Illustrious D: Ugh, that guy has total gay face.
Crazy Hungarian Fajhah: What's gay face?
ID: When a gay guy has facial features that are extremely feminine.
CHF: Oh, like with you and your hips?
CHF: Goddamnit! You boys need to stop being so hung up about sex! If you want to have people sleepover, just do it and don't be embarrassed! You get that from your mother's side. It's no big deal! I used to see my sister naked all the time.
ID: Dad, soup smells great! Did you put sausage in it?
CHF: Nope, best hot dogs money can buy.
CHF: You call those oysters? I've picked boogers bigger than those.
CHF: Look at Mr. Money Bags, spending $30 on a haircut. Guess how much mine costs. Twelve dollars and Ernesto does a great job. Actually, he raised it to thirteen. We're gonna have words.
CHF: Did that friend of yours put on a bit of weight? It looks great on her. Nothing wrong with a little something to grab, right honey?
CHF: Do you take half and half in your coffee? I can make it creamy for you.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dear Future Roommate (Part IV)
Part I Part II Part III
Dear Future Roommate,
I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.
So to that end...
Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.
I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.
What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:
- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)
- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)
- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)
- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)
- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)
- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)
This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.
I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.
Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles of
an 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?
So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.
So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.
Love,
D
Dear Future Roommate,
I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.
So to that end...
Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.
I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.
What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:
- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)
- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)
- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)
- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)
- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)
- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)
This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.
I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.
Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles ofan 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?
So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.
So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.
Love,
D
Friday, August 13, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Not my body; still my choice
One of the bloggers that I follow posted recently about needing switch birth control methods and consequently taking the Planned Parenthood "What method of birth control is right for YOU?" online test.
Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."
That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.
I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."
After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:
Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."
That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.
I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."
After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:
Conclusion: I am not responsible enough to be in charge of my own birth control and clearly need to be monitored by a medical professional to ensure I don't fuck it up.
Wow, Planned Parents. Judgey McJudgejudge Judgersons. Thanks, Mom. Also, they nailed it right in the vag.***
*Okay, I was typing on autopilot and initially wrote "parents." Paging Dr. Freud...
**He'd be all "Ooh, baby, I'll totally pull out. I wanna cum all over your tits," but I'd know better cause he's an ass man.
*** *shudder*
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
In which I instigate a blog war about... liberal bleeding hearts? Wtf...
You know, I aim to bring the chuckles over here at FF, but sometimes there are situations that are notably unfunny that I have to comment on. Historically, these have included posts on medical conditions, career anxiety and the ongoing feud between me and my penis. Okay, that last one's a little bit funny.
A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:
The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM
Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)
The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM
Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM
Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.
First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.
This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.
There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.
Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.
As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.
A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:
The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM
Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)
The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM
Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM
Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.
First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.
This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.
There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.
Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.
As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Another pre-Tree of Knowledge tale
I still can't get my junk up to do a legit post, so once again I'm bringing you a tale from my Before They Were Assholes vault. Cause seriously, I was muthafukkin cute kid.
Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.
My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.
Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.
"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"
"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.
"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.
"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.
"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**
"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"
Fuck.
I love candy.
I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:
"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"
GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!
*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.
** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker
What...a fat little fuck.
20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls
Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.
My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.
Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.
"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"
"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.
"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.
"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.
"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**
"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"
Fuck.
I love candy.
I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:
"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"
GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!
*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.
** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker
Spaghetti sauce or childhood rosacea? You decide.
What...a fat little fuck.
Here I am sitting in my brother's wheely-chair, pretending I'm little but
really just coming off faggy. Tragic foreshadowing. Butch bathrobe, though.
20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls
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