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Cooking and Near-Death Experiences
Aka why Jake Nomada does NOT cook...
If we’re being honest…
The stories below make me look like an utter retard. Not just ‘tisms and tings’ — but like actually clinically retarded.
I have accepted this fact.
Alas, a single man traveling around LatAm in search of adventure and bunda, should not be cooking much anyway.
So I figured I would share some of the many dangers found in kitchens for jacked and tan, hornt and vril young men.
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Location: Rio de Janerio, Brazil
It was my first trip to the "Cidade maravilhosa" and I was on a bender. Date after date. Girl after girl. Day drinking. Night drinking. Beach drinking. Bar drinking. It did not matter.
I was hornt.
Sowing my wild oats to the best of my ability.
Eventually, I woke up one morning hungover as hell and with zero energy to speak enough broken Portuguese to order breakfast.
Luckily, I few days prior a lovely Brazilian girl had made me dinner, which entitled a trip to the supermarket.
So I had some eggs, butter, and bread at the crib.
I managed to drag myself to the kitchen of my studio apartment and start prepping breakfast.
Since many people live in small apartments in Brazil, it’s very common to have tiny kitchens.
To increase counter-space, most of the stoves have a large piece of glass covering the top of them — which you can lift up when it’s time to actually use the stove. This allows people a bit more space to prepare meals.
I did not know this.
So I turned the stove on high, set the skillet on top of the glass, and poured my eggs into the skillet.
I them proceed to slump back into bed and message Brazilian girls sweet nothings as my eggs cooked.
I heard a loud noise, something like an explosion, coming from the kitchen.
I immediately popped out of bed and went to the kitchen area to see what had happened. Only to find…
Half scrambled eggs all over the walls and ceilings. Glass all over the floor. The glass stove top nowhere to be found.
It finally clicked…
The glass stove top had “exploded” once it got over-heated.
I immediately video called my Brazilian juice monkey friend to confirm this is what had happened.
He saw the scene and started laughing so hard he was in tears.
When he finally calmed down, he said:
“Brooooo! You have to lift the glass stovetop up before turning on the stove. You can’t cook on it. It exploded because of the heat. How did you not know this?!”
P.S: I am very upset I could not find the photo from this event.
Location: Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic
I was living in the lovely metropolis known as Santo Domingo for months on end, sharing an apartment with a Welshman named Davecito.
Davecito was a good friend of mine. We went to clubs to mack gurls together. We got swollen at the gym together. We did hoodrat tings’ in nature together, like going to half the beach towns in the Dominican Republic.
Much good ser.
Davecito also cooked most of my meals, as he was a trained chef and loved to cook. This was wonderful for me, as I cannot for the life of me make anything other than scrambled eggs.
Yet one terrible Tuesday, Davecito was making sweet sex with a Dominican tiddy lactation porn “star” gurl.
As he was occupied and I didn’t feel like going out to eat, I opened the fridge to find something to cook.
I saw some chicken breasts and decided to put them in the oven.
But there was one problem.
This was no ordinary oven. It was one of those janky third-world ovens where you have to turn the gas on and then light the oven.
So that’s what I set out to do.
I turned on the gas and let it run for a few minutes, or so I thought.
Then I reached down with the lighter and tried to light the oven.
Right as the spark from the lighter turned into a flame, a massive flame exploded out of the oven and knocked me on my ass.
I could feel the heat on my face as I fell.
I recomposed myself and touched my face. My face was fine. Gracias a dios. It would have been a travesty to do something to such a stunningly handsome face.
However, I noticed my hand was fucked up and in significant pain.
Second or third-degree burns on my finger…
The worse part about this one?
I couldn’t pick up a barbell without being in pain for a month.
Location: Jakarta, Indonesia
Not LatAm, but still prudent, sers…
Again, raging hangover + post-coital brain-fog + horrific jet-lag.
Excuses are like assholes, yes. They all stink, yes.
But I was half-awake. Barely alive. I needed coffee. I needed caffeine.
Yet the janky studio apartment I was renting in Jakarta was only equipped with a few bags of instant coffee and a microwave.
I suppose that’s what you get for $600 USD a month.
Not ideal, but I wouldn’t be able to even leave the crib without a little caffeine in my system.
So I warmed up some water in the microwave and then poured it into my all-metal blender bottle.
I dumped the coffee into the blender bottle.
Then I proceed to shake that thing for dear life. Within 5-6 seconds, there was an explosion.
I felt boiling hot water falling all over my body. I jumped. I yelled. I ran back and forth from front-door to the balcony in my shithole studio for a few minutes trying to calm down.
The pain was some of the worse I’d ever felt in my life.
I finally collected myself and went to the bathroom to see the damage.
Luckily, my beautiful face and cock were spared. No damage done. The important tings’ were still in-tact and not burnt.
My chest and shoulder was burnt to shreds. Bloody and blistered.
I called my friend who lived in Indonesia and asked what to do. He said the only place to find decent medical care was at the hospital.
Putting on a shirt was extremely painful. I put on one shirt and immediately pus starting spewing into the fabric.
So I called a taxi, put one one hand inside the shirt to try and make sure the shirt didn’t touch the skin, and went to the hospital.
Luckily, being a white man in Jakarta, the lovely female Indonesian nurses gravitated towards me right when I walked in.
The care was exceptional in every which way and I was treated like a king.
But wholly hell was my chest fucked up…
I still have a slight scar on my chest from this. Nearly 3+ years later.
The doctor at the hospital told me I could get sun on the skin for three months or it would most likely be permanently damaged.
Which royally fucked up my trip to Bali.
Not only is cooking specifically designed for females and incels, but it’s also apparently, according to my travel tales above…
Incredibly dangerous in the third-world.
While many of the broski are worried about street-crime in Colombia or Brazil, I’ve found kitchens to be far more dangerous.
I high recommend no spend time in kitchen, ser.