Bruno Mars and the Toilet-Bound Nature of Society

While driving around in my car recently, I couldn't help but find myself singing along to yet another Bruno Mars hit single. The guy has the voice of smooth caramel, enough so that my cacophonous singing does not seem to disturb my unfortunate passengers at the moment. Luckily, I have a two-seater.

I always believed that music was a form of mind control. We've all been there, admit it. I'll be first to stand up and say that yes, I work out to the Pussycat Doll's "Don't You" to get myself pumped up enough to imagine myself with a svelte boyfriend-stealing body wrapped in clothing tight like saran wrap with a microphone at hand and busting out a few hip swings as I'm riding the elliptical. Yes, when I'm having a bad day, I listen to Kanye West and recall his hatred for the Bush administration, attempting to emulate such negativity in order to hate on the newest thing I have decided to hate on for the moment. Yes, and on the rare instances I am feeling sensual I play a little Sade and lie around fantasizing about... Tom Selleck. Don't ask.

Anyways, it didn't occur to me that Bruno Mars had invaded my brain as if he was some alien that was actually from Mars until I listened to myself singing. It was no wonder I've been so lovelorn lately.

"I'd catch a grenade for ya/ Throw my hand on the blade for ya. I'd jump in front of a train for ya/ You know I'd do anything for ya." How Shakespearean and Gothic at the same time. Anyone that is willing to sacrifice a limb from catching an explosive or to voluntarily cut themselves using a sharp object over the love for a person that clearly doesn't love you back is borderline insanity at the least and I mean least. However, this isn't the most graphic of the lyrics. He goes on to sing that he'd want to "take a bullet straight through his brain." I'd grant good ol' Bruno Mars a little clemency on this line if the word "pain" in the previous line was so difficult to rhyme with, but it's not. Not even close.

But "Grenade" is a catchy tune and maybe the buck stopped there for Bruno and his penchant for graphically violent love songs. He did have that one song about being lazy all day, but who the hell wants to listen to him singing about all the dumb things he does on his days off such as not going to college, doing P90X, and getting laid? I sure didn't.

I thought that maybe this was the end to Bruno Mars and his glory days, retiring his music to the vault of other one-hit-wonders such as The Macarena and Spice Girls. Yet, the guy rose from his lazy ashes with his newest single, starting with the lines "If you ever leave me, baby, leave some morphine at my door. Cause it would take a whole lot of medication..." These lines strike a tune with me. Who doesn't want to become incredibly obsessed with an object of affection enough to want to take prescription painkillers administered through an IV in order to overcome said obsession? Sounds like fun. I'm in.

When I decide to be less dangerously lovelorn, I shall return to listening to hardcore gangster rap that contains lyrics that pertain to womanizing, drinking to excess, and the use of recreational drugs for good old-fashioned recreation. Until then, Bruno Mars it is.

Payback

So I decided to take a class this summer because I realized that the only use I have for society currently is being a student. I wasn't enthusiastic about this at all, mind you, mostly because I'd rather be paid to occupy my time over doing the paying. Anyways, so there I am in class, skipping out on a day or two because it is boring until... I realized I had an exam the next day. I frantically started asking those around me if I could photocopy their notes and I thought my female persuasion could sway some of the young teenage gentlemen that were in my vicinity. Unfortunately, this was not the case and I got excuse after excuse about how they had errands to run or worse, not even acknowledging my request. Yes, I had become that girl. The one that is lazy but tries to get by anyways. Clearly, I can't pull this off for whatever reason.

Still bitter about this, I showed up to the exam wide-eyed from a night of studying. I purchased a scantron packet because I'm guju and realized I'd save $0.10 per pop if I bought in bulk rather than individually. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guys that rejected me the day before eying my quarry. He clearly forgot his scantron. Boo hoo. He turned to me asked, "Hey, can I have one of those?"

For a minute, I thought I'd go full guju and ask him to pay me $5 for it, but instead I thought of something funnier to say.

"No." I then turned away and proceeded to take my exam.

How To Bag An Indian Chick

Through my travels, I've always come across the the wonderment that is the Indian girl. She is beautiful, she is smart, she is mystical... she is highly unattainable. Don't get me wrong, this is somewhat true. There are a lot of you mainstream daters that have coveted that brown beauty that helped you pick out a computer at the Best Buy or sat a few rows behind you in engineering class. Except, Indian girls do not generally follow the rules of mainstream dating and you may not know how to approach the problem. Here, I will demystify you in a stepwise fashion.

1. Most Indian girls will not give it up on a first, second, third..... fifteenth date. Wow, what a shocker. Yes, most Indian women were raised in highly unbroken homes in communities that were plagued with a very small divorce rate. Our fathers came from stock that raised them to be honorable to their wives no matter what the circumstances are. This basically means that very few of us have "daddy issues" that you can manipulate into getting her to hop into bed with you. Unless, you are willing to commit, the panties will not be coming off. Sorry.

2. If you make any sexual comments or advances during any of said dates, don't expect you calls to be returned.

3. If you make any comments about your "mommy issues," your past foray into drug/alcohol addiction, or commonly misunderstood elements of Indian culture, don't expect your calls to be returned.

4. This leads to the fact that no, not all Indian women are virgins. We are sexual creatures, but that does not mean that we cannot control our bouts of lonesomeness and end up knocking boots with some creepy guy in a handlebar mustache.

5. We are not submissive or have hopes of an arranged marriage, though the arranged marriage idea is not all that bad of an idea considering how horrid real world dating can be.

6. No, we are not manipulated by our friends and family into not having sex with gentlemen that take us out. That was your fault. See points 1-5 to refresh your memory.

7. As members of a "model minority," we are pressured to do our best to remain in the income bracket that our parents toiled to achieve. If you complain that Indian girls only go for the "rich" and "educated," you clearly are upset because you are not qualified. It is like asking a guy that is used to playing on a Playstation 3 to downgrade to Nintendo. That is not going to happen, for any race including Indian women. Even you have to admit that the pixelation is hard on the eyes.

I Suck

After seeing a major decline in readership since my blog posts have gone on dark jaunts into a world of negativity, I have finally decided to draw my "I hate the world" campaign of 2011 to a close and return to the self-deprecating humor that I am best known for.

So lately I've been looking in the mirror and wondering why I am only attractive to middle-aged to elderly white men. Ok, I'm not fugly, frumpy, or fat. So what is the deal? Ok, well my hair needs some serious work, but I always thought my wild and untempered locks to be my signature look. Perhaps my nose is a bit, well out there. My skin could be lighter. Hmmmmm...

It never occurred to me that it could be, well, my personality. I know what you are going to say, but you can stop right there. If you call me aggressive or intimidating, you can go ahead and bitch slap yourself right now. The only time I bring out fists of fury are on the following occasions, listed in order of importance:

1. When you are a douche bag guy that thinks he's hot shit for having gone to some lower tier professional school, all the while bragging for never having done the required reading, that does nothing but bang dumb pussy and brags about it;
2. If you are a scum bag intolerant that has taken a liking to saying dumb, uninformed, judgmental racial/religious epithets about other people based solely on appearance;
3. Crossing paths with one of those leeches of society that complains about the cost of life's necessities (rent, food, water, heat) and makes the state foot their exorbitant medical bills because they whine that they cannot afford medical insurance yet they walk around with an iphone, own several video gaming systems with a vast collection of games, and subscribe to a premium cable service.

I feel like the Robin Hood of Morality, Justice, and Whatever Else You Want To Call It whenever I dish out the haterade in these rare but real occasions. I live life with no regrets.

Filled with all this rage, when I signed up for a free online dating site recently, I seriously thought the men on it would read what I have to say and be like "wow, this woman has SPARK! Wabaaaaaam!" They'd magically be turned into some handsome, princely man of a man that'll want to take me out to such upscale restaurants like Portland City Grill or Ruth's Chris. They'd drool over the bilious comments I have to say about the evil in this world while spooning me tiny crumbs of creme brulee and requesting moist dish towels to rub on my head to bring down the redness that my anger often causes. They would... worship me.

But, nothing. Not even a single taker. "What the hell is wrong with ME!?" I thought. Then I took the site's personality quiz and saw the displeasing results:

... I'm boring. I apparently have the personality of a dimwitted spinster that likes to stay-in to darn socks and pray to the Lord Buddha in between taking naps. I'm saddened by this sudden discovery.

All this time, I thought that I was such an exciting, fun, creative, sexual creature. This goes to show that how we view ourselves is not exactly how the world perceives us. Oh well, fuck the world and fuck my life.

ATTENTION, Vegans on Facebook! The food you advertise makes me want to eat meat!

BTW, what does FTW mean? I'm assuming Fuck The World (because I need to dye my vegan food).

Judging by the bright pink color and poor frosting job, I'm sure it was thrown together by some undernourished dairy nazi!

Pooches Over Smooches

Realizing that I've posted sexually-charged entries 3 times in a row this month, I've realized that I'm in desperate need for a distraction. Since this need for distraction has not been fulfilled by a beastly hunky man, I've decided to fill this void with a beast itself.

However, deciding on a dog to take home is a challenge especially in the 21st century. On top of considering breed, temperament, and gender of the dog, I now have to consider coat color, eye color, and size for fashion purposes. I really do not want to pull off a puppy faux pas. That would be a really expensive mistake to make!

I have since boiled everything down to five potential candidates. Here, I will present to you the dog and the look I'd like to pull off with the dog and YOU, my trusty readers can help me decide which one I should commit to for an approximate 10-15, the average lifespan of a lovable pooch.

The Oedipus Rex

Loyal and protective, but prone towards violence close to a blinding rage. Has a regal air about him though not necessarily purebred due to inbreeding.

The Paddington

Dye job not included though recommended as black and white matches with everything. Loveable but dimwitted. Tends to attract children and women that like "cutesy" things so not advisable for straight single keeping-it-real type of women.

The Butch

Extremely slow and lazy. The Butch's aggressive look would tell onlookers that owner means business. Fat so doubles as a sidewalk clearing machine for runners that enjoy personal space.

The Madonna

High maintenance though at first sight does not appear to be so. Curly hairs have dual functionality. Not only aesthetically displeasing but can also work as a mop. Fits easily in purses for portability.

The Anthony Weiner

Douchey yet dignified with a touch of neanderthal-like sexual urges. More useful for males having trouble controlling their boners so can use the dog as a means to cover crotch area while running, eating, walking, working, and sleeping.

Sex Jokes: The Ultimate First Date Blunder

Men have their fantasies about women's locker rooms so it's no surprise that I have a few myself about the men's. I always pictured men homo-erotically whipping each other with wet towels in between the exchanging of the "newest" quarry of sex jokes. This, I imagine, is not a huge leap from what really happens since sex jokes tend to captivate the male mind easily in addition to not requiring much brain juice to create to begin with.

In fact, all sex jokes are formulated as follows:
1. Pick an everyday setting, such as a hotel lobby or bar.
2. Describe a "hot" woman, preferably one that is realistically unattainable.
3. End with a sexual act.

So a sex joke is basically a dramatic reading version of pornography, masked in comedic undertones so that they can be said in public.

I always thought it was strange that being as funny as I am, I could only return a sex joke with a cold stare back and possibly a shudder. Probably because the endings, the supposed punchlines, are so predictable. Just like porn. Ok, and sex.

Awkward Family Movie Nights

Once upon a time, movie nights were the holy grail of quality family time. My parents would pop in some damsel-in-distress VHS tape in the player and without the foresight of seeing how Disney was going to ruin their daughter's perception of men for the rest of her life, would have a chance to exchange a little quiet for the brain drain that was 1990s G-rated movies. Nowadays, as a twenty-something, I just wish that I could revert to those good old days when wanting to watch Beauty and the Beast three times in a row and picturing myself transforming some beastly abusive guy into prince charming was the norm.

At first, with a little help with the availability of Hindi films via satellite, I continued to be in the safe zone, aka the Bollywood zone. I'd sing along in foreign tongue with my parents that could never seem to ever get too tired of the inflated romance in every plot line. And that was A-Okay in my book because to my relief, other than the occasional nuzzling between hero and heroine, there is never anything sexually pictured or implied that would want me to go into the other room and tie a noose around my neck.

But now, my parents have decided to sign up for HBO and the experience has been abysmal. At first my tactic was always to "pretend" that I did not know what was happening as two people dry humped in the screen before me. I often did this by blurring my vision a little and starting to count until the scene was over. I find it similar to counting sheep, if you are ever caught in that predicament and would like to try out this technique yourself. Be forewarned that this may permanently damage your vision. (Although this may not be so bad if you never went to sit through something like that again.)

I have since found it necessary to expand upon my arsenal of tactics, and as a result, possibly handling such delicate situations with greater maturity. One of them was to just ask someone to change the channel. The problem with this approach, however, is the fact that by asking for the channel to be changed, you are indirectly acknowledging to your Old World parents that you know what sex is and may even have had a lot of it. I mean, a lot. So I had to modify this technique a little, by saying I'd like the channel changed BECAUSE there was some crappy Grey's Anatomy rerun you want to catch a glimpse of or wanted to know what the latest score of that darn lacrosse game. Genius, I know.

Other than that, my most powerful technique is something I like to call "The Dodge," and is not related to dodgeball in any way. This is when the movie of choice is chosen ahead of time, and is one that I know very well. This way, I can avoid being in the living room when the sexually heightened scenes occur and make it seem like I really did need to use the bathroom or really did need to go into the kitchen to grab a glass of OJ in that very moment Diego Rivera is caught graphically boning his sister-in-law's cunt in Frida or when Kate shows off more than a sapphire pendant to Leo in the Titanic. Double genius, I know.

I need to get this published in some scholarly journal somewhere.

The Women's Locker Room

Men, you know all those fantasies you have about what goes on in the locker room? Well I'm here to tell you that it's all true... and more.

Must I tell you about the time when a fellow gym goer lost a diamond earring when she took off her shirt and her bare DD breast implants were bouncing around as she frantically started looking for it? Or the other time that two cheerleader types with the hip to waist ratio in the negatives decided to share a shower because all of the others were taken?

Though this may be a little tantalizing to hear, just as what Clint Eastwood would say the good always comes with the bad and the ugly. Sure you'd enjoy watching a couple of breasts the size of casaba melons (and a silicone-type firmness to match) bounce around, but how about trying to watch while having your view blocked by a handful of old hairy Asian women that are not shy to show off their ass wrinkles? Or trying to make out the silhouettes of the two playboy bunnies lathering each other up behind the textured glass, only to be distracted by the middle-aged woman praising the good lord because her period finally came even though she was sleeping with a man that she has only known for a month?

Yes, lots of things happen in the women's locker rooms. It could be sexy, it could be nasty, and most days I cannot tell the difference.

Operation: Extreme Couponing

In an attempt to reintroduce excitement into my miserable life, I decided to take up extreme couponing after seeing a mother/daughter team snag $1000 worth of groceries for $10 on TV. As I watched how they unloaded the groceries and rationed out their 50 cans of mercury-laden tuna into their rented storage facility, I pictured myself swimming in a bank-vault full of laundry detergent and Spaghetti-Os just like in one of the opening scenes of Duck Tales. This was exactly what America stands for, I thought. Along the lines of those competitive eaters that shove enough food that could feed a small country in under a minute, extreme couponing was my chance to make my mark on the image of Americans as fat ugly people that drown themselves in extravagant excess just because they can.

I thought that most appropriate clothing for such an outing were my gym clothes. However, even in my sneakers and gym shorts, I felt somewhat unprepared. That is when it dawned on me. I needed a sidekick,a real-life version of Robin that could pick of the slack while I stand and pose all pretty when the reporters are called to bear witness to me paying $10 for $10,000 of useless groceries, an event that even an act of God would have to contend with. Naturally, I chose my lovely mother. This is how she looks and this is me doing the stunner next to her:



It took a little convincing but she finally said yes. I stowed away what I calculated to be $1000 worth of coupons that took all day to collect and we headed to the nearest grocery store. Once we entered the facility, we went to town. Grabbing everything from the shelves that I had a discount for. I'm talking adult diapers and lard and KY jelly. Whatever it was, I chose not to discriminate. I just wanted that damn dollar off. I began foaming on the side of my mouth by the end.

When we finished checking out and endured the strange stares of fellow customers, the total was shown to be $500. Not quite the $10,000 that I had dreamed of, but we were still extreme coupon virgins. We knew that it would take at least a little practice to break the world record. Guessing that I'd at least walk away with paying just $50, I then proudly went into my purse and presented my thick packet of coupons to the cashier.

"Uhm.... we don't take manufacturer's coupons. Sorry."

Operation: Extreme Coupon abort. I guess this was the world's way of telling me that my calling is not to use coupons to achieve deeply discounted prices for everyday useless products.

5 New Age Ideas That Are Full Of Shit

Though I strongly believe in the scientific method, I am also quick to admit that science does not solve our everyday problems. We are all human after all, and unlike plants, we often need more than the simple combination of water, sunlight, and basic nutrients to bask in a beautiful life. And I guess it is part of the journey of life to set out into the world and discover what makes us truly happy.

However, I find that there is one thing that gets in the way of my happiness: New Agers and their self-righteous unsubstantiated claims. It is as if they took the Robert Frost poem a tad too seriously, resulting in them not only (what they perceive to be) taking the road less taken but also taking the occasional pit stop to shit on the adjacent sidewalk before they continue on their journey.

1. Bikram Yoga
If 50 years ago you asked an Indian relative of a Hindu friend if they knew what yoga is, the answer would be a resounding no. That is because for the most part it is an American invention that only pays homage to its Hindu roots as a means to market the practice as "mystical," instantly becoming more appealing to well-off housewives and horny males.

Then there is Bikram yoga, what is probably now a multimillion dollar industry for its "inventor," Bikram Choudhury. I imagine this man, who is nothing less than a genius, saw how much the yoga industry was taking off amongst middle and upper class Americans and thought he could juice a couple more bucks out of them in order to pay for his lavish Beverly Hills lifestyle by claiming that greater benefits can be reaped from yoga if done in a steaming hot room.

Even though the only thing that I'm willing to do in a steaming hot room is not exactly a group activity, I thought I would give Bikram yoga a try and my experience has been nothing short of what I would imagine it was like being a Jew during the World War II era. I was told lies to curry my trust (and money) such as that the 105 Fahrenheit heat and 40% humidity was necessary to sweat "toxins" out of the body. I was then locked inside a stinky yoga room amongst hippies that did not believe in deodorant. Towards the close of the session, my throat parched from the heat, my nose abused by the human stench, and my face sullen from the nausea, I was barely lucid until I heard that teacher declare that Bikram yoga "will reverse your diabetes, arthritis, and cancer if done everyday. It will save your life."

Though a few minutes away from needing oral rehydration therapy from an emergency response team, I nearly wet my pants hearing this. If Bikram yoga were such a cure-all, why hasn't it helped Mr. Choudhury with his male patterned baldness or that crooked smile that makes him look like a hungry pedophile?



Instead of attacking this woman's lord and savior, I decided to heed the advice of another famous Indian and decided to write this blog entry instead.


2. Vegetarianism/Veganism
Growing up in a vegetarian household was not a big deal. When at restaurants or eating at other people's homes, we always respectfully asked if a certain dish contained meat and if it did, we quietly moved on to other options for our dining pleasure. But now that vegetarianism/veganism has become a mainstream hit, I come across all types of belligerent vegetarians that exhibit verbal barbarism equivalent to that of lion roaring after feasting on a gazelle.

While some vegetarians express their disdain for the meat industry in a calm and calculated manner, others go all out on the obnoxious meter by deciding to call meat "animal flesh". The motive behind the use of this phrase is up for debate, but I suspect it is used to not only evoke guilt on a person that enjoys dining on a chicken leg once in a while, but also to make these types of vegetarians themselves feel as if they have chosen to be on some higher moral plane by putting an animal face to that piece of steak you're nibbling on. I find that more often than not, these types of vegetarians are usually the social outcast type people that have only had success in befriending animals as opposed to human social equivalents.

Then there is that variety of vegetarian that thinks their dietary preference makes them cool and avant-garde when in reality vegetarianism has been practiced in certain parts of the world as early as man. Failing to acknowledge this, they use their newfound feeling of uniqueness as an excuse to give death stares to others dining on meat dishes at local restaurants and worse yet, picket in front of steakhouses that would even give anti-abortionists a run for their money.

In the end, just like the Thighmaster and Ronco Food Dehydrator, Vegetarianism will soon fall out of fashion and all these former vegetarians will find some other idiosyncratically American lifestyle choice to bitch about.

3. Feminism
Feminism was once a great idea. Its principles were based on the idea that women too have the intelligence and skills to contribute to society in a meaningful way. At what point this simple and honest concept evolved in this nasty beast of a belief that all woman must yoke their men tight enough to send them bucking and baying is as big of a mystery as the bermuda triangle.

Extreme feminists have this strange notion that feeling sexy is a sin. So apart from not shaving their own legs or refusing to pluck that hideous mustache, they go around looking down on other women that like to dab on some lipstick or god forbid, run a comb through their hair once in a while. I'm sorry. Unless under that rare circumstance thatI miraculously choose to become a butch one sunny morning, I will be doing all those things because it makes me feel pretty and well, like a woman as god had intended.

Furthermore, these types of feminists look down on any woman that has even the slightest interest in an activity that has a mild association to house and hearth. As if baking a dozen cookies for a sick friend or learning how to decorate cakes is that damaging to that huge plight of women seeking an opportunity to enter the Marines. Or that I clean and cook because somewhere between birth and adulthood, society brainwashed me into believing that this was my "matronly" duty. Bitch puhleez. I love to bake. Get over it.

4. Natural Medicine
I once had a roommate that was hit by a car while bicycling and suffered from a soar shoulder as a result. Then she bitched about how her insurance refused to pay for the series of chiropractor visits and a couple of referral acupuncture treatments.

I'm not one to judge a person's choice in seeking out medical attention for an existing problem. However, at what point does one decide that instead of maybe going to like an emergency room or urgent care facility that it may be the better choice to see a person that got his degree in a strip mall and sells mattresses on the weekends? Especially since after the first 5 visits costing $200 a pop has not provided any sort of improvement in the pain or range of motion in the area in question?

When asked about the reasoning behind her choice, she replied: "Because hospitals are profit-making machines and doctors don't care anymore." I'm sure your chiropractor and his acupuncturist friend were contemplating the same thing when they carpooled and laughed all the way to the bank together.

5. Volunteer Tourism
There was the early history imperialism and now there is modern imperialism hidden under the veil of "volunteer tourism." The volunteer tourism websites I've visited boast some interesting accomplishments - everything from helping young children learn English in urban centers to building schools for deprived rural children in a beautiful lush countryside.

Volunteers for these programs self-righteously believe that their vacation money is making some type of improvement in an unfortunate person's life, as if any progress can be empirically made on an English-learner within 2 weeks of instruction or that doing construction work someplace will help people when in fact it is stealing jobs from local workers that could have been paid significant money for doing the same work. What's worse, by doing all this work you - the American - are still nonverbally expressing to the locals that YOU THINK THAT YOU ARE BETTER THAN THEM when in reality this is not the case.

There is a lot that us asshole Americans can learn from those living in developing countries. In fact, instead of paying for your little volunteer vacation, why not pay for a Peruvian or a Sri Lankan to come visit a major American city to teach us a thing or two about the sense of community and caring for family and friends those in developing countries have. I'm sure those people would be first to say that they do not dump their elderly relatives in some shanty of a retirement home to live out their final years. And I'm sure these poor people would also go home with their own stories of culture shock, such as how a co-worker couldn't even share a little dip off her appetizer plate at a company Christmas party.

But I guess if you are ignorant enough, as the old adage goes: if the shoe fits then donate it.

Of Mice and Cheaters

For centuries now, us women have faced the same age old question over and over and over and over again: Why do men cheat? The question is as old as mankind itself, and I'm sure if archeologists dig deep enough in years to come, they will eventually unearth a perfectly preserved skeleton of a Homo erectus with lipstick on his collar. So naturally, when I heard that the Sperminator had spawned a secret love child, I was not all that surprised though a little disappointed. His wife, the great Maria Shriver, looks like this at age 55:



The woman makes my ovaries want to drop. And I'm a twenty-something straight woman with romantic inclinations towards minorities.

This mistress must be superhuman, I thought. She must have the legs of a sea nymph, the bust of an ancient Greek goddess, and the vagina of a virginal kegels champion! But sadly, this is what Ahnie planted his seed in:



Dayyyyyyammmmm son! You sho' done did fuck up with that one!

So to answer that question, ladies. I would say men cheat for the same reason that they like to scratch themselves in public. Because they can, especially when their choice in mistress is not governed by the laws of natural selection.