Whiskey Daredevils Tour Diary — Day 5: Darmstadt, Germany

The Whiskey Daredevils just returned from a road trip in Europe. Frontman Greg Miller fills us in on what happened.

The hotel is one of those hotels you would picture Robert Redford’s character in “The Sting” staying in. The double Ken and I share has a sink with a lonely little towel hanging off a worn hook. There is a shared bathroom down the hall for the five rooms on the floor. We have three of the five rooms, but I still give a shudder when I think about the toilet and shower. The shower is grungy like a college apartment and the water runs continuously after Gary’s shower, the knobs spinning uselessly. The toilet? Well, those truck drivers I saw last night are staying somewhere in this building…

Speaking of the toilet, I have not made any progress in my gastro intestinal crisis. The situation is best described as “precarious”. After that spaghetti in Belgium, I haven’t had anything solid pass through. Yesterday at the Porsche Museum I had to duck into a bathroom with considerably more traffic than I needed to properly deal with the situation. Making matters worse, a large group of blank faced Japanese tourists were right behind me. I then found myself struggling in the one dedicated toilet while the Japanese continually tried to open the flimsy door. If they had managed to open that door, it would have been worse than any Godzilla movie, let me tell you. I have never experienced anything like it. Imagine if you combined a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew with a can of Fresca, shook it up, and sprayed it out of your backside. It’s not pretty, but that’s the way it was. They should have evacuated the building.

After that horrifying episode, I stopped eating until sheer hunger made me hit the Stuttgart pre show spread live a ravenous dog. Then thirty minutes later, like clockwork, my small intestine convulsed out the “risky” cheese sandwich I ate. Normally, I would NEVER shit in a bar. But we’re not talking about options here. It was “Go Time”. There should have been an air raid siren going off. Luckily, it is Germany and every bathroom is pretty clean. Even a punk rock club like this has acceptable conditions when you are in crisis mode.

I start the morning by crunching Pepto tablets like an eleven year old chomping on Mentos. I am hoping this makes an impact when the currywurst I stupidly ate last night barrels through me like a freight train. This is not good. It reminds me of the legendary day when Ken “shit his way across America” in The Cowslingers. As I recall, he shit in West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, and maybe Maryland in one drive. I don’t want to be That Guy.