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Hassan Hassan is forced on vacation by Managing-Editor-turned-marine-biologist Dalia Awad and finds that best things in life can be captured in beer bottles...

For the past three weeks, Dalia Awad has been trying to convince me to go to a wedding in Gouna. In order to make things clearer for you, I have a phobia of formal wear, so I immediately didn’t want to go. Then Dalia threatened the future of our friendship and I genuinely liked the people getting married. I couldn’t think of bad things to say about them because they’re both hot and nice and genuine, as far as people go. Plus, why didn’t I want to go away for the weekend? Mainly because my credit card Bonquiqui was all like, we’re breaking up and stole my money and I got really sad that our honeymoon phase was over. So I decided I wouldn’t go. Then I remembered my tan was fading and if I ever decided to get married (hahahaha) literally not one person would show up. So I had to pull out my first wife credit card Lucrecia, who was a bit disgruntled but was available (after a year of alimony she best be available).

So we went to Gouna. And the weather was fabulous and I could wear shorts and I wasn’t as annoyed and things were great. I kept eating and falling asleep and the wedding was amazing; one of the nicest weddings I’ve been to. Now, all of this is irrelevant to the story I’m about to tell you. Where my story actually starts is the first day, when Dalia and I were sitting on the beach. It was like she had watched NatGeo Wild for so long that she just decided to be a deep sea explorer. She was playing with crustaceans, trying to catch fish and throwing rocks. Suddenly I was on vacation with The Crocodile Hunter. I had no choice but to drink beer and encourage her because I was excited by this new found enthusiasm for marine life and I’m never one to crush dreams. Then she said: “What would make this perfect would be if I saw a seahorse. I’ve never seen one y’know.”

On the last day, I decided I needed to be as wasted as possible for the impending ride back to Cairo. So the second I got to the beach I ordered a beer (it was 10am but 5 o’clock somewhere) and then I ordered two more and then I was super hot and sweaty and needed to balbat in the water. I finished my beer in ten minutes and got bored, so naturally, filling it up with water and pouring that back into the sea was my only option. Then, unknowingly, I slugged back some sea water and only realised it wasn’t beer after I swallowed it. The Crocodile Hunter found this incredibly amusing (my naiveté at the wilderness was obviously laughable to a seasoned marine biologist) so I had to find a way to stop myself from drinking sea water/making a fool of myself so I started putting rocks in the bottle. Crocodile Hunter decided seaweed would be a pleasant addition to our aquarium. Then I got a rock stuck in the opening and decided to get over myself. I handed the bottle to D and went for a dip. Five minutes later she yelled:

“Hassan! You’re not going to believe it!”

“What happened, did you find a stingray? “

“Oh my God Hassan! There’s a fucking seahorse in the bottle!”

“You’re fucking lying! A fucking seahorse!”

And it was a fucking seahorse. There, floating in the beer bottle, was a tiny seahorse, with a curved tail and a little nose. A FUCKING SEAHORSE. Obviously we both panicked. The Crocodile Hunter couldn’t move and I was trying to not scream. A FUCKING SEAHORSE! SHE WAS JUST TALKING ABOUT IT! WHAT! HOW! Then D stopped panicking and said “QUICK WE HAVE TO TAKE A PICTURE BEFORE IT ESCAPES. IT’S GOING TO ESCAPE.” Obviously, since I was dealing with a full-fledged marine biologist that could capture seahorses in beer bottles, I didn’t argue. I sprinted out of the water to get my iPhone; I literally ran. Out of the sea like David Hasselhoff in a flurry of sand and excitement to prove that my friend had caught a seahorse in a beer bottle. A FUCKING SEAHORSE! SHE HAD JUST SAID YESTERDAY!

When I got to my phone, she had fortunately regained some of her senses and had just carefully transported Frank (Ocean) the seahorse, back to the shore, where we spent ten minutes taking various pictures, so that everyone would believe we had caught a seahorse:

No joke, this is possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me. There is very little else I could do in my life that could top this picture. And I wasn’t even the one who caught a seahorse. Is this actually a life changing event? Should I go to more weddings in exotic destinations? Should I get a third credit card/wife? I am allowed four... Only this time I would have to make sure that she was a sensible white woman with a name like Deirdre that would encourage me to buy more formal wear. Should I just go to exotic destinations and skip the whole wedding thing? Maybe instead of Deirdre, I would go for someone more fun; a Latina named Guadalupe, perhaps. I would travel the world and drink more beer on beaches. You never know when you’ll catch a seahorse in a beer bottle.You never know what you’re going to find.