they make as a sign of enjoyment are rather quaint. On a related note, preparing Red Beans with Andouille over a woodstove takes rather less time than one might think.

I slept well in the clear air of the PBR's guest quarters, arising late to a traditional meal of "stew" on my last day. After a tour of the Kaiser's personal sawdust factory I said a fond farewell to the PBR and returned once again to the fair shores of Insomnia, from which I write this missive.