The Best Pizza in Prague

How do you find the best pizza in Prague? There are thousands of pubs in Prague serving nice Czech beer. And there are an equal number of pizza joints serving cardboard wafers with ketchup, 10 strands of cheese, and corn for fuck's sake. How do I cope with such a gaping chasm in my taste for good beer and delicious pizza in the same place? I investigate. I eat. I eat again, then I blog about it.

I talk about food a lot in my bloggy woggy. Because a Wide Body Jetsetter didn't get so wide drinking mineral water and eating salad. I have consumed several metric fucktons of pizza, beer, Mexican food, cerveza, Czech fried cheese, pivo, and much more. Hell, my Berlin blog was called Dunkin' Berliner out of my sheer love for Berliner Jelly donuts. And maybe Kennedy.

If you're living la vida loca (or šílený život) in Prague, you may have noticed the whole beer and pizza equation is completely skewed, screwed, and tattooed. I'm here to rectify that. I'll be your personal pizza pal to help you find the good stuff and avoid the Communist slop.

What Does 'the Best' Mean?

I will get down to brass tacks. What is best for someone in Naples will not be the same for someone in Chicago, New York, or Sacramento. I should define what I consider the best pizza in order to set some frame of reference. Although, there is an absolute truth we can start with. If you're putting corn and tuna on your pizza, you are out of your gawd damn mind.

The Crust

Like the foundation for any edifice built on solid earth, the pizza crust is fundamental. I personally like New York style pizza crust AND Chicago deep dish crust—for different reasons.

There's a pizza joint called Pieces in Midtown Sacramento. It's like New York pizza on steroids. They ball the sourdough, age it overnight, flatten it, throw it up in the air, then top the BeJAYzus out of it. Lots of sauce, cheese, meat, and veggies. The crust comes out crispy on the bottom and chewy in the middle, like a fine pastry. They even fold the crust edges over the cheese and sauce for extra zing.

Just down the road (I don't like to walk very far) is Zelda's Chicago Style Pizza in the Pan. We're talking deep dish pie pans served with thick slabs of gooey goodness a gangster would drool over (and this OG pizza dude has for years). The secret of Chicago style is a pie-type crust with layers of mozzarella slices thrown on before the sauce and other toppings. Weird, right? But it keeps the crispy, crunchy integrity of the crust from getting soggy from sauce.

I'm aware that Europeans like wafer-thin pizza crusts. Screw them. They don't know shit from shinola. And Czech pizza crust is exactly as bad as all their baked goods: bland, thin, dry, and crunchy. Let's proceed, true pizza fans.

The Sauce

The second ingredient added to the house of pizza is the sauce. Unless you're in Chicago, where the cheese goes before the sauce. I believe the best pizza sauce strikes a perfect balance between zest and flavor. It's full of herbs, slow simmered, with a smidgen of sugar added to kill the acidity of the tomatoes. If the flavor of the sauce is so strong and tangy that it cuts through all the cheese and toppings, something is seriously wrong. Also, if you can't taste the sauce at all, it's probably just Czech ketchup watered down. Fuj.

The Cheese

I shouldn't even have to say this, but mozzarella is the prime pizza cheese. The pizza must be made with either 100% mozzarella or 80% mozzarella and 20% other cheeses. Czechs will put fucking EIDAM cheese on their pizza. Or worse, some rubber commie nonsense that tastes even MORE like plastic. Again, fuj.

The Toppings

Personal taste in toppings on pizza is an age-old argument. People scream at the thought of pineapple on pizza, while others cringe at the idea of fish and corn fucking up the pie. I'm not going to argue with personal taste, even though I've already stated clearly that people who eat tuna and corn on their pizza are out of their gawd damn minds.

Toppings should be generous but not overwhelming. Think of a fine food medley dancing on your tongue. The combination of ingredients should make sense. Mushrooms and Italian sausage pair well. Bacon and onions pair well. A good Chicago deep dish combo will have crust, cheese, sauce, sausage, mushrooms, pepperoni, bell peppers, onions, and garlic. That right there is the pizza of the godz. Wash it down with a pitcher of beer and you'll be welcomed into Valhalla just like that, pizza warrior.

Original Ain't Best

Whenever someone advertises their food using the words 'authentic' or 'original', run like hell. There is a reason humankind keeps perfecting things. Otherwise we would still be rolling on stone tires like Fred Fucking Flintstone. Or tackling animals and chewing on their raw flesh. Fire stepped into the process. Cooking kills the bugs that kill us. And seared flesh tastes so fucking good. See? Progress is perfection in motion.

I've tried the 'original' Neapolitan pizza from the birthplace of pizza in Italy. I tried it in Berlin and in Prague, and my tongue could find no purchase. The one in Berlin was called Pizza Nostra, and it had a dry, doughy crust with almost no toppings. There is another one in Prague called Pizze di Frankie. The guy started out making pizza in his apartment. He should have stayed there. All of his pizzas are made with something that looks like an electric pancake maker. Fast cooking at high temperature does not make good pizza. It makes flavorless slop in the middle with crust burnt to black bubbles on the edges. The pizza I had there had sausage pink in the middle with burnt crust. How is that culinary quackery even possible? Oh yeah: don't put pizza in a Barbie oven, homes.

Napoli may have invented pizza, but that shit is as bland as a cardboard box covered in tomato sauce. Some prehistoric brute invented the wheel. That doesn't mean we need to roll down the road on stone wheels for an 'authentic' experience. Authentic is for chumps and peasants with no taste buds. But we are pizza warriors. We brook no bullshit.

Let's Pillage Some Prague Pizza

Armed with my pizza manifesto and a serious appetite, I ventured out to find the best pizza in Prague. I consumed the requisite metric fucktonne (European measurement) of pizza in order to bring you the best of the best. Life is too short to eat shitty-ass pizza. The following Prague pizza joints stand out for different reasons. Some of them score higher points on the crust or the sauce, others are just plain inventive and fun.

The American Pizza Joints

I call them AINO. As in American In Name Only. And AINO WAY I eat that shit. These are pizza chains that came into this former commie hellhole with the promise of good ole fashioned American pizza. Then failed. How did they fail when they were the kings of the pizza chains back home? Simple. They dumbed it down for the locals. Every single Indian, American, Italian, and Chinese restaurant did the same damn thing: they removed all trace of flavor to cater to the lowest common denominator (the locals). If the locals don't like flavor, you'd best remove it all so you don't piss them off and go out of business.

But what is the point of opening an 'American' pizza chain in Prague if you're not going to do American style pizza? There are at least 50,000 pizza joints in Prague that all offer flavorless Frisbees of fuckall for the locals. Can't you stand out from the crowd? Can't you follow the basic international franchise rules of product consistency?

No. They can't.

Pizza Hut

The first international American pizza chain to hit Prague is officially the worst. Pizza Hut was never the best type of pizza you could get in the States, but you knew what you were getting: flaky, buttery pan pizza crust or chewy, gooey goodness on top of a classic sourdough base.

Prague Pizza Huts have ditched these lofty pretensions in order to provide the fastest race to the bottom I have ever seen. The crust is dry as a desert. Almost no sauce whatsoever. Pizza Hut pizzas in Prague don't even try to compensate for the loss of flavor by offering the standard Parmesan, oregano, or chili pepper sides. They do not exist. Even for sale. I've blogged that I hate the fact that Czechs charge for condiments, boxes, and bags. But I would give them cash money for a packet of parm. Or a handful of oregano.

Since they don't bother to season their pizzas with herbs or garlic like a normal pizzeria, they fall to the bottom of my list. They don't even offer garlic as a topping to be added. If there's a pizza oven in Hell, Pizza Hut will bake in the fucker.

Domino's Pizza

Originally the official pizza of stoners, Domino's Pizza brought pizza to your house at all hours of the night when you were too stoned to drive. In 30 minutes or less. Stoners need their damn pizza PRONTO.

It wasn't the best pizza, but it was the go-to standard when you couldn't get off your damn sofa. Now they have them in Prague. They should have stayed home. I do not know how you can take something mediocre and degrade it to rock bottom in 1 year, but Prague Domino's has managed to do it. The first time I had Domino's Pizza in Prague was in their first location in Nusle. I was very impressed that they offered double and triple cheese on their pizzas. So I ordered double cheese, and it was good. But the rest of the pizza was as flavorless as a box of packing peanuts from Amazon. Why? How? Oh yeah: they dumb it down for the locals, once again. No herbs, no flavor. Fucking locals. They're fucking with my chi.

*Breaking News: months after I wrote this, both Domino's locations shut down. Instant karma is a bitch y'all.

Czech Pizza Joints Don't Have Garlic

Garlic equals flava and Czechs don't like flava. We've established that. And as much as I like to beat them like red-headed stepchildren, I just have to accept that they will never be able to develop taste buds or produce a good pizza. Ironically, old school Czech beer halls offer a snack called topinky. This is fried bread served with raw garlic cloves that you grate over the surface of the bread as a schmear. It's so strong it burns your lips. Muh?

But Czech pizza joints don't like to keep garlic in the building even. I've asked. Every time I go in. They just shrug and say What do you want from a student working for minimum wage in a Commie shithole country? Which is exactly the kind of response I would give while working in minimum wage student jobs in the States. Only I substituted 'Commie' with 'Capitalist Pigdog'.

One Czech pizza joint showed promise for about five minutes: 360pizza. Their adds said 'simply different dough.' And it was. It was the real deal, aged sourdough pizza recipe used by all the great American pizzerias. But then they committed the Cardinal Sin: flavorless sauce, paltry toppings, and no flava flave. And they threw it into one of those Barbie ovens that take only 6 minutes (360 seconds) to bake your pizza. Nice gimmick for busy Czechies. FAIL. Good pizza takes time.

Pizza Jesus Comes to Town: Rud Be Thy Name

Finally, a ray of light cracks the dark cloud of pizza doom looming over Central Europe. A pizza prophet heard my pathetic cries, answered my pizza prayers, came down from above, and landed with a giant thud: Rud's Pizza is here!

I discovered Rud's by accident on a trip to Tabor, CZ in South Bohemia. I almost gave it a pass due to the logo: a hipster with an oozing triangular pizza slice for a beard. But I decided to put my hipster fears aside to give it a go (I read good reviews beforehand). I tried a slice first so I didn't have to commit. It was so damn good I had to order a whole pie.

The crust was 100% proper aged/risen/sourdough American style. But they added flavorful sauce, real mozzarella, and generous toppings. It was Fan. Fucking. Tastic. Fluffy, chewy crust. Rich, flavorful sauce. Generous toppings, and real mozzarella (with blue cheese added to boot). I ordered a large, ate half, and toted the rest to my hotel room, where I ravaged it at midnight with reckless abandon.

I found out that Rud's had exploded on the scene with their unique pizza in the past few years. They now have more than 35 branches, including 3 in Prague. They have branches in Pankrac and Hloubetin.

But they don't have garlic. Don't they need to ward off vampires (landlords)? Don't they know that garlic cleanses the blood after a night of heavy drinking? They offered garlic sauce in lieu of real garlic. It sufficed in the way that methadone might suffice for a heroin addict. Also, most of the slices they offer are with cream sauce instead of tomato sauce. What. Is the deal. With that?

Run Down to Rud's Now

I want them to stay in business. The Rud's Pizzeria at Narodni wasn't turning a brisk trade, in spite of the fact that actual Valkyrie warriors rode in chariots down from Valhalla bearing this pizza to cast heavenly pearls among swine, with the Apocalypse Now Wagner bit playing in the background. It probably doesn't help that they're on the 2^nd floor of the Maj building. Sadly, they went out of business. Replaced by overpriced 'nejpls' hipster bullshit.

And please, Mr. Rud. Don't go the way of the thousands of bland Czech pizzerias littering the culinary battlefield like dogshit on Czech sidewalks. Hold true to the creed of real pizza and keep on keeping on. Your rapid expansion heralds a new pizza empire sweeping through these dusty former-Commie wastelands. We need it. We love it. Don't expand too fast and too far like doomed empires of yesteryear. And for the love of ODIN, don't dumb it down for the locals. Then you will do fine.

And I will give you all of my pizza money from here to eternity, Valhalla, and beyond. If you would just add garlic to your menu.

BYOF

Sadly, if you want to have pizza with flavor in a bland land like Czechia, you need to Bring Your Own Flavor. This is why I carry a little jar of mixed herbs to the Czech pizzerias: oregano, basil, garlic powder, and chili flakes. The very things that make a pizza go from zero to hero in my land find no purchase in the bland food here. So after ordering my pizza at 360 (their angel/demoni ain't bad), I bust out my spice jar and shake it til I make it taste good.

Best Prague Pizza? DIY

I've officially given up. After seeing so many promising pizza joints rise and fall like empires, I just eat pizza at home. Even frozen pizza is better than the average Česky hovno they serve for 300 KC per pizza. Just get yourself a frozen pizza from Albert, Kaufland, or Billa, and bake it yourself. Sure, you have to doctor dafuq outta the bastard; add cheese, garlic, herbs, etc. My personal favorite: Dr. Oetker's Casa di Mama brand. This is the only rising crust dough frozen pizza you can get in CZ.

Or better yet: bake it from scratch. A long time ago in a country far, far way, I used to roll my dough by hand, mix my sauce, and add just enough toppings to make the pizza angels weep. Oh yes. There are pizza angels. May they bless you tonight. I'm off to start kneading...

Helter Swelter!

 

How to Stay Cool in the Evil Prague Heat

The latest European heat wave feels like Satan farted blazing habanero sauce into our weeping eyes. They call it the European Heat Dome, and it does not feature a song contest. It's just a giant bubble of high pressure driving the temps up near 100F. Yikes. Every year it gets hotter and hotter and nobody does anything about it. So if you're suffering from a near heat stroke in Prague in June 2026, get ready for some sweet solace for your sweaty ass. It's Big Sir's list of his favorite places in Prague that actually have working air conditioning—and actually turn it on.

Don't worry, my ninjaz. If you read my old Prague Heat Beater advice, you probably noticed I suggested you run behind one of those water tanks cooling off the roads. Yes, they treat roads better than people. And I've learned not to give out such ridiculous advice. But I'm now going to share with you my go-to places for cooling off in the helter swelter.

U Sládečků

Just got back from this Czech restaurant with a modern twist: working air conditioning. They've got Pilsner Urquell from the tank. This is a massive underground tank that ensures that all beer is cold, clean, crisp, and (mostly) free of that weird metallic taste Pilsner normally has (I prefer Guinness, but I'm weird that way). They also serve all the Czech classics, including my favorite: fried cheese. But it's not the garden variety commie Czech rubber eidam cheese. It's Gouda, baby.

The main AC unit is perched over the entrance to the WC. Sit directly across from it for maximum effect. If it's full, just wait at another table for a few minutes. Any Czechs seated there will run and hide in a sunny corner. They fear air conditioning as if it were a French daguerreotype camera trying to steal their peasant souls. The superstitious fux think that cool air blowing on their skin will cause disease. More than a few of them have told me this.

So my friend and I moved to the golden table area when a Czech man ran from the terrifying scourge of modern cooling tech. And we ate of the cheese and drank of the beer. And all was well in our sweat glands.

U Tří Prasátek

Three porcine figures stand guard over the door like ragged remnants of a mighty swine army the Roman covered in oil, set fire to, and stampeded directly into the enemy lines. Stupid spaghetti eaters. All that bacon, WASTED.

The Tří Prasátek, aka Three Little Pigs, welcome you to a bacchanalian feast of epic proportions. You will pig out on the finest swine morsels in Prague. Legendary ribs, medieval pork knee, beautiful meat platters, sauces, sides, and cold beer to send the swine swimming in your gut right proper.

The AC sweet spot is against the wall to the left of the bar as you enter. The AC unit is slightly hidden behind the bar, but it blows cascades of cool over you as you combat the meat sweats brewing within. When my culinary comrade and I were there, the front door was wide open, letting in the heat and letting out the cold. It may take them a decade or more to learn how AC works. In the meantime, head for that cold corner, grab a frosty beer, and eat a metric fuckton (actual EU measurement) of pork products.

Želva Beers & Burgers

I hesitated for years to mention this amazing place in the maze of cyberspace. What if it became mobbed and the prices doubled? Or worse, I couldn't get a seat? Fortunately, you can make reservations (recommended) for this tiny burger joint slinging the best mother flipping burgers in Prague.

Swine is king in Czechia. They have perfected the art of pork and taken it to new heights. Sadly, they don't know anything about the American style of smoky, streaky, crispy bacon. But I can forgive them because ribs and pork knee. They also don't know much about making burgers. And when they do, they charge higher than US prices for one. Rat bastards.

Želva is the only place in Prague that I will eat a burger. They grind the beef daily from fresh beef. Then they slow cook thick patties so they soak up the grill smoke on the outside and stay moist in the middle. They will actually cook it medium, or medium rare if you want it. Anything above medium is rubber. That's just the way beef is, I'm afraid. Unless you're doing a smokehouse job on a brisket. But that's a different kettle of, um, cow. The prices are also reasonable.

This joint also serves nice beers from a microbrewery in some village that I don't need to research. It's good, that's enough. I love the dark beer, but they also have other shades and tints. They also sling excellent home fries with the skins on the tips. Like they actually came from actual potatoes (they do).

A few years ago, Želva committed itself to a complete renovation. The small space removed the previously scattered tall tables and replaced them with wall-to-wall booths. Then they added a wooden ceiling with two air conditioning units in them. Previously, they had a rather anemic single unit over a single table. Obviously I chose that one.

Caveat: they don't always use the AC. And I don't always stay. But I find that they generally run the AC when it exceeds 90F (30ish C) outside. Sit anywhere when the AC is on. It chills reeeeaaaaallll gooooood. Unless some Czech chump leaves the dang front door open.

Loď Pivovar. A Boatload of Beer!

There's a lot of riverside joints you can choose to spend ridiculous amounts of money for a river view and a beer. But how many of them brew the beer right on the boat? Better yet: how many of them have air conditioning? One. That would be Loď Pivovar, or BrewBoat. Located right down the road from Namesti Republiky, it's just the ticket for quenching your thirst and cooling your jets. And by jets I mean yo sweaty ass.

There are three decks on the BrewBoat: the top deck, nice for an open air, riverside drinking experience. Not so much when it's 100F/38C outside. Which is has been for the last week. Step across the boat ramp into the air conditoned paradise on the river. Depending on the time of year, you can sample up to 7 kinds of beer, all brewed right there on the boat.

They've also got grub from the galley, from fish n chips to burgers and coleslaw. The only downside is the price. I used to pay 65 CZK for a brilliant pint of porter called Monarchie. That same pint costs 95 crowns. Which is a lot for this country. But hey, you get a river view, craft beer, AND air conditioning. And they bloody well know that.

Woodoo

This pub on Bořivojova street really hits the spot. It's got cold beer, cold AC, and cool funk on the speakers. They've got Foosball tables for the chilluns to spin and run tourneys, and the clientele runs on the younger side. But they don't seem to mind an old wide body geezer like me coming in and drinking their beer. Weird masks adorn the walls in this modern twist on the old Czech beer hall.

You can grab bar bites if you want, more along the lines of chips and nuts. If you need some serious food, don't worry. Bořivojova is a prime pub street in Žižkov. Wander it and get your fill. But in the meantime, soak up that Woodoo they do and chill.

Malls

Yes, malls. These architectural monstrosities are popular, gaudy temples to consumerism for a reason. One stop shopping, food courts, and yes: air conditioning. When you can't beat the heat, give up and head to one of Prague's many malls. The double-mall complex at Narodni trida is my go-to. Each of them has a food court in the shade. And they blast the cool air like true champions.

Some malls (like Flora, Smichov, etc) have multiplex cinemas inside. So you can kill an entire day in air conditioned comfort eating, drinking, and watching flix.

Why Don't Europeans Just Put AC Everywhere?

Good question. They never needed it all these years. Even in the Mediterranean countries, temps rarely got as hot as they do nowadays. And if they did: jump in water. But Central and Western Europe never saw such heat. Especially in June. This week broke all Czech records for heat. 39C temps for days in a row. Normally, the hottest temps in Prague would reach 35-37C for a couple of weeks in July. And then it would cool off at night.

Last night I ran my portable air conditioner (dubbed My Own Personal Jesus) from 10pm to 10am. It barely lowered the temp from 39C down to 29C. Something has to give. Give us that sweet thunderstorm that normally follows a heat bubble. Give us torrential rain and winds to blow that heat right out of the valley. Because if not, Europe needs to get ready for a lot more heat-related deaths. They're happening, they're real, and they're not going away as the summers grow hotter each year.

Stay cool, my ninjas.

The Prague Flea Market

Open Air Treasure, Trash, Beer, and Sausages

- You travel down an industrial side street in the outskirts of Prague. The street is rammed with people from the tram stop to the entrance. Pushing down the narrow lane between car parks, the crowd shuffles at a hectic pace to get to the massive flea market at u Elektry tram stop. It doesn't matter if you get there when it opens at the crack of dawn or a few hours later; it is ALWAYS crowded.

Put your coins in the turnstiles and shamble on in with the other barely-awake early birds at 8am on a Saturday morning. You've just entered the biggest flea market in the Czech Republic. The Prague Flea Market website just calls it Bleší Trhy, or 'flea market.' You could also call it the Giant Open Air Gypsy Mall and Ukrainian Social Club.

Come one, come all! Miles of trash and treasure (though mostly trash)!

How did I get addicted to flea marketing? Why would a giant with a bad back bend over on a hungover Saturday morning to rummage through heaps of trash looking for bits and bobs that will pile up in a closet somewhere at home?

I don't know. How does any addiction start? Maybe we should go back to the beginning, where the first taste was free. All I know is I got hooked. BAD.

First Flea Market

Grammy took us to the flea market in Southern Oregon when we were kids. We whined. We didn't want to watch her rummaging through other people's rows of trash searching for her elusive 'pre-war ruby red glass.' It was embarrassing. Can't we go to the mall like normal middle class kids, Grammy? But there was no mall in that small town; only a flea market. And our granny survived the Great Depression, so thrift was her middle name. Grammy Thrift Robinson.

She promised to buy us something to distract our hyperactive 5 and 7 year-old selves. A toy? A slushy? We shut up and jumped in the old Oldsmobile. It smelled like dust, hot metal, burnt vinyl, and Grammy's rose-scented perfume.

I don't remember much about that fateful day in the mid-70s, but I will never forget this: among the trash and bric-a-brac we found our first comic book, The Amazing Spider-Man #122. It featured an evil green goblin on a rocket surfboard and a dude in a spider suit holding a dead girl. Everything needed to fuel our active imaginations. And it cost only a nickel. We read and re-read that precious comic book until it was dog-eared. We bought other issues in the series. Twenty years later, we had the entire collection of the Amazing Spider-Man from #1 to #300.

It turned out that #122 was highly collectible and worth a lot more than the issues just after. At one point it was worth $5,000, but that was long after we sold the whole collection for college money. Muh.

Since then, whenever I saw an open lot full of tables and tents, something tingled up and down my spine like a spider sense. More of an itch. I'd call it a flea sense.

Žižkov Flea Market

I found the Žižkov Flea Market by accident while riding a tram through the popular Prague suburb on a Saturday several years ago. Žižkov touches the center, so it's not really a suburb. It's also the pub capital of Prague and maybe Central Europe. Žižkov is a puburb. Right before the tram took me out of The 'Kov and out to my industrial ghetto known as Libeň, it passes Nákladové nádraží Žižkov. I looked to the right and saw a fence with large, hand-written signs screaming BLEŠAK! SLEVA! KAŽDY PA, SO, NE!

I didn't need to Google what 'blešak' means (I did that later); through the fence I saw hundreds of people milling about in a giant open air space with tables and tents on the concrete grounds. Yup. This right here is what we call a flea market.

When I finally had a free Saturday (where I woke up before noon), I ventured over to the Žižkov Flea Market. As I entered the vast parking lot a man approached me with his hand out. 'Great,' I thought, 'Accosted by touts already.' But the man was in fact the door man (parking lot man?) asking for a token 10 crown entry fee. He pointed to a sign that said 'symbolic entry 10 kc.' I paid, thinking about the symbolism. Oh, I get it. Symbolic means Just Enough Not to Piss Off the Flea Marketeers but Just Enough to Keep the Bums Out. Right. Let's go see the fleas.

First Find

My first trip turned out to be a minor win. After milling about through tents and tables selling the most useless scraps of nothing I'd ever seen, I found something interesting. It was a ceramic mug with a butt-ugly face on it. The two drunk men assessed the find, sized me up, and asked 30 crowns. The second man said 'it's as ugly as your mug' to his friend and I laughed. They had been boozing heavily and it was only 10am.

Then he offered me a box of free stuff containing random odds and ends and a broken lamp. The wooden lamp was in the shape of a tobacco pipe with a hollowed out end for matches and such. It looked old and rustic. Like me. So I took the two pieces and made a point to fix it one day. All I needed was some wood glue. And some luck that the wiring still worked. I wasn't about to risk getting zapped by 240V Euro-current trying to fix the old thing.

Meet the Flea People

Over the course of that summer I learned a few vital things about flea marketing. Number 1: wear a hat or your scalp will get sunburned. Even at 9am before the day heats up, spending an hour or two shuffling across a big parking lot will scorch your exposed skin. I wear a straw hat with a wide brim to keep my head cool and my neck from reddening. Number 2: learn how to haggle in Czech. Since Czechs hate to haggle, this makes it all the more fun. Especially if your Czech is as bad as mine. Number 3: the flea market sellers are often far more interesting than their merchandise.

After a few visits you start to see who the regular sellers are. They have the tents. The ones with the folding tables are just unloading granny's attic for beer money.

Nazi Culture?

One of the sellers had piles of military merchandise with a very German feel to it. Badges and pins with words like Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. Old belts, scabbards, knives, and shell casings. Right about the time I was wondering if the seller kept the Nazi stuff hidden in the back, I overheard an American voice behind me:

“Well, this is certainly a fine display of Nazi culture in Prague,” he opined to his lady friend.

After the squeamish Americans left, the seller approached me. When he found out I spoke English, he exclaimed 'EEENGLEEEESSSHHH, AAAAHHHH!' and then offered me a shot. I could tell he was sauced by the smell of his AAAAAHHHHH. It must have been strong stuff. He was shitfaced. Not wanting to offend a drunken seller of sharp, rusty knives and possibly illegal Nazi swag, I took him up on his offer. I downed a shot. Then another. To be polite.

Drinking in a Parking Lot

A spring in my step, I proceeded onward. Then I saw a trailer peddling pivo and parek (beer and hot dogs). I pounced. An ice cold beer in a plastic cup is just the thing for flea marketing. I skipped the hot dog. That shit's all lips and assholes.

Soon I met a gypsy selling an impossibly ornate statue of a giant golden angel. The rest of his stuff was garbage. The angel was the centerpiece. FIVE THOUSAND CROWNS, he yelled at me. I smiled and quietly wondered how much he had paid. I'm guessing it was the old FIVE FINGER DISCOUNT, I didn't yell back.

In a flea market tent I met an elderly Czech man who spoke perfect English. I mean, with a British accent and all. After speaking with him for a while (and purchasing some bits and bobs for projects from him), I asked why his English was better than mine. He laughed and told me that he lived in the UK for 20 years as an antique seller. These days he wasn't selling much in the way of antiques, but he seemed to enjoy the conversation more than the business. We talked for hours over several weekend visits. Then it all came to an end suddenly.

R.I.P. Žižkov Flea

One fine Saturday I got off the flea tram stop and was hit with a shock: it was gone. Fenced up, walled in, and defunct. Thinking it was only a temporary closure, I approached what was previously the entrance. Nope. The Žižkov Flea Market was dead. The flea was no more. It had expired. It was an ex-flea.

All that remained was an empty concrete parking lot surrounded by chain-link fencing. The tents were gone; the tables were gone; the drunken Nazis were gone. But wait! There was hope! Signs posted all along the fence shouted the glorious announcements of a new and improved space: miles of new luxury flats for mafia fucks. Meh. That's just what we need in Prague. More places nobody can afford. Prague rents are climbing faster than Spider-Man after the Green Goblin, but what do the Czechs do? Build more luxury flats for mafia fucks.

But that's another story.

U Elektry Flea Market

Back to the present year. I had become fully entrenched in the flea scene, one of many insects scuttling across the massive 2-square-km parking lot at u Elektry tram stop in Vysočany 3 or 4 weekends per month. Sadly, the entrance fee went from 20 CZK to 30 CZK to 50 CZK – all in the space of a year. Greedy fuxes. Weirdly enough, this did not stop the hordes from pouring into the flea market in droves every weekend. For that price, I thought I should get there early so as not to miss any trashy treasures.

I tried going early in the morning around 8 am when I couldn't sleep (hell, that's as early as you will ever see my white ass outside). Rammed with rabble. I tried going at my usual time of around 10am. Heaving with humans. Finally I gave up, went with the old guru philosophy (Sum Dum Fuk), and just let it flow. Arrive when you want, rifle through the riff raff, and treat the whole damn thing like a fishing expedition. Some days you score a big fish, other days you just drink beer in the boat. Or on the bench. At the very least, I get to stretch my legs for an hour or two and drink beer at 10am. Which I rarely do. No, really. Stretching my legs sucks.

I Have a System

Whenever someone tells you they have a system for anything, run like hell. It's bogus. It's bollox. It doesn't work. But I have one, I tell ya, and it almost always/usually/never works, depending on Mars and the stars and random luck. So it's scientific.

I've noticed that most people enter the flea and proceed directly down the first row to the right. I did that as well, not wanting to go against the flow. The first row on the right after you enter is made up almost entirely of lighters, mineral water, batteries, and lunch meat (!) Because what the people crave while rummaging through garbage is some lukewarm cold cuts sitting un-refrigerated in a parking lot. Mmmmm. Salmonella. After a few disappointing weekends of following the unwashed hordes down disappointment lane, I finally make a grand leap: GO THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, VOLE! When the eager masses went to the immediate right, I went all the way to the back of the the joint where people normally finished the rubbish race. My logic: while they were picking through the scraps, I would magically beat them to the undiscovered treasures lurking near the finish line.

And it worked! Well, once or twice. After weaving against the waves of weary folks going the opposite direction, I think I beat them to a bargain or two. So I would shake it up like that, week after week. Go clockwise one Saturday, then go counter-clockwise the following Saturday. The only thing that remained the same: I would plunk my weary ass down at the far end of the flea and have a beer. Never a grilled sausage, no matter how good that greazy shizzle smells. It's all lips and assholes.

Heights of Ecstasy, Depths of Despair

I brought a friend to the flea. As a flea fan, he liked the fishing expedition and had no idea what he would find. Like me. We passed rows of trash and treasure on several occasions, and we often walked out of the dump with some pearls. If not, we could at least drink beer at 10am with impunity.

One particularly fine Saturday morning, I was rummaging through the refuse for my specific type of trash: old metal/glass lamps made in Czechoslovakia. After conquering my initial fear of high voltage, I had managed to rescue and repair several old metal lamps with glass shades from the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Well, most of them didn't have the shades, which is why they were so cheap. But now I have managed to fill my flat with more lamps than anyone could possibly use at any given time. They don't just light up my flat. They light up my life.

So while I was digging for glass lamp globes to fit onto my many metal lamps in my closet, my friend scored a find which had him laughing out loud.

“Look at it! Its a two-headed dragon!” he exclaimed. After he bought it he found he had another epiphany: “The heads are articulated and move separately!” he laughed. I told him it was the most joy I had ever seen 50 crowns bring, and we both had a laugh.

After our celebratory beers, we left the flea. Then my friend cried out WAIT! MY WALLET! It had gone missing somewhere between the dragon and the beers. We were already outside the turnstiles where you pay to go in, but he had already thrown another coin down the gaping maw of the greedy machine to go back in to find his wallet.

Twenty minutes later, the waves of flea ecstasy had ebbed into trickles of despair: my friend was pick pocketed. God. DAMMIT. Greedy fuxes.

Ready to Return

Spring has nearly sprung in Prague, and I'm ready to dive back into the heaps of crapola out in the U Elektry Flea Market. I haven't been out there for months, mainly because of the winter. The number of vendors cuts in half and it's not nearly as fun sitting on a frosty bench drinking beer from a plastic cup.

I strongly recommend a trip to the U Elektry flea market. It's a great walk in the open air, and recycling and up-cycling is much more earth friendly than buying new Ikea stuff. And you don't have to spend hours assembling anything.

So I plan to return to find the missing parts for my many unfinished projects soon enough. Hopefully they won't raise the damn entrance fee again. Although there is a bright side: fewer people will crowd through the turnstiles if the price keeps going up.

And that makes it that much easier for me to find that rare, dusty/rusty vintage tchotchke I'm looking for. What exactly is it that I'm looking for, you ask? I'm not telling.

I would hate to have competition.

Prague Pizza Putsch

Long ago in the Roaring 90s in Prague I had a blogger gig for something called Pell-Mell: CyberNews for Expats. I had to churn out a whopping two (2) blog posts per week in exchange for rent. And I could choose whatever twitching topic fell out of my pivo-addled brain.

When I completely ran out of grist for the mill, I once wrote an article with the title Prague and the Great Mango Chutney Shortage. Of course there was a mango shortage; nobody here ate tropical fruit in the 90s. There were only about a half dozen Indian restaurants in Prague at the time, and only one of them offered mango chutney on the menu. And it was a Pakistani restaurant. One day they ran out of mango chutney. The shortage lasted for weeks. Imagine my expat rage.

20 years later. There is now an explosion of international dining options in Prague. Now that these ex-Commie fuxes have had 30 years to get with the program, I wonder why, in 2022, you can hardly find a pizzeria or Italian restaurant in Prague with garlic on the menu. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Italian food without garlic is like a day without sunshine.

Pizza Everywhere

As Capitalism slowly oozes over the former commie soil and replaces everything with rampant consumerism, pizza restaurants popped up everywhere in Prague. In fact, I believe that there are nearly as many pizza restaurants in Prague as pubs—and that's saying a lot in the beer drinking capital of the world.

At first the Chinese restaurants starting taking over the failing Czech pubs that only offered warm, flat beer and tepid food with botulism sauce, served by a drunk with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. No wonder the Asians took over. At one point I remember seeing my old street in Prague with up to 15 Chinese restaurants on one street, sometimes two of them were right next to each other. They all had the same photo menus in the window, dishes M1 through M19, all exactly the same chow at the same prices.

Clearly this was an immigration scam. Nobody wants Chinese food in Prague THAT badly. But one thing about the swill: it rarely gave you food poisoning and the staff were always Asian. And courteous.

The Prague 'pizzeria' of today is filled to the rafters with Czechs, and they bring all of their hideous, flavorless, peasant food habits to the table. Sadly, this includes pizza with saltine cracker crust, ketchup for sauce, lumpy Czech cheese in thin, see-through strands, and almost no flavor whatsoever.

You would think that with thousands of pizza joints in Prague, some of them could carry garlic, right? They've got garlic in Czech restaurants; it ain't a stranger.

Czech Food: Bring a Guide Dog for the Bland

I remember a Frenchman on a Prague expats forum wrote “When searching for Czech food, bring a guide dog for the bland.” It was his forum signature and it appeared on every post. Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Every time he posted. Fair enough; the French found a way to make snails edible.

But Frawnchy wasn't far from the truth. Czechs have very bland taste, and rarely use any form of spices or herbs stronger than oregano. Ketchup is too spicy for them, as the markets offer 'mild ketchup' for those who cry like babies at the thought of normal ketchup. So it is quite normal for the Czech interpretation of pizza to include sauce without any herbs, and pizza without garlic. Without oregano, basil, and garlic (and any decent amount of cheese), you might as well take that Czech pizza and throw it like a Frisbee. If only because it tastes like one.

Paltry Prague Pizza

I've given up on finding 'American style' pizza in Prague (No. American pizza is not just thicker crust. It's thicker cheese, thicker toppings, and thicker flavor). Now I search for the hole-in-the-wall joint where some pizza chef spent time not only in Naples but also in New York or any other American city. Sure, Naples may have invented pizza, but it was definitely not perfected there. Its thin, burnt cracker crust, paltry toppings, and weird greens on top ain't cutting it in my Wide World, friends.

But one thing Italy has in buckets: garlic. You can smell the pungent smell of garlic wafting out of the window of every single restaurant in any Italian city you visit. So why, for the love of all creatures great and small, do the Czechs forget to offer garlic on their pizza?

Some Prague pizzerias offer one pizza with garlic on it. And there ain't much more on there. Or worse, the damn thing has eggs on it. Or corn. MUH?!?

Garlic isn't for everyone, granted. But it should be offered as an added topping, like the dreaded anchovies in American pizzerias (Which baffles me. Nobody eats anchovies). Just in case some weirdo wants pizza with flavor. Garlic costs nothing and keeps well. Just sayin', Czechies. Lose the corn, the tuna, and the eggs. That shit don't belong anywhere NEAR a pizza. Get garlic, bitches.

Ironically, Czechs Eat Garlic

What makes the Great Garlic Gastronomy Conundrum even worse is that Czechs are no strangers to garlic. In fact, two of their most famous dishes have enough garlic in them to vaporize a village of vampires.

Topinky: fried slices of bread with 3 or 4 RAW garlic cloves on the side. You take the raw garlic and scrape it across the surface of the fried bread until it becomes a smooth paste. Then you eat that stuff, shake your head, and yell YOWZA!

Bramboráčky: (potato pancakes): grated potatoes with garlic, green herbs, flour, and eggs, fried in a shallow pan. These Czech staples often come so loaded with garlic that you reek of it for days. Delicious!

Too Complicated for Czech Palates

Czech food is simple food, handed down for generations. It's hearty, heavy, and hefty enough to fill your belly on a cold winter day. Maybe the flavor fell out of the food during communism, when gray banality ruled the day, and thin gruel was paradise to the poor bastards. I dunno, I wasn't there.

Perhaps having a combination of pizza crust, rich, flavorful sauce, gooey mozzarella cheese, and a fistful of fancy toppings is a bridge to far in Prague. It's quite rare to find a Czech pizza with more than 2 toppings on it. A typical pizza will have mushrooms and ham, or ham and olives, or ham, ham, and ham (they dig on swine). Perhaps adding such tongue teasers as garlic and oregano to their pizzas would cause their dumpling-shaped heads to explode.

Big Sir's Favorite Prague Pizzas

Johnny's Pizza: Boo-Yow!

If I could combine the fantastic crust of 360Pizza with the brilliant pies of Johnny Pizza Bar, I would be in heaven. Johnny offers garlic on several of their pizzas and you can always add garlic to any pizza. Sadly, 360Pizza offers no garlic on the menu. Which is a shame, because that pizza dough is the closest thing to American style pizza dough in Prague: crispy on the outside, soft, fluffy, and chewy on the inside. It's the only pizza crust I actually eat all the way to the edges. I usually throw the Czech dried-out-cracker pizza crust to the damn pigeons.

--

If you have any Prague pizza perfection to share with me, let me know. Even if garlic ain't your thang, let me know about the place, the pie, the toppings, and the dough ray me, muchachos. Don't worry if the place has no garlic on the menu. I will soon start wearing garlic garlands around my neck like jewelry just in case I need to break off a clove or two and flavor the shizzle out of my next pizza.

I will scrape that raw garlic right then and there on the thin, crispy crust. Don't make me. I'll do it.

They Smited Me With Science!

Spinning the Wheel of Vaccine Side Effects

–

There I was, safe in the assumption that science has got my back. When my number was called (age group), I marched to the vaccination site in a parking lot next to a cemetery in Prague. I should have known that this was a sign. I should have known that even though I had chosen the LEAST likely brand of vaccine to cause nasty side effects (Pfizer), that things could always go tits up.

Maybe I shouldn't have made the remark about hideous side effects like infected bumps in the junkal region. Am I CRAZY? Am I a PROPHET? Am I just tempting fate?

Oh, yeah. Side effects followed. Like hell raining from above instead of below, I got smitten in the biblical sense of the word. The fifth seal of the viral apocalypse was opened, and infectious bumps rained down upon me, dangerously close to my junkal region.

Science decided to smite me. Or maybe it was the god of the rednecks, smiting me for being an unapologetic atheist. What a god! If the fecker exists, why would anyone follow a monster like that?

Angry Boils

Have you seen the classic cult movie How to Get Ahead in Advertising? Oh, it's a doozy. It's a classic formula flick: Man gets boil on neck, man screams at boil as it grows in size and anger, boil literally comes to a head, and replaces the man's head and takes over everything.

A few days after my intramuscular injection of untested hard drugs (aka corona vaccine), I started getting weird pimples in weird places. Left buttock, right buttock, chest, left thigh. One after the other, they appeared, angry enough to cause me to pop them rather than give them a second thought.

I've had plenty of experience dealing with pimples as an adolescent, and now that I'm in my second adolescence (middle age), I know EXACTLY how to deal with the feckers. At first I attributed the sudden appearance of these nostalgic reminders of pubescence as a side effect of working at home and ordering KFC bucket deliveries.

But then something strange happened: the angry boil on top of my left thigh grew in prominence. Pissed off that I would try to squeeze the life out of the fecker, the oozing chancre decided to try to take over my life. And for the last 5 days, it did.

Nemocnice Bulovka

Every city has a medical institution that is so subpar that it gets a bad reputation. And nicknames follow. Way back when I was a feckless yoot with a low-paying post-high-school job, I drove Ford Escorts carrying packages of nuclear medicine to hospitals up and down the California valley. I loved the rock music blaring on the speakers, windows down, wind in my hair, 70 mph on CA highways, carrying unknown isotopes in needles waiting to be injected into unknown people.

One of the hospitals on my route was the UCD Med Center, a teaching branch of the University of California, Davis Medical degree program. Part of the program was an outreach for indigent locals, meaning, poor people without insurance.

The waiting rooms were full of them as I rushed past with my radioactive payload waiting to be delivered. They coughed, sweated, stank, and pissed themselves as an introduction. We soon began calling the place the UCD Wretch Center. The name stuck. Oh, the humanity.

Cut to: Act 2 in Big Sir's life, middle age, living in Prague. After a week of cursing my growing carbuncle, it got REALLY painful. Like making-me-limp-all-day painful. It grew to the size of a golf ball, so I went to the nearest emergency room.

Sadly, when you are Libeň La Vida Loca in an industrial Prague suburb, that emergency room is at the infamous Nemocnice Bulovka. Bulovka Hospital is not just a dilapidated, confusing sprawl of crumbling buildings with the accessibility of a hostile foreign country, they built the fucker on several hills. Because they wanted the shuffling, moaning, staggering, limping fucks to WORK for their treatment.

Cabs can't park inside, buses don't take you anywhere near the building you need to go. And you need to go to several. Just for one problem. But on a Friday night, it's the only place you can go if you fear that the oozing, infected, black-and-crimson-red, golf-ball-sized blight on your thigh just might possibly be slowly killing you.

The Evil Eye

I waited outside the night emergency room entrance at Nemocnice Bulovka. It seemed like the back entrance to a library rather than a building of medical treatment. I asked a young couple in front of me just in case. “Yeah, this is the emergency room entrance,” they said.

“Are you in the line?” I asked. They answered 'yes' and I joined them, standing. No seats for the wicked.

Soon they went inside and I was next at the outside entrance. Then a carload of loud yoots listening to mindless disco music pulled up and dumped its payload of babyshit onto the sidewalk. I call them babyshit because they were so green that they had no idea of the rules of ordinary, well-formed, solid shirtbird adults like me.

So they cut in front of me, barged through the door, and took their place right behind the kindly couple who had previously advised me. Then I heard them laughing and speaking Russian. Da. Da-hahaha.

So I looked through the window and gave them the Evil Eye. The same type of Evil Eye that was burning inside the angry boil dangerously close to my junkal region. It was an eye raised during the Cold War, watching the Russians and Americans scoff, threaten, cajole, and abuse each other nonstop. Fortunately for mankind, the Russians ran out of credit first. End of Cold War.

But Fuck the Russians anyway. They STILL wanna take over the world. That's how I was raised, and these sons-of-Stalin whores just Pushkined past me like a piece of American trailer trash (how did they know?).

I began the hairy eyeball routine with the weakest of the group. As they tittered and whispered, an older one would look out the window at me to check the threat. They found the burning Evil Eye watching them. Yes, I am old, fat, and hobbled from a leg infection that burns like a white hot knife wound. But I am ANGRIER than my boil. And in the immortal words of Ivan Drago: I must BREAK you.

They must have seen me channeling Dolph Lundgren, because the oldest one soon came out with younguns in tow, and said 'we go after you.' Or maybe they saw my tiny role as a Russian General in the casino commercial. Mad respect. You don't fuck with that dude.

That's right, bitches. Age and treachery before youth and ambition.

Another Ring of Hell

After my referral from the emergency room physician, I hobbled uphill to the next ring of hell. It was the surgery center, and I was in for a fine Friday night indeed. At first I was pleasantly surprised. The long, dimly-lit hallway only held a half dozen people waiting for treatment. So I checked in with the medical receptionist, who told me to take a seat at the end of the hall.

I plunked down on one of the rows of cold steel chairs lining the hall of the basement in the Bulovka surgery center. It was exactly like sitting at a bus stop in a ghetto. Why did they make the seats out of steel? Easier to clean? Durable? Or just another ring of hell the poor wretches must work through to receive their treatment.

After three hours I wondered why I had not brought a book. My phone battery had died, there was no reception in the basement anyway, and I had been to CZ hospitals several times before. You always wait at least 2 hours, even when you have an appointment for a specific time. It's the commie way. You must wait long enough to earn the right to be called a patient.

Finally, the door swung open and they called my name. I limped in, and they told me to take off my pants. They must have read my file from the previous doctor. Rarely do I have that effect on people otherwise.

On a side note, I remember reading a sales pitch for a private medical clinic disparaging ordinary public Czech health insurance. “They are cold, impersonal, and will command you to unceremoniously undress in front of a room full of people.” Hmm. Maybe the expats expect them to play Pomp and Circumstance first? I'm sure the finer halls of medicine have disco music and stripper poles for the money-grubbing whores. #dieyuppiescum!

Those of us who live in the real world (aka American refugees, non-yuppie-scum, etc) take the public health insurance offered by the employer. So far, it has probably saved my life a few times. So when I bitch and moan about Czech medicine, it's only the natural reaction of a sick person with a finger suddenly thrust up the buttockal region. Yes, it is abrupt, invasive, sudden, and stern. But it is fair.

Nonspecific Abscess

After my unceremonious disrobing without music, I proceeded to receive the diagnosis: nonspecific abscess. After some brief interrogation (are you gonna kill me cuz I'm American?), the doctor told me that I had a nonspecific abscess possibly due to my COVID vaccination. What? B-B-but. I got the PFIZER. Ain't that the good jab?

She smiled the knowing smile of someone in the medical profession who pretends to know everything. But just practicing.

So she wielded the metal tools of her trade dangerously close to my junkal region, looked down her nose at me and said nothing. She didn't speak English. And my Czech is bad on a good day, when there's no evil boil burning on me like hellfire.

First came a small sting. She then said 'lokal.' I got it. Local anesthetic. Cool. Pop away, doc. Then came a scalpel. Ooh. This is getting good. I expect a right proper gorefest to follow. My hand slowly covered my junkal region, just in case. I never know if the night doctors have exceeded their 5 cocktail maximum.

I kept looking over my belly at the progress of the wide-awake mini surgery. There was blood. There was pus. There were weird colors of both. Suddenly, the attending nurse pointed to the doctor's name tag. She stopped cutting and swabbing blood and pus to look.

Aw Jeez. Did I spurt some on ya, doc? My bad. I'm embarrassed. It was an awfully angry boil on an awfully angry dude. So sorry.

But then she laughed, and the nurse tittered. They pointed to each other's name tags and compared them. I understood from bits and chunks of Czech convo that the doctor's name tag photo was new, and that the nurse was jealous. Hers was old and outdated, just like her and the hospital. This exchange went on for a minute.

In case you may be questioning the nastiness of my particular ailment, right when the two ladies were comparing badge photos, an elder nurse walked by and glanced at my open wound. The grimace on her face said everything. In her 60 years of service, there was still something that could twist her face like a pretzel. Not a comforting thing when you are on the surgical table.

Um, hey? Sucking leg wound down here? Ladies, will you please mop up the gore, give me some pain meds, and shove my ass out the outpatient door? Compare badge photos later, if you please.

The Aftermath

I finally got home after midnight. I slammed down some wine and antibiotics, limped to bed, and got up the next day to repeat the process. I had to go back to the Bulovka Hellspital. Four days in a row. Each time a 3-4 hour wait followed.

But I remembered to bring a book. And water. And a snack just in case. I was always told to sit at the far end of the hall at the third door. It's what they call triage. The most serious cases go first. And as angry as my boil and I may be, others have it worse. But everyone in the hallway in Bulovka looks like they're in the same degree of suffering. But I had to wait 6 hours on Friday night, 4 hours on Saturday, and only 2 hours each visit on Sunday and Monday.

It wasn't about the time of day I arrived, it was about the random spinning wheel of fate. It's a bit more obvious in the U.S. Gunshot and stab wounds go first, followed by heart attacks, overdoses, and trouble breathing. But in CZ, you can't tell. A surprising lack of violence here. And zero crack or meth. Just a bunch of people suffering in silence together in a dimly-lit basement hallway of a decrepit old hospital on the side of a suburban Prague hill.

But sometimes a gurney full of fresh pain would come rolling in with ambulance personnel pushing. And I would get pushed to the back of the pain bus again. Such is the nature of probability. Open book, shift buttocks on steel seat, soldier on. Be patient, my patient.

On Monday I got the good news: my wound was healing (they had slashed, sliced, drained, and re-bandaged it 4 times by then). Better yet, this doctor spoke English. He said that I didn't have to keep coming back to Bulovka after this. I could choose the closest clinic to my address.

Now I have a day off from the hospital for the first time in 4 days. I had previously taken Friday and Monday off from work just to relax, pre-boil. But like the man said, man makes plans, God laughs. Fecker.

The last doctor I visited at Bulovka was so friendly that I almost expected him to ask 'Can I do anything else for you?'

I should have replied: Yeah. After 14 hours of sitting on your hospital's cold steel benches, I have a new side effect. Can you kindly treat the angry 'roids which are now festering and burgeoning and brimming with anger inside my angry ass?

Yes, gentle readers. I went into the Bulovka hospital for a four-day treatment of an angry boil and left with a burning ring of fire.

The Takeaway

I don't want this to discourage anyone from getting the vaccine. It's how we beat this thing. But if somehow, somewhere, somebody crawls out of the primordial ooze (alt-right fux) and says: See! Vaccines don't work! They give you the same angry boils I got when I went to that Tijuana Donkey Show!

I can't tell those type of people anything. It's like talking to a wall, a rock, or a religious person. Same stony stare. They might believe that Bill Gates is inserting microbots into the vaccine to take over their minds. And that aliens took their cows and themselves up for a brief whirl around the planet with a side excursion of bonus anal probe.

Weird how rednecks don't believe in science, but they do seem to believe in science fiction.

I'm vexed my damn self. I'll still continue to believe in science, even though the pharmacy business has so tainted the process that profits supersede results.

In the meantime, take some time to read up on the various flavors of vaccines out there, including the long list of side effects. Keep in mind that the side effects are usually much milder than the short and long term effects of the actual coronavirus. That shit could kill you, regardless of age.

Me, I've just got angry boils and a case of the old bum grapes. Like Gloria Gaynor and my Sactown homeboys Cake said, I Will Survive.