I'm a strict believer in the scientific method. I observe, I hypothesize, I experiment, and then I draw a conclusion. I am going to step you through this method, which I used to explain the phenomenon that continues to perplex me of any reasonable outright explanation: Why does Tyra Banks continue to get air time in order to suck the fat out of women's brains and injecting it into their butts?
Here is a simple breakdown of my ponderance:
I. Observation:
Tyra Banks is a complete idiot and yet women continue to worship her as if she were the Queen of Sheba, as exemplified by this disturbing video clip.
2. Hypothesis
In mathematical terms:
Tyra = Idiot
Her fans = Idiots
Her fans= (Tyra)(x)
3. Experiment
I approach an open Tyra Banks fan and ask her if she likes Vaseline. She says yes. I ask her why. She says its because Tyra believes in it.
4. Conclusion
The general idea in chemistry that "like" dissolves in "like" can be proposed here. Tyra banks is an idiot. So are her fans. Therefore both phenotypes' airheads are capable of dissolving into each other, to create an even larger mesh of empty space within the confines of each individual's skull. This is all possible by the medium known as television, though the lack of essential nutrients within this medium makes me want to deem it an "anti-growth medium" rather than the more traditional "growth medium" used in cell biology.
To answer the proposed question, why this woman is still on the air, remains elusive. It is possible that she has rerouted her neural functions to another part of her body, thereby surviving instinctually via an uncharacterized nutrient residing in her adipose cells. Such neural focal points may be her gluteus or pectorals. This remains to be unstudied. We shall propose that study at a later time.
Thank you NIH.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Man, I'm Disgusting. Oh Well.
Last night, I found myself in a predicament. As most evenings go, I was starving but lets face it I'm usually too cheap to eat out unless I'm near death or need a picker-upper to help me recover from a mild case of depression. I step out of the gym, and book it to Whole Foods where I run inside and grab a banana and Pirate's Booty Bermuda Onion, my favorite.
I don't know about you, but I really love these what I can only describe as little kernels of joy. They are extremely puffy, have only a mild touch of flavor, and crunch AND melt in your mouth like some strange science experiment that actually went right rather than wrong. I immediately rip a bag open amongst all these people in the store and start stuffing the handfuls of these bundles of miracles into my mouth.
So I'm eating and eating and just wandering around the store. Sometimes a stowaway kernel would miss my mouth and get trapped in my scarf or fall on the floor. Poor thing. Missed its opportunity to come into contact with Meera saliva, a rarity for food and boys alike. I decide to buy some coffee while I'm at it. So I grab a bag and go up to the cashier to pay for both.
"How are you?," the cashier said politely. I try to talk with my mouth full. Unfortunately, most of the kernels in my mouth were not at full salivation yet and one of them flew out of my mouth and knicked him in the forehead. "I'm fine," I say. But it was too late. I had already assaulted him with Pirate's Booty. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel and avoided eye contact with me the rest of the time. Yea... I'd be grossed out too, but from this experience I learned that Pirate's Booty would be better for a makeshift assault weapon rather than the marshmallows that have gotten so popular lately.
I don't know about you, but I really love these what I can only describe as little kernels of joy. They are extremely puffy, have only a mild touch of flavor, and crunch AND melt in your mouth like some strange science experiment that actually went right rather than wrong. I immediately rip a bag open amongst all these people in the store and start stuffing the handfuls of these bundles of miracles into my mouth.
So I'm eating and eating and just wandering around the store. Sometimes a stowaway kernel would miss my mouth and get trapped in my scarf or fall on the floor. Poor thing. Missed its opportunity to come into contact with Meera saliva, a rarity for food and boys alike. I decide to buy some coffee while I'm at it. So I grab a bag and go up to the cashier to pay for both.
"How are you?," the cashier said politely. I try to talk with my mouth full. Unfortunately, most of the kernels in my mouth were not at full salivation yet and one of them flew out of my mouth and knicked him in the forehead. "I'm fine," I say. But it was too late. I had already assaulted him with Pirate's Booty. He wiped his forehead with a paper towel and avoided eye contact with me the rest of the time. Yea... I'd be grossed out too, but from this experience I learned that Pirate's Booty would be better for a makeshift assault weapon rather than the marshmallows that have gotten so popular lately.
Body Language
The other day, I was wandering around and found myself at a bus stop across the street from this burger joint.
I was just standing there, minding my own business while also feeling for the pepper spray in my pocket, when a man came out of the front door of this darkened restaurant. He just stood there in the shadows with his hands on his hips, staring in my direction. I just kept standing there, acting like I didn't notice him. He started waving his hand to say hi. I don't even acknowledge it. Then he started waving at me to come across the street in increasing tempo. I continued to not partake in this strange miming game. I did, however, uncap the pepper spray in my pocket.
He continued to try to get me over to his side of the tracks up until a few minutes before the bus pulled up. As I boarded, I yelled "Sorry, I didn't feel like getting raped tonight. Try tomorrow." He then went back inside the restaurant.
I was just standing there, minding my own business while also feeling for the pepper spray in my pocket, when a man came out of the front door of this darkened restaurant. He just stood there in the shadows with his hands on his hips, staring in my direction. I just kept standing there, acting like I didn't notice him. He started waving his hand to say hi. I don't even acknowledge it. Then he started waving at me to come across the street in increasing tempo. I continued to not partake in this strange miming game. I did, however, uncap the pepper spray in my pocket.
He continued to try to get me over to his side of the tracks up until a few minutes before the bus pulled up. As I boarded, I yelled "Sorry, I didn't feel like getting raped tonight. Try tomorrow." He then went back inside the restaurant.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Thank You!
So I got on a crowded bus one morning, which I hate because then I'm forced to stand and rub up against people I wouldn't normally want to rub up against or even smile at for the matter. Well that, and the fact that I'm usually lugging like 100 pounds of crap everyday. Then there are those assholes that just decide to sit on a seat and put their bags on the seat next to them, as if its some clever ploy to get people from sitting next to them.
Well, I'm standing and my back starts hurting. The guy sitting in the closest row of seats finally decides to take his bag and puts it on his lap. Relieved, I instantly take the emptied seat. "THANK YOU!," and I was indeed genuinely thankful. The guy looked back at me like "you want a crown with that princess?" Turned out that he just moved his briefcase to get a handkerchief from it to blow his nose. He did not sacrifice the luxury of having a personal desktop space on public transit after all.
People are assholes and enjoy making me look stupid. What else is new?
Well, I'm standing and my back starts hurting. The guy sitting in the closest row of seats finally decides to take his bag and puts it on his lap. Relieved, I instantly take the emptied seat. "THANK YOU!," and I was indeed genuinely thankful. The guy looked back at me like "you want a crown with that princess?" Turned out that he just moved his briefcase to get a handkerchief from it to blow his nose. He did not sacrifice the luxury of having a personal desktop space on public transit after all.
People are assholes and enjoy making me look stupid. What else is new?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Idiots are leeches that suck the life out of me
Like everyone else, I run into idiots on a daily basis. On the bus. On the street. Yada yada yada. But then there are the kings and queens of the idiots that only manage to come swarming around me as if I have a bowl of honey hidden under my blouse and they're out to pollinate. Unfortunately, I ran into both your highnesses today. I wonder what the statistical significance of that is? Probably 1 in 100 trillion with one degree of freedom. Go figure that it happens to me.
Mr. Highness is a grown ass man in my physics class. He comes up to me today after he sees me loafing around. He goes "hey did you study for the test today?" I go "nope, need to do that." Then he goes, "well, I have a question" and starts whipping out his notes. Did he not hear me? I DIDN'T STUDY, you idiot. But he pulls out his notes anyways and goes "I don't know how to solve this. Could you show me." I peer over at his chicken scratch and I see something like this:
"How do you find the hypotenuse?" My jaw nearly dropped to the ground. At first, I thought this was a ploy to hit on me, but I don't find feigning stupidity attractive or even funny at all. "It's the Pythagorean Theorem." "Huh?," he says. "Dude the answer is 5 meters." "How did you know that!?" Fuck. I get up and pretend I need to go to class. "Listen, if you don't know how to do that maybe you should take a math class and take physics some other time." I start climbing the flights of stairs to get to my morning class. He follows me. "Wait wait, I have more questions..." I don't think I need to list off the questions I was asked during what I can only characterize as the 10 most miserable minutes of my life. Miserable mostly because they made me remember the awkward middle school years when I learned most of it.
It didn't end there. I thought he had lost my scent after he was forced to depart my company after I entered my classroom. I made an effort to find a cloistered space to study for the exam, which turned out to the be the topmost floor of the library. He found me. And the campus is not that small. I was sharing a table with 3 other people, and he would come up every 10 minutes and ask me some other dumb question. The last time he did this, I had a breakdown. I slammed my hand on the table and was like "Look, I'm trying to get through my own studying here. Maybe you should go find someone else for help." Everyone at my table looked at me like "what a bitch!". Great, I thought. Just great. I'm the bitch. Yea okay.
So I get up, pack my things and decide that maybe I should go use the restroom, splash a little water on my face, get back to equilibrium. I have a favorite restroom on campus, the only one that has gotten an A+ on my inspection checklist. No stalls with cracks where strangers can peep through, regularly cleaned, always smells nice, one room, etc.... I high-tail it over there, turn the knob, and... some girl is on the toilet. Now, I don't know about you, but LOCKING the bathroom door is something that can never just SLIP my mind. It is as automatic as eating and sleeping, not matter how 911-ish the situation is. But clearly not for this anomalous one. She'd like to take the risk and make other people uncomfortable with her stupidity. Great, I thought.
I spent the rest of the evening walking in the rain, wondering how much a private island would run me so that I can live on it alone for the rest of my life. I later wanted to go home and take a relaxing bath. Unfortunately, I already had a moron steam bath for the day.
Mr. Highness is a grown ass man in my physics class. He comes up to me today after he sees me loafing around. He goes "hey did you study for the test today?" I go "nope, need to do that." Then he goes, "well, I have a question" and starts whipping out his notes. Did he not hear me? I DIDN'T STUDY, you idiot. But he pulls out his notes anyways and goes "I don't know how to solve this. Could you show me." I peer over at his chicken scratch and I see something like this:
"How do you find the hypotenuse?" My jaw nearly dropped to the ground. At first, I thought this was a ploy to hit on me, but I don't find feigning stupidity attractive or even funny at all. "It's the Pythagorean Theorem." "Huh?," he says. "Dude the answer is 5 meters." "How did you know that!?" Fuck. I get up and pretend I need to go to class. "Listen, if you don't know how to do that maybe you should take a math class and take physics some other time." I start climbing the flights of stairs to get to my morning class. He follows me. "Wait wait, I have more questions..." I don't think I need to list off the questions I was asked during what I can only characterize as the 10 most miserable minutes of my life. Miserable mostly because they made me remember the awkward middle school years when I learned most of it.
It didn't end there. I thought he had lost my scent after he was forced to depart my company after I entered my classroom. I made an effort to find a cloistered space to study for the exam, which turned out to the be the topmost floor of the library. He found me. And the campus is not that small. I was sharing a table with 3 other people, and he would come up every 10 minutes and ask me some other dumb question. The last time he did this, I had a breakdown. I slammed my hand on the table and was like "Look, I'm trying to get through my own studying here. Maybe you should go find someone else for help." Everyone at my table looked at me like "what a bitch!". Great, I thought. Just great. I'm the bitch. Yea okay.
So I get up, pack my things and decide that maybe I should go use the restroom, splash a little water on my face, get back to equilibrium. I have a favorite restroom on campus, the only one that has gotten an A+ on my inspection checklist. No stalls with cracks where strangers can peep through, regularly cleaned, always smells nice, one room, etc.... I high-tail it over there, turn the knob, and... some girl is on the toilet. Now, I don't know about you, but LOCKING the bathroom door is something that can never just SLIP my mind. It is as automatic as eating and sleeping, not matter how 911-ish the situation is. But clearly not for this anomalous one. She'd like to take the risk and make other people uncomfortable with her stupidity. Great, I thought.
I spent the rest of the evening walking in the rain, wondering how much a private island would run me so that I can live on it alone for the rest of my life. I later wanted to go home and take a relaxing bath. Unfortunately, I already had a moron steam bath for the day.
I Heart Chicken
Some of you may wonder how I garnered the nickname "Juicy" everyone calls me. Ok, not exactly everyone. Just one person, but its a nickname nonetheless and a strange one to boot.
For those east-coasters out there, there is a little darling fast food corporate chain called El Pollo Loco scattered across every major highway in California. I love El Pollo Loco. I call it the ethnic KFC because its menu consists of an array of pseudo-Mexican delights such as rice, pinto beans, and corn. Then don't get me started on the roasted chicken. Absolutely divine. Man, if I could roast a chicken in such a corporate fashion and learned how to employ the techniques of artificial flavorings like that, I'd keep a chicken coop in my backyard and order a lifetime supply of flavor injectors from Pfizer. For real.
So one faithful night, I was on the phone with friend that was hitting up the El Pollo Loco drive through. He goes "hold up, let me order." I'm like "okay..." And then I hear him give his order. "Yea, I'd like the 2 piece chicken meal with rice and beans. Oh yea, and I'd like the chicken JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY... JUICY." He gets back on the phone. "What the hell was that?!," I ask.
He proceeds to explain to me that, and I can't make this shit up, he knew some Ethiopian guy that told him that he used to eat at El Pollo Loco on a daily basis and knew a little secret. Apparently there is a "JUICY" button on all El Pollo Loco cash registers and every time you say it during your order, the cashier presses the button and the cook adds an extra spoonful of juice on top of your chicken. Where this juice comes from, don't know. But it was juice nonetheless and it sounded delicious.
I got all hot and bothered about this new discovery. But I wasn't planning on going back to California any time soon. But I started having dreams about this juicy chicken, and my friends voice kept replaying in my head: "It is the JUICIEST chicken I've ever had in my life." That's it, I thought. I'm either buying a ticket to go visit the folks in LA or I'm straight up driving to the closest shithole city on the California border to get my dibs on it.
Thank god for modern technology because I soon discovered at El Pollo Loco's official website that there was a grand opening of a new one in Vancouver. (No not BC. Washington.) Eh, I thought. Driving to a shithole city across the Oregon border is a lot easier than driving to another shithole city on the California border, which would've required chains and a ski mask in the dead of winter. So I get all dressed in my Sunday's finest, actually crossed state lines with my sight glued towards the horizon, waiting for the El Pollo Loco sign to come up at the edge of my vision. And it did. I was nervous. I was excited. I was hungry.
I walk inside. Decided that I was going to go with the 3 piece chicken meal this time and I go up to the cashier. "Yea, I'd like the #3 with corn and salsa. Thanks. Oh..." I hesitate. It was the moment of truth. "And I want that JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY..." I couldn't stop. It was like word diarrhea coming out of my mouth. And as I kept saying JUICY in succession, the cashier got a more and more horrified look on her face. I finally calmed my mouth to the point that only the corners of my lips were quivering.
"Uhm... I don't know what you're saying." The cashier said. I peer over the buttons on her cash register and was like "Well, I heard you have a 'juicy' button or something." "No. No I don't." I wanted to explain, but it was too late. The only words that I could say were "Sorry, I'm from California."
I am sure that the cashier was close to pushing the hidden panic button they keep at all the registers nowadays, but she took mercy on me and just gave me their regular chicken that day. So now if you're ever walking down the street with me and someone yells out "Yo! Juicy!," no it's not because of my ass or my thighs though I wish it was.
For those east-coasters out there, there is a little darling fast food corporate chain called El Pollo Loco scattered across every major highway in California. I love El Pollo Loco. I call it the ethnic KFC because its menu consists of an array of pseudo-Mexican delights such as rice, pinto beans, and corn. Then don't get me started on the roasted chicken. Absolutely divine. Man, if I could roast a chicken in such a corporate fashion and learned how to employ the techniques of artificial flavorings like that, I'd keep a chicken coop in my backyard and order a lifetime supply of flavor injectors from Pfizer. For real.
So one faithful night, I was on the phone with friend that was hitting up the El Pollo Loco drive through. He goes "hold up, let me order." I'm like "okay..." And then I hear him give his order. "Yea, I'd like the 2 piece chicken meal with rice and beans. Oh yea, and I'd like the chicken JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY... JUICY." He gets back on the phone. "What the hell was that?!," I ask.
He proceeds to explain to me that, and I can't make this shit up, he knew some Ethiopian guy that told him that he used to eat at El Pollo Loco on a daily basis and knew a little secret. Apparently there is a "JUICY" button on all El Pollo Loco cash registers and every time you say it during your order, the cashier presses the button and the cook adds an extra spoonful of juice on top of your chicken. Where this juice comes from, don't know. But it was juice nonetheless and it sounded delicious.
I got all hot and bothered about this new discovery. But I wasn't planning on going back to California any time soon. But I started having dreams about this juicy chicken, and my friends voice kept replaying in my head: "It is the JUICIEST chicken I've ever had in my life." That's it, I thought. I'm either buying a ticket to go visit the folks in LA or I'm straight up driving to the closest shithole city on the California border to get my dibs on it.
Thank god for modern technology because I soon discovered at El Pollo Loco's official website that there was a grand opening of a new one in Vancouver. (No not BC. Washington.) Eh, I thought. Driving to a shithole city across the Oregon border is a lot easier than driving to another shithole city on the California border, which would've required chains and a ski mask in the dead of winter. So I get all dressed in my Sunday's finest, actually crossed state lines with my sight glued towards the horizon, waiting for the El Pollo Loco sign to come up at the edge of my vision. And it did. I was nervous. I was excited. I was hungry.
I walk inside. Decided that I was going to go with the 3 piece chicken meal this time and I go up to the cashier. "Yea, I'd like the #3 with corn and salsa. Thanks. Oh..." I hesitate. It was the moment of truth. "And I want that JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY JUICY..." I couldn't stop. It was like word diarrhea coming out of my mouth. And as I kept saying JUICY in succession, the cashier got a more and more horrified look on her face. I finally calmed my mouth to the point that only the corners of my lips were quivering.
"Uhm... I don't know what you're saying." The cashier said. I peer over the buttons on her cash register and was like "Well, I heard you have a 'juicy' button or something." "No. No I don't." I wanted to explain, but it was too late. The only words that I could say were "Sorry, I'm from California."
I am sure that the cashier was close to pushing the hidden panic button they keep at all the registers nowadays, but she took mercy on me and just gave me their regular chicken that day. So now if you're ever walking down the street with me and someone yells out "Yo! Juicy!," no it's not because of my ass or my thighs though I wish it was.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Meera's Got Game!
Ok maybe not. But I'm getting there. Lately I've been trying to find excuses to talk to cute guys for entertainment purposes. I just had an epiphany the other day. I was sitting at a park bench and turned my head and there was a creepy old guy that looked like a walrus that was staring at me. You'd think that he would turn away like any other embarrassed creeper would once they were caught in the act, but he just kept staring straight at me. Odd. But why the hell can't I do the same thing albeit in a more socially acceptable manner!?
So today I took the plunge. I saw a cute guy studying. He looked within my required age range (up to 10 years older or younger). The chair next to him was empty and he was seated in front of an electrical outlet. I shuffled on over to that chair, sat my stuff down, and slowly approached him. "Mind if I plug her in here?" He looks back at me all distraught. "What?!" he said. I look down at my feet. My line wasn't as smooth as I had envisioned it to be. "You know. Plug her in. Her. My laptop." He gives me a look that basically said "Why couldn't you just say laptop."
"Yea sure whatever." He was peeved that I disturbed his concentration. I was heartbroken. Not only was he cute, he was studious too!
So today I took the plunge. I saw a cute guy studying. He looked within my required age range (up to 10 years older or younger). The chair next to him was empty and he was seated in front of an electrical outlet. I shuffled on over to that chair, sat my stuff down, and slowly approached him. "Mind if I plug her in here?" He looks back at me all distraught. "What?!" he said. I look down at my feet. My line wasn't as smooth as I had envisioned it to be. "You know. Plug her in. Her. My laptop." He gives me a look that basically said "Why couldn't you just say laptop."
"Yea sure whatever." He was peeved that I disturbed his concentration. I was heartbroken. Not only was he cute, he was studious too!
White Lies Can Cost You You're Stomach Lining
We've all been there. You say you like something someone does or makes, but you actually don't. You just don't want to break their heart into little pieces with honesty. So you tell a white lie, and then it snowballs and snowballs until in my case, your stomach lining has dissolved into sludge. Let me elaborate.
My roommate decided to cook tonight, which is a rare thing to occur in the house. And he was drunk. As I'm coming downstairs to refresh my glass of green tea, I smell something... interesting. "What are you making?" I ask. "I don't really know" he says. "Well, what did you put in the pot you got going over there?" I take a peak under the lid and god help me if it was the entire US of A because that was soooomee melting pot. I saw chunks of meat, vegetables, and beans.
"Well yea, I got this canned sloppy joe mix. Put in a can of tomato paste. Added a little celery seed and cinnamon and sugar. Saw some vegetables and rice in the fridge so thought I'd throw some of those things in. Then I thought, hey why not a few strawberries too?" Those vegetables he was referring to were nearly 3 weeks old. The rice had been sweltering in the Gladware for longer. I wanted to say something, but I was like whatever, if he eats it at least all the alcohol in his stomach would kill the microbial cesspool that was his meal. "Yummmmm that sounds delicious!." I said with a minor hint of sarcasm. "You're down on having some of this too?," his face lights up. "Yea sure," I say hesitant. I didn't want to anger the drunken beast in my kitchen.
I book it to my room. I did not get around to turning off my lights to fool him into thinking I was asleep before I heard the knock on my door. "Meera meera! I have something for you." He presented his alphabet soup to me on a platter. I was like "Great! Thanks!" I wait for him to leave so I could throw it out in my toilet, but he just stands there beaming with joy. Damn. I pick at it for a few seconds. Then I repeat a "Down the hatch" mantra over and over again and until I take a deep breath, scoop up a chunk of strawberries, canned meat, and month old rice in a spoon and shove it inside my mouth.
"How is it?" he asks with a huge grin on his face.
"Great, just great." LIES!
"It's almost like a sweet compote with meat on it."
"Yea totally." LIES! "I can't believe you came up with something so delicious!" LIES!
"But it's not jelly like. More watery."
"Yea totally, it's like a spicy meat soup with a touch of sweetness." LIES! LIES! LIES!
"Well, theres a huge pot of it downstairs so you can have at it whenever you want."
"Thanks, I'll totally come down in a second."
I proceeded to spit out what I can only characterize it as an English triffle with a sloppy joe filling. I'm worried about what tomorrow is going to bring in the plumbing department.
This whole situation is like the age-old lesson where parents wash their kids' mouths out with soap after they have said some inappropriate words. Looking back on this fateful night, I would say that my initial white lies were in fact, inappropriate, and the lesson was learned with a meaty strawberry lining.
My roommate decided to cook tonight, which is a rare thing to occur in the house. And he was drunk. As I'm coming downstairs to refresh my glass of green tea, I smell something... interesting. "What are you making?" I ask. "I don't really know" he says. "Well, what did you put in the pot you got going over there?" I take a peak under the lid and god help me if it was the entire US of A because that was soooomee melting pot. I saw chunks of meat, vegetables, and beans.
"Well yea, I got this canned sloppy joe mix. Put in a can of tomato paste. Added a little celery seed and cinnamon and sugar. Saw some vegetables and rice in the fridge so thought I'd throw some of those things in. Then I thought, hey why not a few strawberries too?" Those vegetables he was referring to were nearly 3 weeks old. The rice had been sweltering in the Gladware for longer. I wanted to say something, but I was like whatever, if he eats it at least all the alcohol in his stomach would kill the microbial cesspool that was his meal. "Yummmmm that sounds delicious!." I said with a minor hint of sarcasm. "You're down on having some of this too?," his face lights up. "Yea sure," I say hesitant. I didn't want to anger the drunken beast in my kitchen.
I book it to my room. I did not get around to turning off my lights to fool him into thinking I was asleep before I heard the knock on my door. "Meera meera! I have something for you." He presented his alphabet soup to me on a platter. I was like "Great! Thanks!" I wait for him to leave so I could throw it out in my toilet, but he just stands there beaming with joy. Damn. I pick at it for a few seconds. Then I repeat a "Down the hatch" mantra over and over again and until I take a deep breath, scoop up a chunk of strawberries, canned meat, and month old rice in a spoon and shove it inside my mouth.
"How is it?" he asks with a huge grin on his face.
"Great, just great." LIES!
"It's almost like a sweet compote with meat on it."
"Yea totally." LIES! "I can't believe you came up with something so delicious!" LIES!
"But it's not jelly like. More watery."
"Yea totally, it's like a spicy meat soup with a touch of sweetness." LIES! LIES! LIES!
"Well, theres a huge pot of it downstairs so you can have at it whenever you want."
"Thanks, I'll totally come down in a second."
I proceeded to spit out what I can only characterize it as an English triffle with a sloppy joe filling. I'm worried about what tomorrow is going to bring in the plumbing department.
This whole situation is like the age-old lesson where parents wash their kids' mouths out with soap after they have said some inappropriate words. Looking back on this fateful night, I would say that my initial white lies were in fact, inappropriate, and the lesson was learned with a meaty strawberry lining.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Yea I'm GUJU and I'm Proud
For those of you that don't know the terminology, Guju is short for Gujarati and confers that following fabulous definition on urban dictionary:
Guju
A race of genetic failures that will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air. They are known to murder their own family in order hord free items, such as water, dirt or oxygen. Guju refers to a race of individuals that are incapable of using any other ingrediants in their food besides oil and sugar (with the occasional stray onion added). They are known to borrow a knife from an individual and then proceed to plunge it into said individuals back, and then ask to borrow 20 bucks to dry clean said individuals blood off of the guju's clothing.
I.e.: The IRS learned their trade from a Guju.
While I don't agree with the violent tendencies illustrated in this definition, I have become cheap over the years and like to share my money-saving tricks, even if that means I would have to destroy the environment, insult/annoy people, and yes, be a little gross.
One trick for one is at Starbucks. After spending a few weeks bringing my own mug for a coffee pit stop on the way to class every morning, I realized that I was sick and tired of being asked to pay $1 when refills in their own crappy paper cups is only 50 cents. So then instead of lugging my thermo-insulated cup, I started saving their paper cups and stopping in acting like I had already purchased the coffee that morning.
Well, looks like the cup I have been saving for the past 2 weeks had seen better days. It was clearly... old. It was soggy and nearing collapse. But I didn't care. Anything to save 50 cents, and according to urban dictionary, as a guju "I will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air" so saving 50 cents is a big damn deal!
So I go up to the register and ask for a "refill" and girl looks at the cup. She proceeds to examine it and looks back at me. Clearly she'd been in the coffee biz for a while since she almost immediately identified that it had been used way more than once. She didn't say anything to me though. After all, I'm brown and I could potentially be hiding a gat in my pant leg. She just got a new cup and gave it to me, but she didn't look to happy about it.
Then she asked me for the 50 cents and I realized that I only had a 50 dollar bill in my wallet. So I hand it to her and she doesn't even touch it. She just looks back at me, and says that she doesn't accept bills larger than 20. "That sucks," I say. "I'd put on my card, but don't you think its stupid to charge 50 cents to a card." She glares back at me. I shine my award-winning smile back at her. She takes the 50 dollar bill and shoves it up her ass. I wanted to throw a few gang signs at her and be like "I'm guju bitch!," but she was white so I doubt she would've understood. Whatever.
Guju
A race of genetic failures that will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air. They are known to murder their own family in order hord free items, such as water, dirt or oxygen. Guju refers to a race of individuals that are incapable of using any other ingrediants in their food besides oil and sugar (with the occasional stray onion added). They are known to borrow a knife from an individual and then proceed to plunge it into said individuals back, and then ask to borrow 20 bucks to dry clean said individuals blood off of the guju's clothing.
I.e.: The IRS learned their trade from a Guju.
While I don't agree with the violent tendencies illustrated in this definition, I have become cheap over the years and like to share my money-saving tricks, even if that means I would have to destroy the environment, insult/annoy people, and yes, be a little gross.
One trick for one is at Starbucks. After spending a few weeks bringing my own mug for a coffee pit stop on the way to class every morning, I realized that I was sick and tired of being asked to pay $1 when refills in their own crappy paper cups is only 50 cents. So then instead of lugging my thermo-insulated cup, I started saving their paper cups and stopping in acting like I had already purchased the coffee that morning.
Well, looks like the cup I have been saving for the past 2 weeks had seen better days. It was clearly... old. It was soggy and nearing collapse. But I didn't care. Anything to save 50 cents, and according to urban dictionary, as a guju "I will not spend a penny to give an infant a breath of air" so saving 50 cents is a big damn deal!
So I go up to the register and ask for a "refill" and girl looks at the cup. She proceeds to examine it and looks back at me. Clearly she'd been in the coffee biz for a while since she almost immediately identified that it had been used way more than once. She didn't say anything to me though. After all, I'm brown and I could potentially be hiding a gat in my pant leg. She just got a new cup and gave it to me, but she didn't look to happy about it.
Then she asked me for the 50 cents and I realized that I only had a 50 dollar bill in my wallet. So I hand it to her and she doesn't even touch it. She just looks back at me, and says that she doesn't accept bills larger than 20. "That sucks," I say. "I'd put on my card, but don't you think its stupid to charge 50 cents to a card." She glares back at me. I shine my award-winning smile back at her. She takes the 50 dollar bill and shoves it up her ass. I wanted to throw a few gang signs at her and be like "I'm guju bitch!," but she was white so I doubt she would've understood. Whatever.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Bible Pushers are Annoying and Stupid
I was sitting in the cafeteria and then I spotted them. I could tell who they were from the moment I laid my eyes on them. They wore really boring clothes, and walked from table to table, being rejected in succession. They were... The Bible Pushers. Having had sullied my white coat with tomato juice that morning, I was definitely a target. Such a sight would've even made the Virgin Mary cry out to the heavens. I know I did.
Anyways, they come up to me with this stupid smile on their faces and a Bible at hand. And they go "Would you like to talk with us about Jesis?!"
"Sorry, I don't know who that is. The girl at the next table might." I put on my headphones and started blasting Ludacris and go back to my work.
Turned out the girl next to me did know who this Jesis character was and they had an apparently exciting conversation about him because their voices were louder than Ludacris at full blast! I was a little jealous, but I don't like to talk about other people behind their backs so thought I'd just stick to that moral code for the rest of the day. I'm sure this Jesis guy would appreciate back-biters telling him what's on their mind to his face.
Anyways, they come up to me with this stupid smile on their faces and a Bible at hand. And they go "Would you like to talk with us about Jesis?!"
"Sorry, I don't know who that is. The girl at the next table might." I put on my headphones and started blasting Ludacris and go back to my work.
Turned out the girl next to me did know who this Jesis character was and they had an apparently exciting conversation about him because their voices were louder than Ludacris at full blast! I was a little jealous, but I don't like to talk about other people behind their backs so thought I'd just stick to that moral code for the rest of the day. I'm sure this Jesis guy would appreciate back-biters telling him what's on their mind to his face.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Enslaved By The Bell
In the middle of studying about the lipopolysaccharide receptor recognition of dendritic cells in our immune system, I suddenly had the urge to watch an episode of Saved By The Bell. I needed something exciting and thought that seeing Zack Morris's face one more time would cause a big enough of an adrenaline dump to keep me coasting for the rest of the night. (I would've said A.C. Slater but his hair always scared me.)
So I'm sitting in the school cafeteria, watching the classic episode where Jessie gets addicted to caffeine pills, when some random guy just comes and sits right next to me. In the practically empty cafeteria room. For a minute, I felt sorry for the lad. I mean, he clearly just wanted to watch some classic TV shows on YouTube and I assumed that he didn't even own a laptop, so I let him enjoy the remainder of the episode on my luxurious 13 inch screen.
After the episode was over, trying to maintain my friendliess, I turn to him and am like "Isn't this episode a classic? Jessie is soo annoying!" He just sat there with a blank look on his face. "Yea, I guess," he said. Ok, I thought. "Wasn't it so cool that Zack and Kelly got together at the end?!," trying to take another stab at it. "Yea..." Then he confessed. "Actually I've never even seen this show before."
I don't know what is creepier: randomly sitting inside the bounds of a stranger's comfort zone in an otherwise empty room or not knowing what Saved By The Bell is. For me, the two compounded each other. I packed up my laptop and moved my things across the room, leaving him there wallowing in the pity that is a Zack Morris-free world.
So I'm sitting in the school cafeteria, watching the classic episode where Jessie gets addicted to caffeine pills, when some random guy just comes and sits right next to me. In the practically empty cafeteria room. For a minute, I felt sorry for the lad. I mean, he clearly just wanted to watch some classic TV shows on YouTube and I assumed that he didn't even own a laptop, so I let him enjoy the remainder of the episode on my luxurious 13 inch screen.
After the episode was over, trying to maintain my friendliess, I turn to him and am like "Isn't this episode a classic? Jessie is soo annoying!" He just sat there with a blank look on his face. "Yea, I guess," he said. Ok, I thought. "Wasn't it so cool that Zack and Kelly got together at the end?!," trying to take another stab at it. "Yea..." Then he confessed. "Actually I've never even seen this show before."
I don't know what is creepier: randomly sitting inside the bounds of a stranger's comfort zone in an otherwise empty room or not knowing what Saved By The Bell is. For me, the two compounded each other. I packed up my laptop and moved my things across the room, leaving him there wallowing in the pity that is a Zack Morris-free world.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
OBSERVATIONS OF THE DAY: Foreigners
There are two observations about international students I made today that I find to be a breakthrough in my most recent sociological research.
Firstly, Japanese girls like to scream. A lot. About what, I don't know, but they do it. I was in the restroom today, and they were chit chatting away in their language and then one of them screamed, then the other followed suit. I'm guessing it had something to their makeup because they were applying it at the time. Goopy mascara maybe? We all leave the restroom together and we all just happened to head out to the cafeteria. It turns out they were meeting their other Japanese girlfriends at a table. The Japanese girlfriends at the table all start screaming in unison when the see the other Japanese girls walking towards them, who screamed soon thereafter. They hugged, sat down, and started scarfing down their tempura. I jotted down the events in my trusty notebook.
Secondly, desis in general enjoy traveling in herds. If you spot one while sitting on the bench, you'll be sure to eventually see another handful trailing behind. Sometimes they walk in a diamond formation, with a leader that charges on and clears up sidewalk space for those following. Other times they are in a staggered 2-by-2 conformation. On rare occasion, I have seem them in more of a circular formation reminescent of a jalebi. The etiologies of such walking patterns continues to be uncharacterized. I will continue to research this and get back to you.
Firstly, Japanese girls like to scream. A lot. About what, I don't know, but they do it. I was in the restroom today, and they were chit chatting away in their language and then one of them screamed, then the other followed suit. I'm guessing it had something to their makeup because they were applying it at the time. Goopy mascara maybe? We all leave the restroom together and we all just happened to head out to the cafeteria. It turns out they were meeting their other Japanese girlfriends at a table. The Japanese girlfriends at the table all start screaming in unison when the see the other Japanese girls walking towards them, who screamed soon thereafter. They hugged, sat down, and started scarfing down their tempura. I jotted down the events in my trusty notebook.
Secondly, desis in general enjoy traveling in herds. If you spot one while sitting on the bench, you'll be sure to eventually see another handful trailing behind. Sometimes they walk in a diamond formation, with a leader that charges on and clears up sidewalk space for those following. Other times they are in a staggered 2-by-2 conformation. On rare occasion, I have seem them in more of a circular formation reminescent of a jalebi. The etiologies of such walking patterns continues to be uncharacterized. I will continue to research this and get back to you.
Pita Pit? More like STUPID Pit!
I walked into a Pita Pit recently, a fast food chain whose motto is "Healthy Thinking, Healthy Eating." I saw the sign and thought to myself "Well, I do think. And I do eat. So I guess this is appropriate." I gained entry through the double doors and was welcomed by a vast menu of options. I was a little bewildered by the fact that Pita Pit's corporate office enforces certain rules that keep the company from living up to its motto. One in particular is making all their employees wear an idiot cap emblazoned with their green and red logo.
I glance over the menu and turned to the blondie behind the cash register. (Her locks were peeking through her cap.) I proudly say "I'll have a Baba Ganoush Pita, please." She gives me an inquisitive look, raising an eyebrow. "Do you know what Baba Ganoush EVEN is? It's EGGPLANT, okay. Do you like EGGPLANT?"
OH MY GOD. WHAT A BITCH! First of all, considering that I have been mistaken for reigning from every 3rd world country spanning the globe (and Italy), I would've preferred that she just assumed that I was Arab like everyone else in this god damn city and gave me my damn pita. Second of all, and please excuse my racism, but what the hell is up with white people's aversion to vegetables!? I always grew up watching Full House and other wholesome family shows where in every episode some stupid Troll-like kid is sitting at the dinner table, being forced to eat brussel sprouts and broccoli by their parents and the audience laughs. Excuse me, but I always liked broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, peas, kale, and yes, even EGGPLANT you dumb blonde bitch.
It was the end of the day. I was tired. I just looked back at the idiot cap and was like "Just give me my pita." She was shocked by my bluntness and nervously put it together. I took my pita and left. I will not be going to Pita Pit again.
I glance over the menu and turned to the blondie behind the cash register. (Her locks were peeking through her cap.) I proudly say "I'll have a Baba Ganoush Pita, please." She gives me an inquisitive look, raising an eyebrow. "Do you know what Baba Ganoush EVEN is? It's EGGPLANT, okay. Do you like EGGPLANT?"
OH MY GOD. WHAT A BITCH! First of all, considering that I have been mistaken for reigning from every 3rd world country spanning the globe (and Italy), I would've preferred that she just assumed that I was Arab like everyone else in this god damn city and gave me my damn pita. Second of all, and please excuse my racism, but what the hell is up with white people's aversion to vegetables!? I always grew up watching Full House and other wholesome family shows where in every episode some stupid Troll-like kid is sitting at the dinner table, being forced to eat brussel sprouts and broccoli by their parents and the audience laughs. Excuse me, but I always liked broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, peas, kale, and yes, even EGGPLANT you dumb blonde bitch.
It was the end of the day. I was tired. I just looked back at the idiot cap and was like "Just give me my pita." She was shocked by my bluntness and nervously put it together. I took my pita and left. I will not be going to Pita Pit again.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
ATTN: White Coats Cause Racial Blindness
Some men have a cherried up Mustang that they keep polished in their garage, waiting for that one special day to take it out for a spin. Some women have that special pair of stilettos that they only dust off when they really want to wow. Me, I have a white coat that I got for $20 from Kohls that I only wear when I'm feeling like not sitting or leaning on walls and walk around with my hands stretched out to the sides because I don't want to get it dirty. I call this signature move "The Show Stopper," and boy does it impress.
At first, I thought it was The Show Stopper that caused all the stares that I received today. I don't blame people for staring. I'd stare too if I saw someone appear as if they wished they were a bird and wanted to fly away. In other instances, I stopped traffic as I was crossing streets. I guess its some kind of traffic signal?
After my arms got tired, and a becoming a little meek from the attention, I decided to just hold my breath and walk like a normal person. Worst comes to worse, I can always get it dry-cleaned, right? But the stares just kept coming. I was confused. Then people started asking questions... all day. Random men just flocked to me like vultures with sights out for the next kill. Not men I'd normally want to talk to, but men nonetheless. I was riding on the bus on the way home tonight, with probably a big goofy grin on my face because I was recalling something funny, when this Toadstool sat next to me. My grin instantly disappeared.
"Hi my name is Warren." We shook hands. I then went into my backpack and used my antibacterial gel. (I wish that amongst all the crap they taught me in grade school, that they actually could've taught us something useful like not shaking hands with strangers. I'll be sure to teach my kids that.)
"Hi, I'm Meera," I replied, annoyingly.
"What's that?" He drew in closer, with one hand to his ear. "You said Maryanne?" He pretended to lean in to better hear me but instead took a gaping look at my breast region.
"Yea sure. Lets go with that." I'm buttoning up my coat as I'm saying that. Beginning to pack my things. I checked my pockets to make sure he didn't have magical fingers that could've stolen the five bucks in my wallet. (Another thing to teach the kids.) I press the stop button.
"So what's your nationality if I don't mind you asking."
"Indian."
"Oh, I find you stunning. Absolutely stunning..." His voice trailed off as the bus stopped, where I proceeded to get off 15 blocks too early to get away from the breast monger.
As I'm walking these 15 blocks with a 20 lb backpack and a gym bag over my shoulder. A couple of skateboarders passed by, during which time one of them asked me "Yo you Native or somethin'?" "No," I said. I kept walking. A couple blocks later, I pass a bar. All the fart (oops I mean frat) boys outside with their beers almost instantaneously waved and shouted "Hola!" (No surprise there as a group of 10 couldn't possibly make up a complete brain quite yet.) I kept walking.
Granted it was dark, but damn. It must be the coat. The whiteness of it visually confused the onlookers somehow. Maybe it was the light reflecting off of it and into my face or something? No, that couldn't be. It was 9pm. Sun was already set. With the breadth of scientific knowledge I retain in my brain, I still cannot formulate a proper hypothesis. I think I should submit my story to Unsolved Mysteries and have them take a crack at it.
At first, I thought it was The Show Stopper that caused all the stares that I received today. I don't blame people for staring. I'd stare too if I saw someone appear as if they wished they were a bird and wanted to fly away. In other instances, I stopped traffic as I was crossing streets. I guess its some kind of traffic signal?
After my arms got tired, and a becoming a little meek from the attention, I decided to just hold my breath and walk like a normal person. Worst comes to worse, I can always get it dry-cleaned, right? But the stares just kept coming. I was confused. Then people started asking questions... all day. Random men just flocked to me like vultures with sights out for the next kill. Not men I'd normally want to talk to, but men nonetheless. I was riding on the bus on the way home tonight, with probably a big goofy grin on my face because I was recalling something funny, when this Toadstool sat next to me. My grin instantly disappeared.
"Hi my name is Warren." We shook hands. I then went into my backpack and used my antibacterial gel. (I wish that amongst all the crap they taught me in grade school, that they actually could've taught us something useful like not shaking hands with strangers. I'll be sure to teach my kids that.)
"Hi, I'm Meera," I replied, annoyingly.
"What's that?" He drew in closer, with one hand to his ear. "You said Maryanne?" He pretended to lean in to better hear me but instead took a gaping look at my breast region.
"Yea sure. Lets go with that." I'm buttoning up my coat as I'm saying that. Beginning to pack my things. I checked my pockets to make sure he didn't have magical fingers that could've stolen the five bucks in my wallet. (Another thing to teach the kids.) I press the stop button.
"So what's your nationality if I don't mind you asking."
"Indian."
"Oh, I find you stunning. Absolutely stunning..." His voice trailed off as the bus stopped, where I proceeded to get off 15 blocks too early to get away from the breast monger.
As I'm walking these 15 blocks with a 20 lb backpack and a gym bag over my shoulder. A couple of skateboarders passed by, during which time one of them asked me "Yo you Native or somethin'?" "No," I said. I kept walking. A couple blocks later, I pass a bar. All the fart (oops I mean frat) boys outside with their beers almost instantaneously waved and shouted "Hola!" (No surprise there as a group of 10 couldn't possibly make up a complete brain quite yet.) I kept walking.
Granted it was dark, but damn. It must be the coat. The whiteness of it visually confused the onlookers somehow. Maybe it was the light reflecting off of it and into my face or something? No, that couldn't be. It was 9pm. Sun was already set. With the breadth of scientific knowledge I retain in my brain, I still cannot formulate a proper hypothesis. I think I should submit my story to Unsolved Mysteries and have them take a crack at it.
Monday, January 18, 2010
And then he kissed me
My experience tonight reminds me of a medley of old hit songs, most notably Then He Kissed Me by the Crystals & and Her Boyfriends Back by whatever band, but not necessarily in the same context.
So last week I went out to lunch with the soccer player. Yea, I know big mistake, but damn, I was hungry. After yet another hour of hearing him cry about how his ex girlfriend of 9 years had just dumped him one morning and ran away to Asia (can't make this shit up), I try to say my goodbyes because I was tired of hearing his whiney voice screeching through my ear drums. Then he did it. His sushi breath came up close to me and as he attempted to plant one on me, I ducked away and he missed the wall behind me by an inch. "Dude, WHAT are you doing?," I screamed. Not like the situation was awkward enough. People were already staring. I tried to block the embarrassment out by playing the Crystals in my head, but changing the words around to suit the current debacle: "...and then he didn't kiss me..."
Long story short. He was very apologetic, and continued to be annoyingly apologetic through text messages that interrupted every single lecture that I had during the week. On occasion, I'd say something like "Don't worry about it" or "It's cool," but his apologies would just come back with greater frequency. It was a lose-lose situation. So I just stopped replying after a couple of days.
Just as I was about the publish a simple post about this occurrence on the blog, HE WAS BACK. No seriously, he was down the hallway waiting to see the same event as I was planning on going to. Damn. I attempted to cover up my face with the laptop screen fast like a cat, but clearly I'm not a cat because eye contact was made within those microseconds. Damn. I smiled back. Damn. Then he proceeded to turn away and act like he didn't know me. OHHHH HELL NO. That asshole stole a smile from me!
I felt like a used piece of kleenex stuffed in a seat cushion somewhere. Did he just 1. make me listen to his sob stories for the last few months 2. then try to kiss me and crown me as his rebound queen 3. and then finally use me for a smile to boost his own ego? I hadn't felt this helpless since I tried to volunteer at a school for the blind. I had nothing to get back at him for stealing something so precious to me. I also left my light saber at home that day so I couldn't slice him in half with it. I was at an impasse. I know one thing for sure though. Ain't no one, I mean NO ONE ever gonna ROB a smile from me again.
So last week I went out to lunch with the soccer player. Yea, I know big mistake, but damn, I was hungry. After yet another hour of hearing him cry about how his ex girlfriend of 9 years had just dumped him one morning and ran away to Asia (can't make this shit up), I try to say my goodbyes because I was tired of hearing his whiney voice screeching through my ear drums. Then he did it. His sushi breath came up close to me and as he attempted to plant one on me, I ducked away and he missed the wall behind me by an inch. "Dude, WHAT are you doing?," I screamed. Not like the situation was awkward enough. People were already staring. I tried to block the embarrassment out by playing the Crystals in my head, but changing the words around to suit the current debacle: "...and then he didn't kiss me..."
Long story short. He was very apologetic, and continued to be annoyingly apologetic through text messages that interrupted every single lecture that I had during the week. On occasion, I'd say something like "Don't worry about it" or "It's cool," but his apologies would just come back with greater frequency. It was a lose-lose situation. So I just stopped replying after a couple of days.
Just as I was about the publish a simple post about this occurrence on the blog, HE WAS BACK. No seriously, he was down the hallway waiting to see the same event as I was planning on going to. Damn. I attempted to cover up my face with the laptop screen fast like a cat, but clearly I'm not a cat because eye contact was made within those microseconds. Damn. I smiled back. Damn. Then he proceeded to turn away and act like he didn't know me. OHHHH HELL NO. That asshole stole a smile from me!
I felt like a used piece of kleenex stuffed in a seat cushion somewhere. Did he just 1. make me listen to his sob stories for the last few months 2. then try to kiss me and crown me as his rebound queen 3. and then finally use me for a smile to boost his own ego? I hadn't felt this helpless since I tried to volunteer at a school for the blind. I had nothing to get back at him for stealing something so precious to me. I also left my light saber at home that day so I couldn't slice him in half with it. I was at an impasse. I know one thing for sure though. Ain't no one, I mean NO ONE ever gonna ROB a smile from me again.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Dating Criteria
Because looking back on my dating history makes me cringe, I've decided to set forth the following criteria to keep me on track with my dating goals. I've also rated the level of my preference of said criteria to give a little leeway for men that need a some tweaking but are almost a perfect 10.
Here it goes.
#1
Acceptable: Watches Cartoon Network for a minimum of 30 minutes a day.
Preferred: Doesn't watch Cartoon Network at all.
#2
Acceptable: Fitting into my size jeans, as long as there is major muffin top action going on.
Preferred: Jeans explosion! If he can even get them on that is.
#3
Acceptable: Similar-sized hands so that hand-holding is a mutual activity.
Preferred: Gorilla hands that have the capacity to manhandle.
#4
Acceptable: Walks at least five minutes a day
Preferred: Walks at least five times a day
#5
Acceptable: Boyish charm
Preferred: Manly charm
Thats all folks. Let me know if you meet someone that fits this description though I must admit that I am very stringent with my new criteria. So much so that I've gotten them tattooed... on my ass.
Here it goes.
#1
Acceptable: Watches Cartoon Network for a minimum of 30 minutes a day.
Preferred: Doesn't watch Cartoon Network at all.
#2
Acceptable: Fitting into my size jeans, as long as there is major muffin top action going on.
Preferred: Jeans explosion! If he can even get them on that is.
#3
Acceptable: Similar-sized hands so that hand-holding is a mutual activity.
Preferred: Gorilla hands that have the capacity to manhandle.
#4
Acceptable: Walks at least five minutes a day
Preferred: Walks at least five times a day
#5
Acceptable: Boyish charm
Preferred: Manly charm
Thats all folks. Let me know if you meet someone that fits this description though I must admit that I am very stringent with my new criteria. So much so that I've gotten them tattooed... on my ass.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Failing
I hate professors that "encourage" questions in lecture. Mostly because then all those dumb morons in the class feel like they have the license to ask the most idiotic questions ever and waste class time. I used to hate this phenomenon more, but now with the advent of wireless internet and texting, I can easily be entertained within those 5 grueling minutes of idiotdom by making fun of them via modern communication tools.
Then there are those that appear to be the royal species of the idiot genus. I mean, have you ever sat in class and then that particular idiot stupidly waves his/her hand, hoping to score a few brownies points with the professor by asking a question, and it ends up being a question that basically tells everyone (including the professor) that you are going to fail (but the waving idiot doesn't realize it?). For example, today in Virology class, a class the employs advanced molecular genetics, a woman raises her hand. The professor's voice goes completely flat and dull when he sees it. "Yes, Veronica?" Not like this was a tip off to this Veronica woman already. "What is an operon?" she proudly asks. Ok for non-science people, this may not sound like a no brainer. But imagine sitting in a graduate level public health course and asking what "E coli" is, or taking a political science class and not knowing what a democracy is.
In that moment, I wanted to pour my hot McDonald's coffee over my head so that I could induce some kind of psychological trauma that would make me forget that the question was asked in the first place. Luckily, I restrained myself. All I KNOW is that I'm going to sit as far away from Veronica as possible from now on. I don't want her idiot fumes to infect me with a rare case of stupidity.
Then there are those that appear to be the royal species of the idiot genus. I mean, have you ever sat in class and then that particular idiot stupidly waves his/her hand, hoping to score a few brownies points with the professor by asking a question, and it ends up being a question that basically tells everyone (including the professor) that you are going to fail (but the waving idiot doesn't realize it?). For example, today in Virology class, a class the employs advanced molecular genetics, a woman raises her hand. The professor's voice goes completely flat and dull when he sees it. "Yes, Veronica?" Not like this was a tip off to this Veronica woman already. "What is an operon?" she proudly asks. Ok for non-science people, this may not sound like a no brainer. But imagine sitting in a graduate level public health course and asking what "E coli" is, or taking a political science class and not knowing what a democracy is.
In that moment, I wanted to pour my hot McDonald's coffee over my head so that I could induce some kind of psychological trauma that would make me forget that the question was asked in the first place. Luckily, I restrained myself. All I KNOW is that I'm going to sit as far away from Veronica as possible from now on. I don't want her idiot fumes to infect me with a rare case of stupidity.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Union of Two Lonely Souls...
There is nothing creepier than being hit on by some loser in the library. And I wasn't even doing my usual Meera shuffle amongst the stacks, trying to muster up the courage to crack open a book or two. I was actually studying, at a table, purposely BY MYSELF when some thuggish monstrosity came up to me, complete with a sideways basketball team-themed hat and a gold chain.
"Yo, whatch ya studyin'" He asked.
"Uhm, physics." I reply and turn my head back to my books. This boy clearly failed at American Sign Language (and English 101) or some shit because he took me as wanting to continue to talk.
"Whatch yoo studyin' here?"
"Don't know. You?"
"Don't know. Got mah Bachelor's though."
"Oh ok, in what?"
"Don't know like Hissstorreee or somethin'. Don't know what to do now."
::Silence::
"Listen if you got any ideas, hit me up sometime. Mah email iz acleo@pdx.edu."
I pretend to write this down and I proceed to read it back to him:
"Ok so its A-C-L-E-O at P-D-X-dot-E-D-U. Correct?"
"Yea das me. See ya later."
::Sigh::. Finally. I got him to go away. Little did he know that this is what I actually wrote in my notebook:
Listen if you're going to prey on girls at the library, at least do a little research about the school so that you can actually appear as a student rather than a deadbeat that hopes to score a little pootie tang under the romantic reading lights. I wished to email that to him, but clearly I wrote his address down wrong.
"Yo, whatch ya studyin'" He asked.
"Uhm, physics." I reply and turn my head back to my books. This boy clearly failed at American Sign Language (and English 101) or some shit because he took me as wanting to continue to talk.
"Whatch yoo studyin' here?"
"Don't know. You?"
"Don't know. Got mah Bachelor's though."
"Oh ok, in what?"
"Don't know like Hissstorreee or somethin'. Don't know what to do now."
::Silence::
"Listen if you got any ideas, hit me up sometime. Mah email iz acleo@pdx.edu."
I pretend to write this down and I proceed to read it back to him:
"Ok so its A-C-L-E-O at P-D-X-dot-E-D-U. Correct?"
"Yea das me. See ya later."
::Sigh::. Finally. I got him to go away. Little did he know that this is what I actually wrote in my notebook:
Listen if you're going to prey on girls at the library, at least do a little research about the school so that you can actually appear as a student rather than a deadbeat that hopes to score a little pootie tang under the romantic reading lights. I wished to email that to him, but clearly I wrote his address down wrong.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Potty Un-humor
After having an awfully large pot of coffee this morning, I had to tend to an extremely irritated intestinal tract mid-class. Which reminds me, I should never eat an entire jalapeno pizza on my own from now on. Anyhoo, as I'm sitting down to tend to my bowel duties. I found myself staring head-on to the following post-it note on the bathroom stall.
Fuck. Like this is what I want burning through my retinas as I'm taking a fabulously painful- excuse my language here- dump. No, stupid girl, I'm not beautiful "inside" and out. My actions at the moment were living proof of that. It's smelly, gross, and disgusting. I would've vomited, but the obviously, the toilet was occupied at the moment.
It's times like these when I wished I had the supernatural power to grow a penis or a beard or both so I could just use the Men's restroom. Or maybe I should just forego all those secret desires and just use the damn Men's restroom and risk getting arrested because apparently it is against the law. Men don't write dumb post-it notes. If anything, they probably write funny ones that will make my bathroom visit that much more enjoyable. Such examples may be:
"Dude, you just took a ginormous dump. Rock on!"
"That one really hurt, didn't it?"
"Do you feel 5 lbs now, man?"
Etc... etc...
These encouraging words would be written in a neutral-colored post-it note, comfortable to read but possibly illegible. Of course, I would never know. The Men's restroom is after all uncharted territory for us women. Or maybe not.
Fuck. Like this is what I want burning through my retinas as I'm taking a fabulously painful- excuse my language here- dump. No, stupid girl, I'm not beautiful "inside" and out. My actions at the moment were living proof of that. It's smelly, gross, and disgusting. I would've vomited, but the obviously, the toilet was occupied at the moment.
It's times like these when I wished I had the supernatural power to grow a penis or a beard or both so I could just use the Men's restroom. Or maybe I should just forego all those secret desires and just use the damn Men's restroom and risk getting arrested because apparently it is against the law. Men don't write dumb post-it notes. If anything, they probably write funny ones that will make my bathroom visit that much more enjoyable. Such examples may be:
"Dude, you just took a ginormous dump. Rock on!"
"That one really hurt, didn't it?"
"Do you feel 5 lbs now, man?"
Etc... etc...
These encouraging words would be written in a neutral-colored post-it note, comfortable to read but possibly illegible. Of course, I would never know. The Men's restroom is after all uncharted territory for us women. Or maybe not.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Feminine Woes Continued
Ladies, have you ever been at a job interview and suddenly realized that you needed a pen? Like you know, maybe to fill out some tax form here or maybe just a little signature there? So I was in the same exact predicament just a few days ago. I'm sitting across the desk from my future boss and we're discussing some highly convoluted scientific concept. As we're doing this, he shoves a paper towards me to sign. Uh oh, no pen! So I reach into my pocket, feel for a cylindrical object, and whip it out in front of my face:
A chilling silence pervaded the office. I totally forgot that I shoved all these free tampons in every possible place that they would hold, i.e. backpack pockets, jeans pockets, and yes, coat pockets.
Now, this situation would've been passable if I was interviewing with a woman. But this here was a man. And apparently a shy one because his face turned beet red. I casually shoved the thing back into my pocket and said "Well, I guess I DON'T have a pen." His rosacea calmed down after a few minutes, but damn. I don't even think I should call into work now.
A chilling silence pervaded the office. I totally forgot that I shoved all these free tampons in every possible place that they would hold, i.e. backpack pockets, jeans pockets, and yes, coat pockets.
Now, this situation would've been passable if I was interviewing with a woman. But this here was a man. And apparently a shy one because his face turned beet red. I casually shoved the thing back into my pocket and said "Well, I guess I DON'T have a pen." His rosacea calmed down after a few minutes, but damn. I don't even think I should call into work now.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
My school caters to closet drug addicts but not menstruating women
Sorry, guys. I'm going to talk about it. Call it whatever you may like, but I prefer the scientific version- menstruation. All women do it, just like how we poop and pee and vomit, so I don't see why its such a taboo topic. Especially amongst men, but who cares about them anyways.
As my post title implies, yes, I am menstruating. Stupidly, I forgot to bring my "feminine bandaids" to school with me today because I had overslept and just felt lazy. I figured... eh! I can always just get the cheapo kinds for 25 cents at the bathroom, right?! NOT! I scoured the entire campus for a bathroom with these mini-pillows of goodness. It was like searching for the Holy Grail. I passed by countless numbers of high-tech vending machines for soda addicts (with a credit card systems to boot) and snack kiosks for sugar addicts but NO, no coin-turn operated tampon/pad/napkin dispensers, something I would consider a fundamental human need! Worst off, in every bathroom, I saw this:
How the hell can the school shell out the cash to have a dirty needle disposal receptacle conveniently placed next to private bathroom stalls, basically a welcome sign for drug addicts galore, and not install a woman's-best-friend dispensary that basically consists of slots drilled into metal (and would TAKE money)?
I was mad. I was so mad that during my scavenger hunt I came across this small sign with little letters on it that spelled out "Women's Resource Center." The sign pointed in the direction of a wooded area, but I trusted it. I walked through the plants, hiked up the hill, and came across this small hut the reminded me of my days in Africa. I went inside, was greeted by the nice receptionist, and I slammed my hand on her desk and was like "What the hell does a woman gotta do to get a damn tampon around here?" Startled, she explained to me that the Women's Resource Center provides complimentary tampons, which are donated to the center by "patrons," and I was free to take as many as I'd like. SCORE! Free tampons. I may never buy another feminine hygiene product again. But I still can't stop wondering... who in the hell actually takes the time out of their day to DONATE feminine hygiene products to the Women's Resource Center? Whoever you are. Keep doing it. And I'll do my part and go ahead and keep taking them.
As my post title implies, yes, I am menstruating. Stupidly, I forgot to bring my "feminine bandaids" to school with me today because I had overslept and just felt lazy. I figured... eh! I can always just get the cheapo kinds for 25 cents at the bathroom, right?! NOT! I scoured the entire campus for a bathroom with these mini-pillows of goodness. It was like searching for the Holy Grail. I passed by countless numbers of high-tech vending machines for soda addicts (with a credit card systems to boot) and snack kiosks for sugar addicts but NO, no coin-turn operated tampon/pad/napkin dispensers, something I would consider a fundamental human need! Worst off, in every bathroom, I saw this:
How the hell can the school shell out the cash to have a dirty needle disposal receptacle conveniently placed next to private bathroom stalls, basically a welcome sign for drug addicts galore, and not install a woman's-best-friend dispensary that basically consists of slots drilled into metal (and would TAKE money)?
I was mad. I was so mad that during my scavenger hunt I came across this small sign with little letters on it that spelled out "Women's Resource Center." The sign pointed in the direction of a wooded area, but I trusted it. I walked through the plants, hiked up the hill, and came across this small hut the reminded me of my days in Africa. I went inside, was greeted by the nice receptionist, and I slammed my hand on her desk and was like "What the hell does a woman gotta do to get a damn tampon around here?" Startled, she explained to me that the Women's Resource Center provides complimentary tampons, which are donated to the center by "patrons," and I was free to take as many as I'd like. SCORE! Free tampons. I may never buy another feminine hygiene product again. But I still can't stop wondering... who in the hell actually takes the time out of their day to DONATE feminine hygiene products to the Women's Resource Center? Whoever you are. Keep doing it. And I'll do my part and go ahead and keep taking them.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Ah, To Be Young and Racist
Today, I was walking around downtown, minding my own damn business, until I came upon a WASPish mother and son standing on a street corner. Suddenly, the boy catches a glimpse of me, his rosy cheeks ablaze. Tears start running down his beautiful blue eyes. My god, am I really that beautiful?, I thought to myself for a moment.
Nope. He started yelling seconds later, pointing at me with his stubby little fingers and screaming "Mommy! Animal! Animal!" Man, I thought, looks like bigot training starts earlier and earlier these days. The mom turned and looked at me. She gave me an "I'm so sorry" look and tried to quiet her child. I was about to give that little Hitler a piece of my mind, but I just kept walking, disgusted that the Aryan Pride movement is still going strong. (Unfortunately, the skin cancer epidemic hasn't reached its peak yet in wiping out their breed, especially when their shaved heads and basic uniform of remaining bare-chested all day long to show off their latest swastika tattoo makes them susceptible to it).
I sound tough, but I was a little hurt. Tears were welling up in the rim of my eye, and I had to run to the bathroom to clean myself up, and possibly whip myself a few times with my gym towel to punish myself for being born brown. That is when I looked in the mirror and saw this:
I totally forgot that I was trying out faux fur today because the whole animal print thing didn't work out for me so well. And yes, little boy, I did look like an animal. I'm so sorry for calling you a bigot and a young Hitler. It was only in my head, but still. I'm sorry.
Nope. He started yelling seconds later, pointing at me with his stubby little fingers and screaming "Mommy! Animal! Animal!" Man, I thought, looks like bigot training starts earlier and earlier these days. The mom turned and looked at me. She gave me an "I'm so sorry" look and tried to quiet her child. I was about to give that little Hitler a piece of my mind, but I just kept walking, disgusted that the Aryan Pride movement is still going strong. (Unfortunately, the skin cancer epidemic hasn't reached its peak yet in wiping out their breed, especially when their shaved heads and basic uniform of remaining bare-chested all day long to show off their latest swastika tattoo makes them susceptible to it).
I sound tough, but I was a little hurt. Tears were welling up in the rim of my eye, and I had to run to the bathroom to clean myself up, and possibly whip myself a few times with my gym towel to punish myself for being born brown. That is when I looked in the mirror and saw this:
I totally forgot that I was trying out faux fur today because the whole animal print thing didn't work out for me so well. And yes, little boy, I did look like an animal. I'm so sorry for calling you a bigot and a young Hitler. It was only in my head, but still. I'm sorry.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Tanning Salons and Brown People Don't Mix
Everyday as I'm walking to the bus stop, I pass by the tanning salon. Every time I pass it, the hot brown-but-white salesperson, sensing that a possible customer is approaching, looks up in anticipation. Every time, she sees my brown face and goes back to reading her US Weekly.
I used to not "get" why people tanned. It seemed like a waste of money, causing skin to appear as if it were the pigskin ripped off of a 10 year old football. All to just look like us brown folk. Let me give it to you straight white people, you're not cool enough to be us. You never will. No matter how much melanoma you'll get.
But then a friend showed me a picture of a girl with a complexion that could even make polar bears a little jealous. Now this works if you are slated to star as the next villain in a crappy Dan Brown thriller, but probably not out in the real world. So I now rescind my initial response to tanning as stupid. I encourage pale people to go ahead and reap the benefits of an artificial sun. It'll be convenient for me as well. I won't need to wear sunglasses anymore in the dead of winter to deal with the blinding effect caused by the light reflecting off of you people's skin.
So after coming to this conclusion, I became a little self-conscious of my own skin tone. The next time I walked on into the tanning salon instead of just passing by it. The blondie at the counter put down her latest edition of People and asked me if I was the mail woman! I said no, that I was interested in getting a tan. She tilted her head, confused. I, as a result, became confused, grabbed The Economist that had laid untouched on the coffee table, and ran away. I now walk a different route to the bus stop everyday.
I used to not "get" why people tanned. It seemed like a waste of money, causing skin to appear as if it were the pigskin ripped off of a 10 year old football. All to just look like us brown folk. Let me give it to you straight white people, you're not cool enough to be us. You never will. No matter how much melanoma you'll get.
But then a friend showed me a picture of a girl with a complexion that could even make polar bears a little jealous. Now this works if you are slated to star as the next villain in a crappy Dan Brown thriller, but probably not out in the real world. So I now rescind my initial response to tanning as stupid. I encourage pale people to go ahead and reap the benefits of an artificial sun. It'll be convenient for me as well. I won't need to wear sunglasses anymore in the dead of winter to deal with the blinding effect caused by the light reflecting off of you people's skin.
So after coming to this conclusion, I became a little self-conscious of my own skin tone. The next time I walked on into the tanning salon instead of just passing by it. The blondie at the counter put down her latest edition of People and asked me if I was the mail woman! I said no, that I was interested in getting a tan. She tilted her head, confused. I, as a result, became confused, grabbed The Economist that had laid untouched on the coffee table, and ran away. I now walk a different route to the bus stop everyday.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
My Mother The Firecracker
I wouldn't exactly characterize my mom as simply a firecracker. She is more like that type of firecracker that doesn't light up the first time, but when you walk back to it after waiting a safe 10 minutes, the damn thing just explodes in your face, throwing shrapnel to and fro. So I guess more of a landmine with a delay timer. That, my friend, is my mother.
Lately, I've been contemplating giving the whole marriage idea a heave-ho and throwing in the towel in the tricky game of dating. Dating is a true blood sport that I will never be able to keep up with. Then I started dreaming what sort of a life I'd want as a spinster. Children can still be an option. I can have my very own designer baby shipped in from Ethiopia nowadays for god's sakes! What is better than screwing up our future generations by raising a fatherless child in a multiracial setting?! Welcome to the 2010s.
I decided to run this idea by my mother first. After all, a mother's opinion should be held in the highest regard. Unfortunately, the conversation did not go the way I was expecting it. She was taking a nap in the living room. With the sudden urge to run the idea by her, I nudged her awake and asked "Mommy, what would you do if I had a black baby?" Her eyes were bloodshot and she gave me a mean stare. I recoiled and put up my boxing fists. "WHY?!" she said very loud and bluntly, all the while staring at my stomach area. "WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS?"
Uh oh. I guess we really hit a language barrier. I was hoping for a heartwarming conversation about how adopted children will be part of the family no matter what flavor of the month they are. She, on the other hand, mistook this confrontation as a confession that I was "with child," a black child nonetheless.
I concluded the conversation by saying "nevermind" and walked away. Far away. We haven't discussed it since. But you never know when that favorite landmine of mine will blow. There will be body parts. Beware.
Lately, I've been contemplating giving the whole marriage idea a heave-ho and throwing in the towel in the tricky game of dating. Dating is a true blood sport that I will never be able to keep up with. Then I started dreaming what sort of a life I'd want as a spinster. Children can still be an option. I can have my very own designer baby shipped in from Ethiopia nowadays for god's sakes! What is better than screwing up our future generations by raising a fatherless child in a multiracial setting?! Welcome to the 2010s.
I decided to run this idea by my mother first. After all, a mother's opinion should be held in the highest regard. Unfortunately, the conversation did not go the way I was expecting it. She was taking a nap in the living room. With the sudden urge to run the idea by her, I nudged her awake and asked "Mommy, what would you do if I had a black baby?" Her eyes were bloodshot and she gave me a mean stare. I recoiled and put up my boxing fists. "WHY?!" she said very loud and bluntly, all the while staring at my stomach area. "WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS?"
Uh oh. I guess we really hit a language barrier. I was hoping for a heartwarming conversation about how adopted children will be part of the family no matter what flavor of the month they are. She, on the other hand, mistook this confrontation as a confession that I was "with child," a black child nonetheless.
I concluded the conversation by saying "nevermind" and walked away. Far away. We haven't discussed it since. But you never know when that favorite landmine of mine will blow. There will be body parts. Beware.
Vegetarian Rebound
Hindus are the biggest fundamentalist vegetarians in the world. The strictest of the strict do not even eat eggs! I asked my grandmother, who has never even eaten a morsel of egg white in her life, about this recently. She said eggs smelled bad. I proceeded to smell an egg in the refrigerator. Smelled like nothing to me. Hmmm...
Yea well me and the male members of my family threw that whole vegetarian thing out the window a whole hell of a long time ago. We love the egg. We love the bacon. And yes, we love the beef the most. So it's not surprise that my brother, my father, and I opted to go get a fancy steak dinner the other night. But of course, as we were planning this fabulous and expensive dinner, we decided to keep the dear old sweet grandmother in the dark. After all, ignorance is bliss. So whenever we discussed the evening's plans, instead of just saying "steak" or "meat" we'd spell the words out.
Me: "Daddy, are you ready to eat some delicious S-T-E-A-K tonight?!
Dad: "Yes, I am craving M-E-A-T."
Amit: "Dude, I think grandma knows how to read English."
Turns out that my brother was right. She knew what we were talking about all along. God bless her soul and also my brother's, who has perfected the knowing but aloof aura about him over the years. After the whole Hindu "cow is our mother" speel from our grandmother, we just looked at each other and moved our pre-game to the car.
During pre-game, I passed out favor bags to my dad and my brother. There were toothpicks, dental floss, mouth spray, a couple tablespoons of Metamucil, and a napkin. Coming from a long lineage of vegetarians and not knowing jack about meat, we were all very nervous about our meat-eating etiquette, we quizzed each other and gave each other tips/encouragement before we walked into the restaurant.
Me: "Daddy, what do you think I should do if I get a piece of fat in my mouth and I keep chewing it."
Daddy: "I asked my co-worker this and she said that you just spit it out into a napkin while no one is looking."
Daddy: "Do you think I should take Metamucil before or after a steak dinner to ensure continued regularity the next day?"
Me: "I googled that. It said after would be better."
By the time we got to the restaurant parking lot, we were ready to fill our stomachs brim of red meat. We took our deep breaths and walked in.
Long story short, we ordered a 3 course meal. The steak was delicious. Blah blah blah. We did everything right and looked like meat-eating pros all the way through until the end when we whipped out our favor bags and started picking our teeth and mixing up our Metamucil at the table. We got stares from other tables. We just shrugged and kept doing it. Hey at least we were nice enough to not floss until we got into the car! My grandma would call that KARMA.
Yea well me and the male members of my family threw that whole vegetarian thing out the window a whole hell of a long time ago. We love the egg. We love the bacon. And yes, we love the beef the most. So it's not surprise that my brother, my father, and I opted to go get a fancy steak dinner the other night. But of course, as we were planning this fabulous and expensive dinner, we decided to keep the dear old sweet grandmother in the dark. After all, ignorance is bliss. So whenever we discussed the evening's plans, instead of just saying "steak" or "meat" we'd spell the words out.
Me: "Daddy, are you ready to eat some delicious S-T-E-A-K tonight?!
Dad: "Yes, I am craving M-E-A-T."
Amit: "Dude, I think grandma knows how to read English."
Turns out that my brother was right. She knew what we were talking about all along. God bless her soul and also my brother's, who has perfected the knowing but aloof aura about him over the years. After the whole Hindu "cow is our mother" speel from our grandmother, we just looked at each other and moved our pre-game to the car.
During pre-game, I passed out favor bags to my dad and my brother. There were toothpicks, dental floss, mouth spray, a couple tablespoons of Metamucil, and a napkin. Coming from a long lineage of vegetarians and not knowing jack about meat, we were all very nervous about our meat-eating etiquette, we quizzed each other and gave each other tips/encouragement before we walked into the restaurant.
Me: "Daddy, what do you think I should do if I get a piece of fat in my mouth and I keep chewing it."
Daddy: "I asked my co-worker this and she said that you just spit it out into a napkin while no one is looking."
Daddy: "Do you think I should take Metamucil before or after a steak dinner to ensure continued regularity the next day?"
Me: "I googled that. It said after would be better."
By the time we got to the restaurant parking lot, we were ready to fill our stomachs brim of red meat. We took our deep breaths and walked in.
Long story short, we ordered a 3 course meal. The steak was delicious. Blah blah blah. We did everything right and looked like meat-eating pros all the way through until the end when we whipped out our favor bags and started picking our teeth and mixing up our Metamucil at the table. We got stares from other tables. We just shrugged and kept doing it. Hey at least we were nice enough to not floss until we got into the car! My grandma would call that KARMA.
Southwest, You are not the Party Bus of the Skies
I used to like Southwest. I even used to watch their awesome commercials by choice on YouTube. Maybe it's the fact that they used ugly actors and actresses to play the role of baggage handlers and stewardesses to give a "real life" effect to their intended sincerity for not charging for bags like the cheapskates Delta and United do. Or maybe it's the fact that if you owned a printer, you could check in 24 hours early thereby be privileged to board the plane earlier than anyone else and thus feel like a princess (an honor reserved for only the rich and/or famous with competitor airlines). Unfortunately, I am not rich enough to buy a printer so I am usually relegated to the "C" boarding class, and watch all the other women less worthy than me board and get their preferred seats. My goal in 2010 is to one day own a printer and show all those spoiled woman what I'm made of. But I digress.
I don't know about you, but when I board a plane, I just want to sit there, not talk to anyone, and get the whole thing over with. Thank god I recently lost weight because I no longer am forced to experience that uncomfortable stranger-on-stranger thigh rub which beckons an occasional "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me." Phew for that!
But then Southwest does have one flaw. Their employees try to be funny. And not quarky funny, but more like "I've memorized the oldest flying jokes in the book and try to make you laugh with them but inadvertently end up offending you because it undershoots your IQ" kind of funny. This has happened more than once, and its worse if you're seated in the vicinity of idiot passengers that are actually actively engaged and even verbally responding to these jokes.
Like today for example. I'm on a 3 hour flight to Portland from LA, and the pilot gets on the speaker and is like "We'll be arriving in Portland in 18 hours. Have a great flight." Woaaahoaa Mr. Pilot man. That was funny. You lied about the flight time to freak out the passengers, and somehow expected to garner a few chuckles at least from the slight error in calculation! As expected, no one laughed. Mostly because they weren't paying attention. Disappointed he gets back on the speaker. "Did anybody hear that? Huh? I said 18 hours." Then of course, I'm seated next to the only dolt in the entire airplane that starts laughing at the top of her lungs. "Oh I get it! That's hilarious! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Fuck. I was pissed.
It didn't stop there. When we landed the pilot started making cowboy and horse noises to recreate some kind of scene from a John Wayne film. I personally didn't see the connection between flying a 4 ton airplane with 100 passengers to some overweight man riding a horse through the desert. (But then again, I'm not white.) And then the final lamest flying joke in the book. "Hope everyone enjoys Honolulu" while we were taxiing. Everyone in the plane laughed again. Except me. Then that idiot next to me piped up again. laughing and yelling back "We're not in Honolulu silly!". (Seriously, for someone well-to-do enough to own a Coach bag, not very bright.) I wanted to bang my head against the window at that very moment. But my forehead was already sore from pressing my head against the window to see the view right before we hit turbulence.
So here I am, nursing my splitting headache caused by the danger that is airplane windows. Weird that they don't have any warnings about that on their safety cards. I'm going to write the US Department of Flying about this and also about having a segregated section for idiots. As for Southwest, they really need to send their employees to comedy school or some shit because what they're trying to do right now is just not working. Well, not for me anyways. If I wanted to laugh, I'd go out and watch a drama starring Jennifer Lopez not board an airplane to go home.
I don't know about you, but when I board a plane, I just want to sit there, not talk to anyone, and get the whole thing over with. Thank god I recently lost weight because I no longer am forced to experience that uncomfortable stranger-on-stranger thigh rub which beckons an occasional "I'm sorry" or "Excuse me." Phew for that!
But then Southwest does have one flaw. Their employees try to be funny. And not quarky funny, but more like "I've memorized the oldest flying jokes in the book and try to make you laugh with them but inadvertently end up offending you because it undershoots your IQ" kind of funny. This has happened more than once, and its worse if you're seated in the vicinity of idiot passengers that are actually actively engaged and even verbally responding to these jokes.
Like today for example. I'm on a 3 hour flight to Portland from LA, and the pilot gets on the speaker and is like "We'll be arriving in Portland in 18 hours. Have a great flight." Woaaahoaa Mr. Pilot man. That was funny. You lied about the flight time to freak out the passengers, and somehow expected to garner a few chuckles at least from the slight error in calculation! As expected, no one laughed. Mostly because they weren't paying attention. Disappointed he gets back on the speaker. "Did anybody hear that? Huh? I said 18 hours." Then of course, I'm seated next to the only dolt in the entire airplane that starts laughing at the top of her lungs. "Oh I get it! That's hilarious! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Fuck. I was pissed.
It didn't stop there. When we landed the pilot started making cowboy and horse noises to recreate some kind of scene from a John Wayne film. I personally didn't see the connection between flying a 4 ton airplane with 100 passengers to some overweight man riding a horse through the desert. (But then again, I'm not white.) And then the final lamest flying joke in the book. "Hope everyone enjoys Honolulu" while we were taxiing. Everyone in the plane laughed again. Except me. Then that idiot next to me piped up again. laughing and yelling back "We're not in Honolulu silly!". (Seriously, for someone well-to-do enough to own a Coach bag, not very bright.) I wanted to bang my head against the window at that very moment. But my forehead was already sore from pressing my head against the window to see the view right before we hit turbulence.
So here I am, nursing my splitting headache caused by the danger that is airplane windows. Weird that they don't have any warnings about that on their safety cards. I'm going to write the US Department of Flying about this and also about having a segregated section for idiots. As for Southwest, they really need to send their employees to comedy school or some shit because what they're trying to do right now is just not working. Well, not for me anyways. If I wanted to laugh, I'd go out and watch a drama starring Jennifer Lopez not board an airplane to go home.
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