(Sometimes illegal whorehouses masquerade as bars to avoid being busted).

One Spring Break, three of my boys and I went to London to see the sites and meet up with an old high-school buddy, Matt, who was going to school and living there. His parents had a phat flat in the city with a driver and shit, so we were psyched to chill with him.

We were all wasted one night--me more than the others (oops). We decided to try to score a bag (initiated mostly by me--surprise). Matt got his parents' driver to take us to this sketchy part of SOHO in the Jag and drop us off. By that point in the evening, I was fully blacked-out drunk. All memories ceased, until…

This Moroccan chick wearing only a white bra and panties was shaking me and talking in some shit language I couldn't--for the life of me--understand.

Explanation:

Apparently we walked around asking where to hook up a bag. We were directed to the top floor of this burned-out building nearby. When we knocked, the guy manning the door insisted we buy a beer. (Sometimes illegal whorehouses masquerade as bars to avoid being busted).

Once we were inside, I got my beer and was chilling on a couch in the front room while my friends and the bouncer went to go get the weed.

I promptly fell asleep with the beer in my lap.

Back to the prostitute…

So there I was with the Moroccan hooker (in white panties and a bra) yelling at me. I didn't understand what she was saying and I had no idea where I was. She was being pretty loud too, and when the bouncer came out, I was sure that I was fucked.

Luckily, right behind the bouncer was Matt who helped to get everything straightened out. Apparently, the prostitute thought I had just wandered in and passed out.

We did get kicked out anyway, but only after we got the bag. It was the brownest garbage I've ever seen--straight up Dundee weed.

To top it all off, we had to walk like 3 miles to get cab service.