I would like to kick this entry off by stating the simple but universal fact that Standardized Testing sucks ass. If I am going to university and taking no math courses, why does my ability in math decide half of my SAT score? Why do I have to write an essay that doesn’t even count, and why is my future decided by a test that rather than testing your intelligence, tests the amount that you have studied for it? The following entry is the rather uneventful story that led to that hateful diatribe regarding the Standardized Aptitude Tests. You may not like it, because I’ve been hearing bad things about the quality of my blogs recently, however I write these for me, and I’ve still been enjoying them, so fuck all of you. My SAT’s were scheduled for Saturday (the 28th), so here’s is the summary of my SAT’s, starting from Friday night.
5:00 p.m: Make the bold decision that now, about 12 hours before the SATs, is the time I should start studying.
5:20 p.m: Watch South Park
8:00 p.m: Go out for Greek Food
9:15 p.m: Get home. Continue watching South Park.
10:30 p.m: Study for SATs (really!)
3:30 a.m: Stop studying for SATs, but stay awake
3:30 a.m - 5:30 a.m: Be an insightful and intelligent humanitarian, contemplating the condition the world is in, my place in it, and how I can really make a difference
5:30 a.m: Watch midget porn
6:30 - 7:00 a.m: Get fuel, extra large coffee, and head down to U of T, for SATs
7:00 - 7:45: Listen to ‘My Humps’ from Black Eyed Peas, and “When the Night Fuels my Song” by Bedouin Soundclash, on every goddamm radio station. Look for instruments sharp enough to kill myself.
7:45: Enter SAT building, make the natural assumption that I’m better than everybody else there, and head to the room that my SAT is in. I realize that I am the first one to head to the room, and take pride in my initiative. I soon realized I was going in the wrong direction, turned around, and followed the crowd.
7:55 - 9:15:Wait for the tests to start. The building was like a maze, and the SAT’s were split into three groups. SAT1, SAT2, and something I couldn’t pronounce. I was there for the SAT’s, that’s the extent of my knowledge. I guess SAT2, and wait outside the classroom. For some reason everybody thought I knew what was going on and asked me if they were in the right place, how to get to ____ room, e.t.c. It was like I had was standing in front of a giant map, and my shirt said ‘You Are Here.’ Maybe they just assumed I worked there because I was the only white person there.
8:30: Somewhere in the above section my bowels decided to go for a run, and I remembered that drinking a cup of coffee for me was like having a bottle of laxatives and washing it down with some beans.
9:15 - 9:40: Essay portion of the test. I ignore the suggested topic, and write about what I feel like writing about. Halfway through I decide this is a bad idea, and I change topics midsentence, and finish the essay.
9:40: Stomach gurgles, and I stain my underpants just a little bit.
9:41 - 11: Math portion of the test. Look of confusion on my face, pencils chewed to shreds, lots and LOTS of guessing.
11: Break time. I have yet to eaten anything so I eat the snack I packed for myself, a bran bar. This does not help my current diarrhea dilemma. I decide that the 5 minute break is not long enough to release the demon inside of me, or to clean up the following mess. I pray for the strength to hold it in, or at least a colostomy bag (I just looked this up in the dictionary to make sure I spelled it right. The definition alone made me crack up… hehe, anus).
11:05-2: English portion of the test. Much easier than math. I finish the grammar section, with ease, and to celebrate my stomach lets out another murmur. My face scrunches up as I suck in like a woman not ready for a baby, giving birth. After that was the sight passage section. This is where you read story, then answer multiple choice questions based on the passage, then repeat this process about a billion times. I decided that we are not given enough time to both read the passage and answer the questions, so I don’t read anything. This turns out to be a wise decision because those questions were hard! With all the leftover time I had, I read the passages, some of which were actually quite interesting. It should be noted that I answered every question, which you are NOT supposed to do, but I’m a rebel. Maybe they’ll give me a good mark simply based on guts, and the hilarity of my answers. Maybe not.
2-3: Drive home, excrement still inside me, because I’m constipated by this point
3: Arrive at my house. Dad and Stepmom ask me how it went, and running to the bathroom, I reply “Good.” I’m full of shit.
3:01 - 4:15: The most glorious, orgasmic poo of my life. It was like turning a fountain upside down, and the sticking it in my ass, and having the fountain shoot out of my butt hole into the toilet. It was one of those shits that are fully liquid and shoot out of your ass with such brute force that when it makes contact with the toilet water it makes a little liquid explotion, splashing old toilet water and wet fesces all over your ass, and the toilet bowl, with a bit dripping down the side off the toilet, and little poo stains on the wall. You know those poos, that you wipe for a half hour, but then still have to take a shower after because you can’t the fesces off your pubes and the bottom of your balls? No? Oh…. Neither do I, but I would assume it would be very similar to this instance.
Why do all my stories come back to poo? Is that normal? Don’t answer that, it was a rhetorical question. I seriously considered just going to sleep and sleeping through the SAT’s, just so I would have a funny blog to write, but decided against it. Who knows, maybe the marking machine will break, and I’ll do amazing, but realistically I think it’s safe to say that I’ll be spending the next 4 years right here in Canada.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Why Gangsters Shouldn't Play Basketball
It is currently midnight, and after my initial decision not to write a blog today I have received several increasingly demanding e-mails from readers regarding my writing and posting of a new blog. So here it is you fuckers. I was planning on watching a movie, probably ‘Adaptation’ with CaptainRoommate, but now he’ll have to read his Accounting textbook and cry… I hope you’re proud of yourselves.
In front of me is a list of topics for possible blog ideas, which I recently updated with a new good idea or two that a friend of mine reminded me of, thus proving that she was not, as I had previously assumed, useless. (I just got another message demanding an entry, I’M WRITING IT YOU BLOODSUCKERS, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!) Of all my entry ideas I have chosen the one which I think will be the fastest to write, so ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…
Why Gangsters Shouldn’t Play Basketball.
The community center that I live near used to hold a pickup basketball game that I attended almost every Saturday. People of all shapes, sizes, and color used to attend. From the asian kids who dribbled endlessly for no reason, to the angry Persians who are there only to wear tight pants and yell inappropriate comments at every female within ear (and gun) shot. I apologize if anything I say in this entry comes off as racist or inappropriate, I do not mean it that way, and one of my best friends is of Middle Eastern descent so I really do not have anything against the race in question. I do however have a feeling of contempt for the individuals in question, and have been surrounded by characters only supporting their stereotypes for the past 4 years. I love all man equally (plutonically) and anything bad I say here is purely incidental. Please don’t kill me.
My school had a large population of jews and had developed a reputation as ‘Jappy’ and soft. To counterbalance this they recruited predominantly Persian individuals, most of which with Gangster mannerisms, heavily influenced by Tony Montana and Charles Manson. They smoked, they ‘pimped’ their (generally decrepit) rides, and every now and then they stabbed a white kid, just for good measure. I am NOT saying that all Persian people are like this, simply majority of the ones in my school. DO…NOT…SUE…ME.
Anyways, from time to time these same hardcore thugs would attend the same basketball games that I played at. Most of them played in wife-beaters, and I’m pretty sure they oiled themselves up before hand to really accentuate their muscles. One individual in particular was especially ‘hardcore.’ He played this game like we were playing football. He held the ball and ran through anybody in his way, usually missing the layup in the process. There was one play that he CLEARLY traveled on so everybody there decided to call him out on it, and my team demanded the ball. He refuted this call. Angrily. He yelled and argued that he did not break any rules, that we are all just jealous of his ‘mad game,’ and made sure to point out that he could ‘end us’ if he felt the need. Somewhere in this mess the ball ended up in my hands, and I, having lost all patience with his stupid argument, proclaimed ‘lets just play man’ and checked him the ball. Yeah, I know… I’m a badass. The following few moments were somewhat confusing to say the least. He reacted, like any sane person would, by entirely forgetting about his argument and locking eyes with me. I could literally see tiny explosions in the centers of his eyes, as he came charging at me. Grabbing me by the neck in what could only be described as ‘attempted manslaughter’ I simply stood there, defenseless. I guess you could say I froze up, not out of fear, but out of sheer confusion. My mental soundtrack was playing the song from ‘The Twilight Zone’ as my mind raced a mile a minute.
Is this actually happening. Who is this guy. That is some grip he’s got on my esophagus… sure hope it doesn’t kill me.
It wasn’t until the crowd formed around us that he started to make another move.
Hey everyone, don’t worry I’m comfortable, you just enjoy the show. I wouldn’t want you to step out of this perfect circle to HELP ME.
His clenched hand tightened slightly and he began turning his fist. It was at this point that I returned from my bout with confusion, just in time for his grip to loosen slightly as my necklace snapped in half, falling to pieces.
Awww, man. I really liked that necklace. Dang it.
That was the last straw, I totally lost it and really let him have it. My face scrunching into that Clint Eastwood ‘You feel lucky punk’ grimace, I threw his hand off of mine, and… wait, no… that’s all I did. I then stood, waiting for his move. Checkmate, punk. Intimidated by my newly inferred sense of testosterone, and instilled with pure, unadulterated fear, he slowly backed away from me. Or maybe it was all the people pushing him away, either way I was alive. I still don’t know why he attacked me. Maybe he smelled weakness and was challenging my role of alpha male. Maybe he just decided it was time to break the necklace of an overweight white kid. Either way, mission accomplished Mr. Doodie Pants.
About 10 minutes later he returned with about a dozen of his friends, one of which had an unprecedented desire to talk to me. Alone. In the parking lot. Much to his dismay I refused, and later sneaked out the back door, with the support of the staff of the community center, and drove him, quickly.
Several weeks later, I returned to school (it was a break of some sort) to pick something up with my friend Xzibit. While leaving a car stops across the parking lot from me, and in the passengers seat is my ol’ buddy. The driver, who mind you is significantly larger than either me, my attacker, or Andre the Giant, rolls down his window.
BigGangsta: Hey, you!! Come here a second.
Ving: No thanks, I’m cool.
BigGangsta: Seriously, come here, I just wanna speak with you.
Now I’ve seen enough episodes of ’Cops’ and ’Be Alert Be Safe’ with those two little cartoon rabbits telling you how to live sensibly (Rule #1: Take life deciding advice from talking animated animals) to know that approaching the car would probably be a bad decision. I was also dissuaded by the fact that a friend of mine had been beaten within an inch of his life by friends of my future convicts. Looking for an excuse to buy time and not go to the car, I mentioned that I’ll come right after the car driving past passes. On cue with this, the passing car stops, and the car with my basketball buddy pulls to the other side of me. I'm cornered. The doors swing open and Persian after Persian, man after man, thug after thug pile out. There must have been two dozen people in these two low riding, big rimmed, pintos, and they just kept on coming. It was like one of those clown cars where they keep unloading, only instead of makeup and big red noses, they had dried blood and the intoxicating aroma of too much cologne. I believe it was at this point that I wet my pants.
Immediately one of them attacks me, grabbing onto my shirt, and pulling his other fist back, when out of the crowd I hear, “wait. Stop.” You know how in those gangster movies, the kingpin or the boss always makes an entrance, and all the smaller gangsters move out of his way, or the way that the ocean parts for Moses. It was like that. So Moses, approaches me, passing these nut jobs, these scum of society, and stops in front of me. His head towers above mine, and his arms, well let’s just say that if I hadn’t pissed my pants earlier… I had now. He looks down at me, staring into my eyes and informs me.
Moses: That kid that you picked a fight with a while ago. That one. (He points to the guy from the gym, sitting silently still in the car.) Well, that kid is my brother
This is the point of the story that I crap my pants.
I tip my hat to Moses though. For a psychopathic killer he was a really nice guy. We talked, and I explained the whole situation to him, and he seemed to understand completely. I apologized for any misunderstanding and we parted ways. Of course the second he was gone, I turned to Xzibit and started talking shit about ‘those pussy-ass motherfuckers.’ What really pissed me off was that the kid that started this whole thing never even got out of the car. I mean come on, if you’re gonna go out and get your brother and all his friends to come kick my ass, the least you can do is stand outside with them. Seriously, if you’re gonna take the chicken shit way out and come at me with older bigger guys, instead of confronting me face to face, then at least have the common courtesy to show yourself. You didn’t throw a punch in the gym, and then you fucking let me go with an apology. You fucking pussy. And for the record, it wasn’t a misunderstanding, I didn’t check the ball that day, I fucking threw it at you as hard as I could. So I guess I had the last laugh you dumb angry piece of shit.
God I hope he doesn’t read this.
Authors Note: On a completely unrelated topic, I’m really interested in giving blood. I think it’s a good enough ‘cause, and I encourage all of you to do the same. Besides, it might make a funny blog entry. If you know when and where I can do give, it would be much appreciated
In front of me is a list of topics for possible blog ideas, which I recently updated with a new good idea or two that a friend of mine reminded me of, thus proving that she was not, as I had previously assumed, useless. (I just got another message demanding an entry, I’M WRITING IT YOU BLOODSUCKERS, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!) Of all my entry ideas I have chosen the one which I think will be the fastest to write, so ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…
Why Gangsters Shouldn’t Play Basketball.
The community center that I live near used to hold a pickup basketball game that I attended almost every Saturday. People of all shapes, sizes, and color used to attend. From the asian kids who dribbled endlessly for no reason, to the angry Persians who are there only to wear tight pants and yell inappropriate comments at every female within ear (and gun) shot. I apologize if anything I say in this entry comes off as racist or inappropriate, I do not mean it that way, and one of my best friends is of Middle Eastern descent so I really do not have anything against the race in question. I do however have a feeling of contempt for the individuals in question, and have been surrounded by characters only supporting their stereotypes for the past 4 years. I love all man equally (plutonically) and anything bad I say here is purely incidental. Please don’t kill me.
My school had a large population of jews and had developed a reputation as ‘Jappy’ and soft. To counterbalance this they recruited predominantly Persian individuals, most of which with Gangster mannerisms, heavily influenced by Tony Montana and Charles Manson. They smoked, they ‘pimped’ their (generally decrepit) rides, and every now and then they stabbed a white kid, just for good measure. I am NOT saying that all Persian people are like this, simply majority of the ones in my school. DO…NOT…SUE…ME.
Anyways, from time to time these same hardcore thugs would attend the same basketball games that I played at. Most of them played in wife-beaters, and I’m pretty sure they oiled themselves up before hand to really accentuate their muscles. One individual in particular was especially ‘hardcore.’ He played this game like we were playing football. He held the ball and ran through anybody in his way, usually missing the layup in the process. There was one play that he CLEARLY traveled on so everybody there decided to call him out on it, and my team demanded the ball. He refuted this call. Angrily. He yelled and argued that he did not break any rules, that we are all just jealous of his ‘mad game,’ and made sure to point out that he could ‘end us’ if he felt the need. Somewhere in this mess the ball ended up in my hands, and I, having lost all patience with his stupid argument, proclaimed ‘lets just play man’ and checked him the ball. Yeah, I know… I’m a badass. The following few moments were somewhat confusing to say the least. He reacted, like any sane person would, by entirely forgetting about his argument and locking eyes with me. I could literally see tiny explosions in the centers of his eyes, as he came charging at me. Grabbing me by the neck in what could only be described as ‘attempted manslaughter’ I simply stood there, defenseless. I guess you could say I froze up, not out of fear, but out of sheer confusion. My mental soundtrack was playing the song from ‘The Twilight Zone’ as my mind raced a mile a minute.
Is this actually happening. Who is this guy. That is some grip he’s got on my esophagus… sure hope it doesn’t kill me.
It wasn’t until the crowd formed around us that he started to make another move.
Hey everyone, don’t worry I’m comfortable, you just enjoy the show. I wouldn’t want you to step out of this perfect circle to HELP ME.
His clenched hand tightened slightly and he began turning his fist. It was at this point that I returned from my bout with confusion, just in time for his grip to loosen slightly as my necklace snapped in half, falling to pieces.
Awww, man. I really liked that necklace. Dang it.
That was the last straw, I totally lost it and really let him have it. My face scrunching into that Clint Eastwood ‘You feel lucky punk’ grimace, I threw his hand off of mine, and… wait, no… that’s all I did. I then stood, waiting for his move. Checkmate, punk. Intimidated by my newly inferred sense of testosterone, and instilled with pure, unadulterated fear, he slowly backed away from me. Or maybe it was all the people pushing him away, either way I was alive. I still don’t know why he attacked me. Maybe he smelled weakness and was challenging my role of alpha male. Maybe he just decided it was time to break the necklace of an overweight white kid. Either way, mission accomplished Mr. Doodie Pants.
About 10 minutes later he returned with about a dozen of his friends, one of which had an unprecedented desire to talk to me. Alone. In the parking lot. Much to his dismay I refused, and later sneaked out the back door, with the support of the staff of the community center, and drove him, quickly.
Several weeks later, I returned to school (it was a break of some sort) to pick something up with my friend Xzibit. While leaving a car stops across the parking lot from me, and in the passengers seat is my ol’ buddy. The driver, who mind you is significantly larger than either me, my attacker, or Andre the Giant, rolls down his window.
BigGangsta: Hey, you!! Come here a second.
Ving: No thanks, I’m cool.
BigGangsta: Seriously, come here, I just wanna speak with you.
Now I’ve seen enough episodes of ’Cops’ and ’Be Alert Be Safe’ with those two little cartoon rabbits telling you how to live sensibly (Rule #1: Take life deciding advice from talking animated animals) to know that approaching the car would probably be a bad decision. I was also dissuaded by the fact that a friend of mine had been beaten within an inch of his life by friends of my future convicts. Looking for an excuse to buy time and not go to the car, I mentioned that I’ll come right after the car driving past passes. On cue with this, the passing car stops, and the car with my basketball buddy pulls to the other side of me. I'm cornered. The doors swing open and Persian after Persian, man after man, thug after thug pile out. There must have been two dozen people in these two low riding, big rimmed, pintos, and they just kept on coming. It was like one of those clown cars where they keep unloading, only instead of makeup and big red noses, they had dried blood and the intoxicating aroma of too much cologne. I believe it was at this point that I wet my pants.
Immediately one of them attacks me, grabbing onto my shirt, and pulling his other fist back, when out of the crowd I hear, “wait. Stop.” You know how in those gangster movies, the kingpin or the boss always makes an entrance, and all the smaller gangsters move out of his way, or the way that the ocean parts for Moses. It was like that. So Moses, approaches me, passing these nut jobs, these scum of society, and stops in front of me. His head towers above mine, and his arms, well let’s just say that if I hadn’t pissed my pants earlier… I had now. He looks down at me, staring into my eyes and informs me.
Moses: That kid that you picked a fight with a while ago. That one. (He points to the guy from the gym, sitting silently still in the car.) Well, that kid is my brother
This is the point of the story that I crap my pants.
I tip my hat to Moses though. For a psychopathic killer he was a really nice guy. We talked, and I explained the whole situation to him, and he seemed to understand completely. I apologized for any misunderstanding and we parted ways. Of course the second he was gone, I turned to Xzibit and started talking shit about ‘those pussy-ass motherfuckers.’ What really pissed me off was that the kid that started this whole thing never even got out of the car. I mean come on, if you’re gonna go out and get your brother and all his friends to come kick my ass, the least you can do is stand outside with them. Seriously, if you’re gonna take the chicken shit way out and come at me with older bigger guys, instead of confronting me face to face, then at least have the common courtesy to show yourself. You didn’t throw a punch in the gym, and then you fucking let me go with an apology. You fucking pussy. And for the record, it wasn’t a misunderstanding, I didn’t check the ball that day, I fucking threw it at you as hard as I could. So I guess I had the last laugh you dumb angry piece of shit.
God I hope he doesn’t read this.
Authors Note: On a completely unrelated topic, I’m really interested in giving blood. I think it’s a good enough ‘cause, and I encourage all of you to do the same. Besides, it might make a funny blog entry. If you know when and where I can do give, it would be much appreciated
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Deconstructing Douville
My high school had many positive aspects to it. It was very sociable, had a generally fun atmosphere, and gave me plenty of material. One thing it did not have however, was a good law teacher. I know I generally do not use real names, but not only do I have no respect for this man, but I’m pretty sure that he’s an ex-murderer/rapist/child molester, and we never learned his real name. I will share with you the fake name that he shared with us: poor, skinny, crazy Mr. Douville. You know how people who can’t draw, draw stick figures to represent real people? Well I think that God made Mr. Douville before he learned how to draw, because this man was a stick. He was skinnier than a 9 year old Ethiopian boy. I know I‘m gonna get in shit for this but it was like he was trying to bring back the ‘concentration camp’ look. Think white Ghandi on a hunger strike. I guess the point I’m trying to make, is the man was skinny.
In addition to being borderline anorexic, he ran as if he had no control over any limbs but his legs. One day I was driving to school quickly, because I was late. Looking out my window to laugh at all the suckers standing outside in the snow and cold, because your sorrow brings me joy. It was then that I noticed a most peculiar site. Running full speed towards the school, literally almost keeping pace with my car, was lanky Mr. Douville running full speed. Legs pumping, arms flailing, 6”4’ Douville is charging down the street, throwing students out of the way. Apparently he was late too. This man ran like a tribe of Mongolians were chasing him on horseback. His legs moved in ‘sync, but his arms flailed wildly, head bobbed around on his 2 foot stick neck, and to describe his posture would be in violation of several human rights laws. In case you haven’t caught on by now, he was RUNNING to school. Not driving, not bussing, but running. He walks to and from school everyday, he may or may not have bussed, I’ve only seen him on foot, and boy was it a sight to see. I guess that’s how he stays in such tip-top shape.
Regardless of what I say about Mr. Douville, he really was a smart guy, or at least he tried to be. You could tell that he was one of those people who aren’t naturally brilliant (see: me) but instead spends all his time reading Dostoyevsky and educational books like ‘I’m Man: Hear Me Roar.” He knew enough about law to teach a law class at my high school, so slightly more than your average Lemur. His teaching styles however were, how you say… non-existent. Mr. Douville is one of those people who are quiet, do whatever you ask without protesting, and let you walk all over them, until one day they climb a clock tower and take everyone in the town out with their M4A1 with a 9 Mag. Clip, and ‘WWJD” engraved in the handle because his neighbor’s armoire told him to kill.’ Yeah, he’s that guy. He’s the kid, that if you didn’t beat him up and steal his ‘lunch money’ you made fun of him behind his back. Yeah, that guy. And his teaching reflects it. He would say his pre-written lesson, regardless of how many people were speaking, usually louder than him, and then every once in a while he would EXPLODE!!!! I remember one class, we were talking while we was teaching. So he as standing at the front of the class fidgeting and playing with his pencil, because I guess he was nervous, when he turned to us and yelled ‘GUYS BE QUIET!! JUST SHUT UP!!!! STOOOP TALKKIINGGGG!!!!!” and he snapped his pencil in half..... HE SNAPPED IT IN HALF! The volume of the class immediately dropped, as did our jaws, and the pencil shavings from his lead victim. He excused himself and got a new pencil, and I excused myself to go get some new underpants. I’m convinced that it was in that moment that I decided not to be a lawyer.
However, Mr. Douville is one of those people that you cannot stay angry at because you just feel too damn bad for him. You couldn’t stay mad at a blind cripple, and this same principle applies to him. Simply describing Mr. Douville as the tall, lanky, anorexic, insane, lonely man he is, does not do him justice. He also sported the unshaven look (on his face) which may not have actually been hair, it’s possible that the darkness was simply his skin rotting away due to malnourishment. Amazingly, I’ve still yet to reveal the kicker, the one singular fact that makes his students pity him, and to this day I am still in awe. Mr. Douville, is probably around 40 years old, and, ready yourself… lives with his mom. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAH. Sorry, ‘bout that, couldn’t hold it back. I can only imagine that his relationship with his mother is similar to that depicted in the Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller ‘Psycho,’ or Principal Skinner with his mom.
I eventually graduated from his class with a decent grade, I did not deserve. He probably thought I would beat him up or something. Maybe he just figured I’d be his friend. I had heard that he had left my high school, and I was disappointed that I would never be able to see him again. But thankfully, I was wrong. I ran into him one last time, at the beginning of this school year. I was sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch with my friend, TheBabysitter, when I turned around and who did I see sitting at a table, eating his salad alone, but Mr. Douville. Poor, sad, skinny, depressed Mr. Douville sitting 5 feet away from me, and I didn’t go over to say hello. Why? I felt too damn sorry for him. It’s like when you see a really fat person alone at an all you can eat buffet, with two stacked plates of food, and they’re standing there checking out the dessert tray. You wanna go keep them company and help them out, but you’re too afraid you might throw up. Besides, a few seconds later an older woman sat down with him. I can only assume it was his mother. Turns out that he went back to University to get his degree. Yup, my High School Law teacher is attending the same school as I am, only he’s in his 40s. God bless the Canadian education system.
The one thing I did learn out this whole thing is this. If you’re ever driving down a highway in the middle of nowhere and your car breaks down near a motel run by a tall, skinny, guy, with a small beard… sleep in the car.
P.S. I’m surprised I didn’t make a ’40 Year Old Virgin’ joke, too. Oh well, maybe next time.
In addition to being borderline anorexic, he ran as if he had no control over any limbs but his legs. One day I was driving to school quickly, because I was late. Looking out my window to laugh at all the suckers standing outside in the snow and cold, because your sorrow brings me joy. It was then that I noticed a most peculiar site. Running full speed towards the school, literally almost keeping pace with my car, was lanky Mr. Douville running full speed. Legs pumping, arms flailing, 6”4’ Douville is charging down the street, throwing students out of the way. Apparently he was late too. This man ran like a tribe of Mongolians were chasing him on horseback. His legs moved in ‘sync, but his arms flailed wildly, head bobbed around on his 2 foot stick neck, and to describe his posture would be in violation of several human rights laws. In case you haven’t caught on by now, he was RUNNING to school. Not driving, not bussing, but running. He walks to and from school everyday, he may or may not have bussed, I’ve only seen him on foot, and boy was it a sight to see. I guess that’s how he stays in such tip-top shape.
Regardless of what I say about Mr. Douville, he really was a smart guy, or at least he tried to be. You could tell that he was one of those people who aren’t naturally brilliant (see: me) but instead spends all his time reading Dostoyevsky and educational books like ‘I’m Man: Hear Me Roar.” He knew enough about law to teach a law class at my high school, so slightly more than your average Lemur. His teaching styles however were, how you say… non-existent. Mr. Douville is one of those people who are quiet, do whatever you ask without protesting, and let you walk all over them, until one day they climb a clock tower and take everyone in the town out with their M4A1 with a 9 Mag. Clip, and ‘WWJD” engraved in the handle because his neighbor’s armoire told him to kill.’ Yeah, he’s that guy. He’s the kid, that if you didn’t beat him up and steal his ‘lunch money’ you made fun of him behind his back. Yeah, that guy. And his teaching reflects it. He would say his pre-written lesson, regardless of how many people were speaking, usually louder than him, and then every once in a while he would EXPLODE!!!! I remember one class, we were talking while we was teaching. So he as standing at the front of the class fidgeting and playing with his pencil, because I guess he was nervous, when he turned to us and yelled ‘GUYS BE QUIET!! JUST SHUT UP!!!! STOOOP TALKKIINGGGG!!!!!” and he snapped his pencil in half..... HE SNAPPED IT IN HALF! The volume of the class immediately dropped, as did our jaws, and the pencil shavings from his lead victim. He excused himself and got a new pencil, and I excused myself to go get some new underpants. I’m convinced that it was in that moment that I decided not to be a lawyer.
However, Mr. Douville is one of those people that you cannot stay angry at because you just feel too damn bad for him. You couldn’t stay mad at a blind cripple, and this same principle applies to him. Simply describing Mr. Douville as the tall, lanky, anorexic, insane, lonely man he is, does not do him justice. He also sported the unshaven look (on his face) which may not have actually been hair, it’s possible that the darkness was simply his skin rotting away due to malnourishment. Amazingly, I’ve still yet to reveal the kicker, the one singular fact that makes his students pity him, and to this day I am still in awe. Mr. Douville, is probably around 40 years old, and, ready yourself… lives with his mom. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAH. Sorry, ‘bout that, couldn’t hold it back. I can only imagine that his relationship with his mother is similar to that depicted in the Alfred Hitchcock’s classic thriller ‘Psycho,’ or Principal Skinner with his mom.
I eventually graduated from his class with a decent grade, I did not deserve. He probably thought I would beat him up or something. Maybe he just figured I’d be his friend. I had heard that he had left my high school, and I was disappointed that I would never be able to see him again. But thankfully, I was wrong. I ran into him one last time, at the beginning of this school year. I was sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch with my friend, TheBabysitter, when I turned around and who did I see sitting at a table, eating his salad alone, but Mr. Douville. Poor, sad, skinny, depressed Mr. Douville sitting 5 feet away from me, and I didn’t go over to say hello. Why? I felt too damn sorry for him. It’s like when you see a really fat person alone at an all you can eat buffet, with two stacked plates of food, and they’re standing there checking out the dessert tray. You wanna go keep them company and help them out, but you’re too afraid you might throw up. Besides, a few seconds later an older woman sat down with him. I can only assume it was his mother. Turns out that he went back to University to get his degree. Yup, my High School Law teacher is attending the same school as I am, only he’s in his 40s. God bless the Canadian education system.
The one thing I did learn out this whole thing is this. If you’re ever driving down a highway in the middle of nowhere and your car breaks down near a motel run by a tall, skinny, guy, with a small beard… sleep in the car.
P.S. I’m surprised I didn’t make a ’40 Year Old Virgin’ joke, too. Oh well, maybe next time.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Insightful Inquiries, and Obscure Observations
-I think for just one summer a city should hire really attractive people to patrole the beaches, and make their rescues in slow motion, just like in Baywatch. Naturally, more people will die, but think of the ratings.
-If instead of resting on the 7th day, imagine of god built a really kick-ass Amusement Park. That would be so awesome.
-I wish I could speak the language of ants, because then I would proclaim myself as their god, and command them to do my bidding. And when that got boring, I would probably just play Solitaire.
-A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Unless it was made of garbage. Then it would probably smell worse.
-An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but a flaming chainsaw can do wonders.
-Next time somebody says, they're having a bad hair day, just to show them up, you should shave off all your hair, and stuff it down their throat until they die from asphyxiation, then say 'bad hair.'
-Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Unless you're blind. Then you can't really see anything.
-The next time somebody says 'best laid plans of mice and men' just stare at them. Because that's a really stupid saying.
-Better to serve in heaven than to reign in hell. Unless Hell's serving punch.
-I wish I had a time machine, because then i would travel back to the stone ages and sing 'Ice Ice Baby' and they would think I wrote it. Of course they wouldn't think much of it because they still couldn't speak, but I would still think it was pretty funny.
-If i had to choose between 5 million dollars and a month in hell, i think i would take the money.
-There's nothing funny about murder. Unless you kill a clown.
-If I wrote a book, it would be about a man, who writes a book about failure, and it wins lots of awards. He would then write another book about Irony. It would fail miserably.
-When blind people take pictures, does it matter if they leave the lens cap on?
-Do you ever wonder what the world would be like if when Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, instead of proclaiming 'one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind' he proclaimed, "spank my ass and call me Lucy, I'm on the moon."
-i think it's really harsh to tell children that there is no Santa Clause. Instead, you should pay somebody to dress up like Santa, and then when he comes down the chimney, beat him to death in front of your children. I think it's more humane that way.
-Once a year we should have 'National Slavery Day' where we imprison people of color and force them to do physical labor for food and shelter. Lest we forget.
-I used to laugh whenever people bumped their head, but then I would think about how tragic the holocaust was, and suddenly it's just not so funny anymore.
-I used to get really scared at Horror movies, but then i realized that they're just actors, and nobody really cares when a celebrity dies.
-Instead of Bar-Mitzvahs, two boys should be equipped with a bag of paperclips and a rubber band, and set loose in the forest to hunt each other. Only the survivor would become a man.
-Instead of beating piñatas, we should just beat homeless people with sticks, and let the homeless person keep the candy. That way everybody wins.
-I wish I had a time machine, because then I would travel back in time to right before a thunderstorm and tell whoever is near me that I have been sent as a messenger from god to enslave the human race and inflict horror and pain unto all. Then threaten to strike him down with a blot of lightning. Of course when the thunderstorm starts he'd probably kill himself, but I think it would still be good for a laugh.
-If instead of resting on the 7th day, imagine of god built a really kick-ass Amusement Park. That would be so awesome.
-I wish I could speak the language of ants, because then I would proclaim myself as their god, and command them to do my bidding. And when that got boring, I would probably just play Solitaire.
-A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Unless it was made of garbage. Then it would probably smell worse.
-An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but a flaming chainsaw can do wonders.
-Next time somebody says, they're having a bad hair day, just to show them up, you should shave off all your hair, and stuff it down their throat until they die from asphyxiation, then say 'bad hair.'
-Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Unless you're blind. Then you can't really see anything.
-The next time somebody says 'best laid plans of mice and men' just stare at them. Because that's a really stupid saying.
-Better to serve in heaven than to reign in hell. Unless Hell's serving punch.
-I wish I had a time machine, because then i would travel back to the stone ages and sing 'Ice Ice Baby' and they would think I wrote it. Of course they wouldn't think much of it because they still couldn't speak, but I would still think it was pretty funny.
-If i had to choose between 5 million dollars and a month in hell, i think i would take the money.
-There's nothing funny about murder. Unless you kill a clown.
-If I wrote a book, it would be about a man, who writes a book about failure, and it wins lots of awards. He would then write another book about Irony. It would fail miserably.
-When blind people take pictures, does it matter if they leave the lens cap on?
-Do you ever wonder what the world would be like if when Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, instead of proclaiming 'one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind' he proclaimed, "spank my ass and call me Lucy, I'm on the moon."
-i think it's really harsh to tell children that there is no Santa Clause. Instead, you should pay somebody to dress up like Santa, and then when he comes down the chimney, beat him to death in front of your children. I think it's more humane that way.
-Once a year we should have 'National Slavery Day' where we imprison people of color and force them to do physical labor for food and shelter. Lest we forget.
-I used to laugh whenever people bumped their head, but then I would think about how tragic the holocaust was, and suddenly it's just not so funny anymore.
-I used to get really scared at Horror movies, but then i realized that they're just actors, and nobody really cares when a celebrity dies.
-Instead of Bar-Mitzvahs, two boys should be equipped with a bag of paperclips and a rubber band, and set loose in the forest to hunt each other. Only the survivor would become a man.
-Instead of beating piñatas, we should just beat homeless people with sticks, and let the homeless person keep the candy. That way everybody wins.
-I wish I had a time machine, because then I would travel back in time to right before a thunderstorm and tell whoever is near me that I have been sent as a messenger from god to enslave the human race and inflict horror and pain unto all. Then threaten to strike him down with a blot of lightning. Of course when the thunderstorm starts he'd probably kill himself, but I think it would still be good for a laugh.
The Kingston Chronicles
Last week I went on a trip to the magical land of Kingston, or more specifically, Queens University. I went to Queens because a very cool friend of mine, who will from here on out be referred to as ‘Coolie’ (it’s an inside joke, and a damn funny one at that) invited me on a cross-city trip to the wonderful world of Kingston. Our conversation was, if not verbatim, very close to this re-enactment:
Coolie: Yo, [Ving], wanna come to Kingston?
Ving: Alright.
And there you have it. While this trip was originally supposed to be a two man operation, it quickly became a full car due to Coolie engaging in romantic escapades with one of the people we were visiting, who will be referred to as B-Bear, and thus my immediate status as a third wheel. Others were invited regardless of re-assurances that I don’t mind being the odd man out, and in fact, like to watch:
Ving: You’d barely hear me, I swear. I’d only be a minute.
Alas, my efforts were in vain, and after loading up the car, we were off on what would soon be acknowledged worldwide as a mediocre entry in Ving’s Blog. We spent much of the trip looking through our high school yearbook, deciding which girls we would ‘make love’ to. This activity generally takes up approx. 73% of our free time wherever we are (which is why I'm no longer allowed in the zoo). The other half of the trip I spent laughing at the graduation picture of the mentally disabled kid in the wheelchair (I‘m going to hell), which I will eventually scan in here.
Two and half hours later we arrived, thanks to the kick-ass driving of one of the car-mates. He was--he was the one… driving. He has a twin who came on the trip too, so I will name the driver SexyTwin, and the other one Franklin. But due to the fact that I can never tell them apart, I will simply refer to the two as the single entity UnkownTwin. And so, two and a half hours later, Coolie, Unknown Twin, GhettoBoots, Unknown Twin, and I arrive in downtown Kingston. Had I never been there, I could easily have confused it with New Orleans. Downtown Kingston is the Devil’s asshole, it’s a dump. Queen’s however, was breathtaking, and I mean that in the most manly way possible. All I can remember from that point on is going to eat with everybody I knew at Queens (yes they were all asian), and later that night the drinking began.
I only have two mentionable memories from the first night, the first of which involved GhettoBoots. I had never drank with GhettoBoots before and was looking forward to seeing him drunk. We sat down, me with my ‘French Kiss’ (I can drink such a feminine drink because I’m that much of a man) and he with his Vodka and Coke. 3 glasses later, he was constantly letting it be known that one of our hosts is, and I quote, “a fellatio artist.” GhettoBoots and I found this observation to be hilarious… FellatioArtist did not. Regardless, the only thing I heard for the next 4 hours was in reference to her artistic Fellatio skills. Somewhere in this drunken rant of oral fixation, I came to the realization that I had to pee. The bathrooms at Queens are, much like Bethune, co-ed. I think. All I remember is standing there in the Queens bathroom, by the urinal, penis in hand, urine shooting at the stained white ceramic like it was on fire, trying to keep my stream off the walls and my pants, when a female passing by decided this was the opportune moment to start up a conversation with me. This girl was good-looking too, I would have definitely allowed her to have my abortion. So there I stood , hanging out with my wang out, when in walks the blonde bimbo of my dreams.
BlondeBimbo: Hi, have we met?
Ving: HUH!?!?!? Um… no, I don’t think so.
BlondeBimbo: Who’re you here with?
Ving: [FellatioArtist]
BlondeBimbo: Oh, I don’t really know her.
Ving: I’d be glad to introduce you, if you’ll just give me a second to put away my penis.
BlondeBimbo casually walks away.
Dammit! A beautiful woman talking to me on her own free will. I make the obvious assumption that she was drunk, and head back to the room, still a little shocked, a little confused, a little aroused. My step mom would later inform me that, ‘Yeah, women do that.’ I would later retire to the subzero floor of FellatioArtist and her roommate, who is the sweetest person you will ever meet with a periodic table of sex on her wall’s room for the night.
Don’t take this the wrong way because I LOVE Queens, but there’s nothing to do during the day. Their most appealing attraction is women’s prison… seriously. The last time I was there, I spent the day in B-Bears room watching ‘The Notebook’ on her computer with three other guys (Say I’m a bird). The day was essentially spent waiting for the night so we could drink. In a futile attempt to pass the time, GhettoBoots and I thought it would be funny to play battleshits. For those of you who do not know how to play battleshits, the rules are simple. You yell out a letter followed by a number, much like the original ‘battleship’ board game, only following this announcement, you let out the loudest fart you can muster up, and drop a turd, sometimes while making the sound of a falling missile. The loser then proclaims, ‘you sunk my battleshit,’ it is a glorious game. Needless to say, I whooped GhettoBoots, and not only sunk his battleshit, but did serious damage to both the toilet bowl, and both of our psyches. During the slow parts of the game, when nothing was ‘stirring’ I would crumple up little balls of toilet paper and throw them over the stall at him. During one especially difficult push, accompanying my screams of agony , you could hear me muster of the power to proclaim ‘Hold my hand,’ as I slipped my arm under the toilet stall. GhettoBoots and I are no longer on speaking terms.
After many passing hours, and awkward silences the nighttime eventually came. Coolie, FellatioArtist, B-Bear, and one of the UnknownTwins went to the local club, and GhettoBoots, the other Unknown Twin, and I stayed behind to hang out with another friend from Queens, AngryDrunk. Our evening night with AngryDrunk went from one unmentionable event to another. From meeting a ‘rotund’ female in the subzero temperature holding a clothes iron (who UnknownTwin immediately fell in love with), to ordering Chinese food, which those bastards screwed up. What I did enjoy, however, was meeting some of AngryDrunk’s floormates and friends. At one point while hanging out in AngryDrunk’s room, which smells like beer and dried semen, a man, JD, entered the room waving a bottle of Jack Daniels which was, literally, I seriously am not exaggerating, the size of tiny midget. I believe on the bottle the specified amount contained was: A shitload. JD enthusiastically staggered into the room waving this monstrosity above his head proclaiming that we needed to, “Hug it out!” AngryDrunk stood up and opened his arms wide in anticipation, I guess this is a usual happening in Kingston, and JD embraced him with enthusiasm. He then turned to face UnknownTwin, locked eyes with him yells ‘HUG IT OUT!” bends over and squeezes him tight. GhettoBoots is next, ‘HUG IT OUT!” and dammit, they hugged it out. He then turns and we make eye contact. “Hug it out?’ I inquire. “HUG IT OUT!” he reassures me, and a stand up, and hugged it out. And you know what, I felt a little bit better afterwards. Having ‘hugged it out’ with all present parties, JD realized his work here was done, and stomped out of the room and down the hall. My following questions about what had just transpired were briefly interrupted by the distance yet recognizable voice, demanding that these distant strangers ‘hug it out!” I still have no idea what the hell happened in that room that night.
The only other person to make an appearance, was AsianPanda. AsianPanda was a Chinese man so large and voluptuous that regardless of sexual preference you find it difficult to fight your inexplicable urge to hug him. I have no interesting story about AsianPanda, I just love this guy. I don’t remember anything he said to us, I just remember that as he left, somebody asked him if he ‘fucked that chick in the ass.’ Sadly he did not. Poor AsianPanda.
Later that night, we went to sleep, and the next morning awoke to a glorious sunset and mediocre hangover. We packed up, had breakfast, and said goodbye to our gracious hosts. I would like to thank B-Bear, FellatioArtist, AngryDrunk, Yippers, and BetSheCanDoThis for showing us a good time. I would also like to offer an invitation to JD, AsianPanda, and BlondBimbo to come visit me. You will forever have a place in my home, and my heart. And with all this in mind, we headed home. Home to York, Home to Bethune, Home to Doo Young. But I try not to let all these things get me down. If I really get depressed about leaving Queens behind, I’ve always got friends, to help me hug it out.
Coolie: Yo, [Ving], wanna come to Kingston?
Ving: Alright.
And there you have it. While this trip was originally supposed to be a two man operation, it quickly became a full car due to Coolie engaging in romantic escapades with one of the people we were visiting, who will be referred to as B-Bear, and thus my immediate status as a third wheel. Others were invited regardless of re-assurances that I don’t mind being the odd man out, and in fact, like to watch:
Ving: You’d barely hear me, I swear. I’d only be a minute.
Alas, my efforts were in vain, and after loading up the car, we were off on what would soon be acknowledged worldwide as a mediocre entry in Ving’s Blog. We spent much of the trip looking through our high school yearbook, deciding which girls we would ‘make love’ to. This activity generally takes up approx. 73% of our free time wherever we are (which is why I'm no longer allowed in the zoo). The other half of the trip I spent laughing at the graduation picture of the mentally disabled kid in the wheelchair (I‘m going to hell), which I will eventually scan in here.
Two and half hours later we arrived, thanks to the kick-ass driving of one of the car-mates. He was--he was the one… driving. He has a twin who came on the trip too, so I will name the driver SexyTwin, and the other one Franklin. But due to the fact that I can never tell them apart, I will simply refer to the two as the single entity UnkownTwin. And so, two and a half hours later, Coolie, Unknown Twin, GhettoBoots, Unknown Twin, and I arrive in downtown Kingston. Had I never been there, I could easily have confused it with New Orleans. Downtown Kingston is the Devil’s asshole, it’s a dump. Queen’s however, was breathtaking, and I mean that in the most manly way possible. All I can remember from that point on is going to eat with everybody I knew at Queens (yes they were all asian), and later that night the drinking began.
I only have two mentionable memories from the first night, the first of which involved GhettoBoots. I had never drank with GhettoBoots before and was looking forward to seeing him drunk. We sat down, me with my ‘French Kiss’ (I can drink such a feminine drink because I’m that much of a man) and he with his Vodka and Coke. 3 glasses later, he was constantly letting it be known that one of our hosts is, and I quote, “a fellatio artist.” GhettoBoots and I found this observation to be hilarious… FellatioArtist did not. Regardless, the only thing I heard for the next 4 hours was in reference to her artistic Fellatio skills. Somewhere in this drunken rant of oral fixation, I came to the realization that I had to pee. The bathrooms at Queens are, much like Bethune, co-ed. I think. All I remember is standing there in the Queens bathroom, by the urinal, penis in hand, urine shooting at the stained white ceramic like it was on fire, trying to keep my stream off the walls and my pants, when a female passing by decided this was the opportune moment to start up a conversation with me. This girl was good-looking too, I would have definitely allowed her to have my abortion. So there I stood , hanging out with my wang out, when in walks the blonde bimbo of my dreams.
BlondeBimbo: Hi, have we met?
Ving: HUH!?!?!? Um… no, I don’t think so.
BlondeBimbo: Who’re you here with?
Ving: [FellatioArtist]
BlondeBimbo: Oh, I don’t really know her.
Ving: I’d be glad to introduce you, if you’ll just give me a second to put away my penis.
BlondeBimbo casually walks away.
Dammit! A beautiful woman talking to me on her own free will. I make the obvious assumption that she was drunk, and head back to the room, still a little shocked, a little confused, a little aroused. My step mom would later inform me that, ‘Yeah, women do that.’ I would later retire to the subzero floor of FellatioArtist and her roommate, who is the sweetest person you will ever meet with a periodic table of sex on her wall’s room for the night.
Don’t take this the wrong way because I LOVE Queens, but there’s nothing to do during the day. Their most appealing attraction is women’s prison… seriously. The last time I was there, I spent the day in B-Bears room watching ‘The Notebook’ on her computer with three other guys (Say I’m a bird). The day was essentially spent waiting for the night so we could drink. In a futile attempt to pass the time, GhettoBoots and I thought it would be funny to play battleshits. For those of you who do not know how to play battleshits, the rules are simple. You yell out a letter followed by a number, much like the original ‘battleship’ board game, only following this announcement, you let out the loudest fart you can muster up, and drop a turd, sometimes while making the sound of a falling missile. The loser then proclaims, ‘you sunk my battleshit,’ it is a glorious game. Needless to say, I whooped GhettoBoots, and not only sunk his battleshit, but did serious damage to both the toilet bowl, and both of our psyches. During the slow parts of the game, when nothing was ‘stirring’ I would crumple up little balls of toilet paper and throw them over the stall at him. During one especially difficult push, accompanying my screams of agony , you could hear me muster of the power to proclaim ‘Hold my hand,’ as I slipped my arm under the toilet stall. GhettoBoots and I are no longer on speaking terms.
After many passing hours, and awkward silences the nighttime eventually came. Coolie, FellatioArtist, B-Bear, and one of the UnknownTwins went to the local club, and GhettoBoots, the other Unknown Twin, and I stayed behind to hang out with another friend from Queens, AngryDrunk. Our evening night with AngryDrunk went from one unmentionable event to another. From meeting a ‘rotund’ female in the subzero temperature holding a clothes iron (who UnknownTwin immediately fell in love with), to ordering Chinese food, which those bastards screwed up. What I did enjoy, however, was meeting some of AngryDrunk’s floormates and friends. At one point while hanging out in AngryDrunk’s room, which smells like beer and dried semen, a man, JD, entered the room waving a bottle of Jack Daniels which was, literally, I seriously am not exaggerating, the size of tiny midget. I believe on the bottle the specified amount contained was: A shitload. JD enthusiastically staggered into the room waving this monstrosity above his head proclaiming that we needed to, “Hug it out!” AngryDrunk stood up and opened his arms wide in anticipation, I guess this is a usual happening in Kingston, and JD embraced him with enthusiasm. He then turned to face UnknownTwin, locked eyes with him yells ‘HUG IT OUT!” bends over and squeezes him tight. GhettoBoots is next, ‘HUG IT OUT!” and dammit, they hugged it out. He then turns and we make eye contact. “Hug it out?’ I inquire. “HUG IT OUT!” he reassures me, and a stand up, and hugged it out. And you know what, I felt a little bit better afterwards. Having ‘hugged it out’ with all present parties, JD realized his work here was done, and stomped out of the room and down the hall. My following questions about what had just transpired were briefly interrupted by the distance yet recognizable voice, demanding that these distant strangers ‘hug it out!” I still have no idea what the hell happened in that room that night.
The only other person to make an appearance, was AsianPanda. AsianPanda was a Chinese man so large and voluptuous that regardless of sexual preference you find it difficult to fight your inexplicable urge to hug him. I have no interesting story about AsianPanda, I just love this guy. I don’t remember anything he said to us, I just remember that as he left, somebody asked him if he ‘fucked that chick in the ass.’ Sadly he did not. Poor AsianPanda.
Later that night, we went to sleep, and the next morning awoke to a glorious sunset and mediocre hangover. We packed up, had breakfast, and said goodbye to our gracious hosts. I would like to thank B-Bear, FellatioArtist, AngryDrunk, Yippers, and BetSheCanDoThis for showing us a good time. I would also like to offer an invitation to JD, AsianPanda, and BlondBimbo to come visit me. You will forever have a place in my home, and my heart. And with all this in mind, we headed home. Home to York, Home to Bethune, Home to Doo Young. But I try not to let all these things get me down. If I really get depressed about leaving Queens behind, I’ve always got friends, to help me hug it out.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Saturday Night (Thankfully Not) Live
Those of you who know me know it for certain, and those of you who follow the blog have come to realize the simple universal fact that I am, in short, a super kick ass guy. Please keep this fact in mind as I take you through the eventful happenings of my Saturday evening.
The day began at a reasonable hour of around 2 o’clock, when I, desperate to go back to Bethune (god help me) because I forgot something, desperately went in search of somebody to accompany me on my voyage. This search took a total estimated time of 27 seconds. I messaged a friend who will be referred to as GhettoBoots, for his noticeable urban choice of footwear. Here’s a brief summary of our conversation:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with me to York
GhettoBoots: Aight.
And with that, we were off. Traveling across town to my university was a calm trip without many eventful happenings. As usual we were judging everybody in the cars around us, because, quite simply, we are better than them. Our attention was briefly captured by two seemingly attractive girls beside us, and after readjusting our position to get a better view (cutting of an old man, and swerving two lanes) we realized that these two ‘seemingly’ attractive females were the sexual equivalent of Darth Maul, from Star Wars. The one on the left’s face looked like a connect the dots game, and I’m pretty sure the other girl was a Yeti. After a 20 minute drive we arrive, and I park. Illegally. The walk to the door was made all the more less enjoyable by the fact that it’s winter here in Canada, and I decided not to bring a jacket. I naturally assume that the weather gods will acknowledge my awesome-ness, and respect my decision by making it warmer, I, as usual, am wrong. Standing at the door, shaking from the cold, my hand fumbles around in my pockets searching for the rez keys. House keys, check, car keys, check, cellphone check, rez keys……
Rez keys……..
Rez keys…… FUCK!
I forgot the rez keys at home. I break the news to GhettoBoots, and he takes it well, ridiculing me, and judging me and my lifestyle choices on the way home. Stop for a 10 dollar burger, get home at around 3, do nothing. 4 do nothing. 6 do nothing. 7 nothing. 8 rolls around I convince my friend GoodFoot to come with me to rez. I do not tell him about my previous journey, but I am very careful to make sure that the keys are indeed in my pocket. Here’s a summary of our conversation:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with me to York
GoodFoot: Aight.
We recruited one last friend to accompany us, AK47:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with us to York.
AK47: nah
Ving: I’ll buy you food (I have a meal plan, with more money left on it, than I could ever spend)
AK47: aight.
And with that we were off. 20 minutes drive, and we arrive at our destination. I park. Legally. Approach the door, with keys proudly in hand, and let myself in. Uneventful trip upstairs, with my trying to contain GoodFoot into not screaming out my hot neighbors name while we’re upstairs, and we’re off downstairs to go get food. On the way down AK47 thought it would funny if he pressed the button for every floor. Unfortunately, he failed to realize that this doesn’t work, when you’re the only ones in the elevator. It was a long trip down. That is, at least, until around the 9th floor when they pushed me off the elevator, forcing me to take the stairs. I took the wrong set of stairs and ended up 10 floors below in the janitors basement, fully equipped with cobwebs, and messy residents corpses. After taking the stairs back up, then back down the right set, I find GoodFoot and AK hiding as far from the elevators as the lobby can allow, laughing. They informed me as to what was so funny, and I thought I should share it with you.
When I got pushed off the elevator, it continued to go down stopping at every floor, which I can only assume they found hilarious, because when they reached the lobby, they deemed it a good idea to press every button again before they got off. The gentleman and his female companion boarding the elevator did not find it so funny. He was furious. He yelled at them, called them names, accused them, and all rightfully so. AK47 decided that since GoodFoot is the one who pressed the buttons he would act as if he didn’t know him, and GoodFoot acted confused and astonished that this gentleman had the audacity to accuse him of such a crime. Even though he was the only one in the elevator.
My favourite part of this story however, came right after the man calmed down, and got in the elevator. Imagine this scene. A man, clearly larger than GoodFoot and AK47, finally calms down after yelling at them and gets in the elevator with his woman. The steel doors slam shut, and the two guys let out a sigh of relief. As they begin to appreciate the humor of the situation, the elevator dings, and the doors open, revealing the same man still standing in the elevator, staring at the the boys with a look of utter disgust and contempt. The steel doors slowly close again, and the elevator begins to ascend, stopping briefly at each floor. GoodFoot pressed every floor. Every floor including THE BASEMENT. This guy, pissed and embarrassed bringing his woman back to his place, gets in the elevator, and lets these little shits have it. Dignity entact, and manhood restored he boards the elevator. Goes down to the basement, where the doors open revealing teenagers doing laundry, only to close a second later, and then re-open revealing the assholes who took away your sense of self respect. He definitely is not getting laid tonight.
The rest of the day was rather uneventful, with the exception of the sudden and unexplained appearance of literally dozens of ‘hardcore’ gangsters, most of which were larger and darker than us. Naturally, we immediately packed up our food and moved to where they couldn’t shoot, I mean, see us.
Then the night really began. We picked up one more friend, Xzibit, with the following enticing offer.
Ving: Yo, [Xzibit], we’re gonna go sit in a parking lot and do nothing, we’re on your driveway, let’s go.
Xzibit: Aight.
God bless our leaders of tomorrow. And with that, we were off. Xzibit kept us interested with the promise of a party that a friend of a friend of his was throwing, while we sat and sipped bubble tea. I don’t want to accuse the owner’s of the establishment of any type of bias, but I was the only Caucasian present and we were seated at three different tables, being moved twice. Each time, closer to the door. We were very hesitant to leave, mostly due to the fact that there were two of the most beautiful oriental women sitting beside us, and we were enjoying the view. In fact we enjoyed it so much that we camped out right outside the Bubble Tea shop in my car, waiting for the girls to leave. Yes I know, we are sick, we are horny, we are desperate. but dammit if we aren’t persistent. The thing is, we missed them leaving, while we were traveling to another spot to get a less conspicuous view. DAMN YOU IRONY.
After that we all went our separate ways. GoodFoot, AK47, and Xzibit back to their respective houses, and me back to my dad’s house, where I spend every weekend, because frankly, I’d rather spend the weekend at the Neverland ranch than at Bethune. GoodFoot and AK47 are probably still playing Street Fighter (they’re Chinese), Xzibit definitely pumped a few out, probably thinking about my step mom, and I wrote this entry in my god forsaken blog.
Please note, this is not a typical Saturday night for me. My life is not this pathetic and sad, and I usually do something at least mildly entertaining. Next weekend we’re going Hogging. Unless I actually show up for my SAT test, which I still haven’t started studying for. I hope you enjoyed reading about my Saturday evening, because writing this thing is the highlight of my goddamn night.
The day began at a reasonable hour of around 2 o’clock, when I, desperate to go back to Bethune (god help me) because I forgot something, desperately went in search of somebody to accompany me on my voyage. This search took a total estimated time of 27 seconds. I messaged a friend who will be referred to as GhettoBoots, for his noticeable urban choice of footwear. Here’s a brief summary of our conversation:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with me to York
GhettoBoots: Aight.
And with that, we were off. Traveling across town to my university was a calm trip without many eventful happenings. As usual we were judging everybody in the cars around us, because, quite simply, we are better than them. Our attention was briefly captured by two seemingly attractive girls beside us, and after readjusting our position to get a better view (cutting of an old man, and swerving two lanes) we realized that these two ‘seemingly’ attractive females were the sexual equivalent of Darth Maul, from Star Wars. The one on the left’s face looked like a connect the dots game, and I’m pretty sure the other girl was a Yeti. After a 20 minute drive we arrive, and I park. Illegally. The walk to the door was made all the more less enjoyable by the fact that it’s winter here in Canada, and I decided not to bring a jacket. I naturally assume that the weather gods will acknowledge my awesome-ness, and respect my decision by making it warmer, I, as usual, am wrong. Standing at the door, shaking from the cold, my hand fumbles around in my pockets searching for the rez keys. House keys, check, car keys, check, cellphone check, rez keys……
Rez keys……..
Rez keys…… FUCK!
I forgot the rez keys at home. I break the news to GhettoBoots, and he takes it well, ridiculing me, and judging me and my lifestyle choices on the way home. Stop for a 10 dollar burger, get home at around 3, do nothing. 4 do nothing. 6 do nothing. 7 nothing. 8 rolls around I convince my friend GoodFoot to come with me to rez. I do not tell him about my previous journey, but I am very careful to make sure that the keys are indeed in my pocket. Here’s a summary of our conversation:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with me to York
GoodFoot: Aight.
We recruited one last friend to accompany us, AK47:
Ving: Yo, you’re coming with us to York.
AK47: nah
Ving: I’ll buy you food (I have a meal plan, with more money left on it, than I could ever spend)
AK47: aight.
And with that we were off. 20 minutes drive, and we arrive at our destination. I park. Legally. Approach the door, with keys proudly in hand, and let myself in. Uneventful trip upstairs, with my trying to contain GoodFoot into not screaming out my hot neighbors name while we’re upstairs, and we’re off downstairs to go get food. On the way down AK47 thought it would funny if he pressed the button for every floor. Unfortunately, he failed to realize that this doesn’t work, when you’re the only ones in the elevator. It was a long trip down. That is, at least, until around the 9th floor when they pushed me off the elevator, forcing me to take the stairs. I took the wrong set of stairs and ended up 10 floors below in the janitors basement, fully equipped with cobwebs, and messy residents corpses. After taking the stairs back up, then back down the right set, I find GoodFoot and AK hiding as far from the elevators as the lobby can allow, laughing. They informed me as to what was so funny, and I thought I should share it with you.
When I got pushed off the elevator, it continued to go down stopping at every floor, which I can only assume they found hilarious, because when they reached the lobby, they deemed it a good idea to press every button again before they got off. The gentleman and his female companion boarding the elevator did not find it so funny. He was furious. He yelled at them, called them names, accused them, and all rightfully so. AK47 decided that since GoodFoot is the one who pressed the buttons he would act as if he didn’t know him, and GoodFoot acted confused and astonished that this gentleman had the audacity to accuse him of such a crime. Even though he was the only one in the elevator.
My favourite part of this story however, came right after the man calmed down, and got in the elevator. Imagine this scene. A man, clearly larger than GoodFoot and AK47, finally calms down after yelling at them and gets in the elevator with his woman. The steel doors slam shut, and the two guys let out a sigh of relief. As they begin to appreciate the humor of the situation, the elevator dings, and the doors open, revealing the same man still standing in the elevator, staring at the the boys with a look of utter disgust and contempt. The steel doors slowly close again, and the elevator begins to ascend, stopping briefly at each floor. GoodFoot pressed every floor. Every floor including THE BASEMENT. This guy, pissed and embarrassed bringing his woman back to his place, gets in the elevator, and lets these little shits have it. Dignity entact, and manhood restored he boards the elevator. Goes down to the basement, where the doors open revealing teenagers doing laundry, only to close a second later, and then re-open revealing the assholes who took away your sense of self respect. He definitely is not getting laid tonight.
The rest of the day was rather uneventful, with the exception of the sudden and unexplained appearance of literally dozens of ‘hardcore’ gangsters, most of which were larger and darker than us. Naturally, we immediately packed up our food and moved to where they couldn’t shoot, I mean, see us.
Then the night really began. We picked up one more friend, Xzibit, with the following enticing offer.
Ving: Yo, [Xzibit], we’re gonna go sit in a parking lot and do nothing, we’re on your driveway, let’s go.
Xzibit: Aight.
God bless our leaders of tomorrow. And with that, we were off. Xzibit kept us interested with the promise of a party that a friend of a friend of his was throwing, while we sat and sipped bubble tea. I don’t want to accuse the owner’s of the establishment of any type of bias, but I was the only Caucasian present and we were seated at three different tables, being moved twice. Each time, closer to the door. We were very hesitant to leave, mostly due to the fact that there were two of the most beautiful oriental women sitting beside us, and we were enjoying the view. In fact we enjoyed it so much that we camped out right outside the Bubble Tea shop in my car, waiting for the girls to leave. Yes I know, we are sick, we are horny, we are desperate. but dammit if we aren’t persistent. The thing is, we missed them leaving, while we were traveling to another spot to get a less conspicuous view. DAMN YOU IRONY.
After that we all went our separate ways. GoodFoot, AK47, and Xzibit back to their respective houses, and me back to my dad’s house, where I spend every weekend, because frankly, I’d rather spend the weekend at the Neverland ranch than at Bethune. GoodFoot and AK47 are probably still playing Street Fighter (they’re Chinese), Xzibit definitely pumped a few out, probably thinking about my step mom, and I wrote this entry in my god forsaken blog.
Please note, this is not a typical Saturday night for me. My life is not this pathetic and sad, and I usually do something at least mildly entertaining. Next weekend we’re going Hogging. Unless I actually show up for my SAT test, which I still haven’t started studying for. I hope you enjoyed reading about my Saturday evening, because writing this thing is the highlight of my goddamn night.
An Ode To Chuck Norris
I would like to take this oppurtunity to take a break from my usual ramblings, and pay homage to a true American hero. This is a man who stood up to the challenges in his life. A man who maximized his potential and truly became all he could be. This man is an inspiration to us all. This man, is Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris has lived a full and accomplished career. You may know him simply as Walker Texas Ranger, protector of justice, and kicker of ass; but he is so much more. Chuck is a world accomplished martial arts master. He is a New York Times bestseller, a motorboat racing champion, spokesman for the united way, Commissioned police officer for Terrel Texas, motivational speaker, and even a winner of The Jewish Humanitarian Man of the Year Award. Please keep in mind, Chuck Norris is not even a jew. But then again... neither was Jesus. Wait, nevermind.
Regardless of all of his accomplishments, it is commonly agreed that he has one distinct claim to fame. Chuck Norris' hit television smash, which many
Chuck Norris recently acknowledged on his website, www.chucknorris.com, the validity of the facts that have been circulating about him via the 'Chuck Norris Random Fact Generator,' and encouraged the continued praise of his awesome-ness.
Chuck Norris is a true international icon, and a man to be wreckoned with. Love him or hate him, you have to respect him. And anybody who disagrees, can be expecting a roundhouse kick to the teeth.
Chuck Norris has lived a full and accomplished career. You may know him simply as Walker Texas Ranger, protector of justice, and kicker of ass; but he is so much more. Chuck is a world accomplished martial arts master. He is a New York Times bestseller, a motorboat racing champion, spokesman for the united way, Commissioned police officer for Terrel Texas, motivational speaker, and even a winner of The Jewish Humanitarian Man of the Year Award. Please keep in mind, Chuck Norris is not even a jew. But then again... neither was Jesus. Wait, nevermind.
Regardless of all of his accomplishments, it is commonly agreed that he has one distinct claim to fame. Chuck Norris' hit television smash, which many
consider to be the closest first example to reality television, was the now imfamous
, 'Walker, Texas Ranger.' The show was banned in several states after being named the cause of several fatalities that Chuck himself referred to as 'awesome overloads.'
, 'Walker, Texas Ranger.' The show was banned in several states after being named the cause of several fatalities that Chuck himself referred to as 'awesome overloads.'Chuck Norris recently acknowledged on his website, www.chucknorris.com, the validity of the facts that have been circulating about him via the 'Chuck Norris Random Fact Generator,' and encouraged the continued praise of his awesome-ness.
Chuck Norris is a true international icon, and a man to be wreckoned with. Love him or hate him, you have to respect him. And anybody who disagrees, can be expecting a roundhouse kick to the teeth.
To see pictures from Chuck's childhood, please click here.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
What's in a name?
Generally speaking, I try not to include real names here, because, well—it’s my goddam blog, and I do as I damn well please. However, for this entry I will have to make an exception and use a real surname. I can only pray that you will forgive me.
High school English was a joke. And not only because of my overweight, aging teacher, who will be called OB. With his extensive knowledge of Dostoevesky, but no sense of how NOT to creep out another human being. This man was extraordinary. His face was always glowing red, with buldging eyes, lightly covered by his bright white eyebrows. His hands circling each other, in a hypnotizing notion, as if he was deep in thought, while he licked his lips. This man’s tongue was constantly roaming around his face, as if looking for hidden treasure, or something. He reminds me of the wolf from little red riding hood, only instead of eating the elderly he taught us how to properly place pronouns. All his eccentricities aside, he had one clear defineable feature. Whenever emotion overwhelmed him, whether it be laughing hysterically, getting furious, or simply thinking too hard, he began to shake. I mean this man went into convulsions. He was like one of those massage chairs lining the hallways of malls, only instead of inserting a quarter to make it shake, a one-liner, or an act of disobedience would do.
The point is, when this man was not shaking or acting like a child molester, breezing around the room looking for his next victim, we had no use for him. If he was not entertaining us, we were not paying attention. Naturally this only led to more hysteria, picture the scene. Children not sitting at their desks, paper airplanes being thrown across the room, endless chatter. And at the front of it all, our failed conductor, was poor Mr. OB, casually shaking, waving his arms at us like Frankenstein, trying in vain to calm us down.
A rolled up piece of paper is thrown across the class and hits him square in the head. Chuckles are held back from various points in the room.
The classroom erupts in laughter, children fall off chairs.
My favourite
But I digress, for this story does not come at poor
I lean forward to capture the attention of the group, I speak emphatically with my hands, and I’m sure to annunciate…every….word. I say this with a tone of disgust in my voice, that sounded like someone just told me they impregnated their own grandmother with the seed of Satan. And I say it loud.
Ving: You think you’re name is bad? My dad’s middle name is Hymen!!!!
Now, this comment alone is not all that bad…unless you’re my dad, but sitting directly beside BetSheCanDoThis is another classmate, PerfectHiney. Of course PerfectHiney is not her real name, but is a description of her perfect hiney. I don’t think she’ll ever read this blog, so I think it’s safe, but if she ever does, I think she should know. PerfectHiney… you have a PERFECT hiney. I love you. Now back to my story.
The fact that this girl had a perfectly sculpted rear is not her only mentionable characteristic. As I said before, I do not like to reveal real names, but must for the sake of the story. PerfectHiney’s full name was, you guessed it, PerfectHiney Hymen. I can only describe the moment that followed my comment, as some people laughed, some wondered, “what IS a hymen?,” and the others very slowly looked at me, then very slowly turned their head toward PerfectHiney. Needless to say, this alarmed me.
PerfectHiney then stares right at me. She stares into my soul. She sees every wrong I’ve done, every lie I’ve told, and she’s my face begin to turn red as I realize what I’ve done.
PerfectHiney: “MY NAME IS HYMEN!!!!”
Hi, welcome to hell, I’ll be your guide for this evening.
How do you respond to that? I mean, what could you possibly say in this circumstance? Is there anyway to possibly not make things worse? Yes. There was one thing I could do, and dammit, I did that one thing like my life depended on it. I casually stood up, and tucked my chair back in. I silently sulked across the room, careful not to look back. I pulled out a chair on the otherside of the classroom, and sat intently staring at the wall, until I could assume everybody had forgotten the entire incident. If I only had a ‘dunce’ hat.
Welcome to the land of shame and regret. Population: Me.
I can only assume
Friday, January 20, 2006
Bethune: Destroyer of Lives
I attend the elite collegiate institute known as York University, and among its many flaws is that of my residence, Bethune. Before I begin, I would like to apologize for my entry two days ago. When I write about school I get very angry. I hate school, it’s a waste of time, and a waste of money. With that in mind, I would like to forewarn you that this entry may or may not come across as very angry. Bethune, you see, is by far the stupidest worst place that you could ever live, and from time to time forces me to seriously contemplate the option of suicide. With that in mind, let’s begin.
I attend York University for reasons that I do not want to get into, and will probably explain in another very angry blog entry. For one reason or another, everybody I know wanted me to live on residence. And when I say everybody, I don’t literally mean everybody, I just mean a large portion of people who’s opinions actually matter to me. So chances are, not you. As you may or may not know, I A) cannot resist the temptations of peer pressure, B) Am an idiot, so I decided to live on residence. At the time I really did think this was a good idea. My knowledge of university life was completely derived from the movie ‘Animal House’ and thus was expecting lots and lots of drinking and partying. As far as I was concerned, drinking led to several enticing things. Drunk partying, sex, fun, and my conception. I was wrong (about my rez life, not my conception.)
The day I moved in seemed promising enough. Everybody moving in with boxes of knick knacks, being super-friendly, talking to me (for the first and last time). I hopped on the elevator to go up to my room, when it reaches the top floor, my stop. Floor 13. The first sign of things to come. I then proceeded, with my boxes, to climb another flight of stairs, because while the elevator stops at the thirteenth floor, I do not. I live on floor 14. After settling in, grabbing lunch, and having my roommate steal my side of the room, I proceeded to empty my bladder. For those of you who have been following this blog long enough to remember the story written yesterday, you also may remember that this bathroom is co-ed. Now picture this, me, half skipping half walking down the hall toward the washroom, excited because I’m moving in. Smile on my face, I’m whistling the theme song to ’The Jeffersons.’
“Moving on up"
I turn the corner and enter the bathroom,
“To the East side”
And what do I see? A female already in there washing her face.
“Moving on up”
Without missing a beat, or losing any momentum, I walk in a small semi-circle, make a full 180, smile still on my face, and casually walk back to my room.
“To a DEEEE-lux apartment, in the sky-yyy.”
Naturally upon hearing of this discovery, my father immediately had to pee (I love you dad, but you’re a horny old man). And with that, it was done, I was now an official resident of Norman Bethune Residence. The day I moved in. The day which will forever be known to me as D-Day.
For those that have been to my residence they can attest to the fact that there is more life in Owen Hart’s tomb than in Bethune. There is more drinking at an AA meeting, and more partying at an Osh Kosh B’Gosh. My floor is silent, every door is closed, and the concept of socializing is nothing more than a myth. With one exception. Outside of my roommate, I do have one friend on rez. His name is Doo Young, and he doesn’t speak English. I cannot fairly describe his mannerisms and do them justice so I will not attempt. Who am I kidding, of course I am. He is skinny, and speaks in broken English. Imagine Jackie Chan after 6 months in a concentration camp. He watches the Raptors but hates them equally. Often I’ll find him pacing the hallway saying obscenities to himself about our latest loss. It’s fucking scary. He nods his head endlessly for no reason, and doesn’t laugh at any of my jokes (because he doesn’t understand them). It’s like talking to a bobble-head doll. When he responds I can barely understand what he’s saying. Talking to him is like listening to a kid with downs syndrome at a spelling bee.
It’s not all bad though. I have a really hot neighbor…. who I’ve never spoken to. She’s like a Picasso painting (I’m Salvador Dali.) I introduced myself once, and she just stared at me with a look of contempt. She was too good to speak to me, and we both knew it. Bitch. There are times when I seriously consider cutting a small circle in my wall and making a glory hole, but I haven’t become that desperate…yet. To the other side of me is a gentleman who goes by the alias of Kyle, I’ve spoken to him, but never had a real conversation. I’m pretty sure he’s a psycho killer. He’s just one of those guys who you know if you look in their fridge there’s gonna be a dismembered body part, or a large jar of goat semen, or something sick like that.
My room is the only exception, it’s nice, if you can look past the used Kleenex everywhere. I’m joking, my roommate (who will from here on be called CaptainRoomie) and I have a no masturbation rule, which I respect, and rarely violate. Our room is pretty big, and two walls are completely consisted of windows. Unfortunately, these windows are transparent and you can see the filth outside. The official York colors are Grey, Cement, and Dismal. It looks like a new, unused coloring book. I would look back inside, but that view usually consists solely of CaptainRoomate topless practicing his ‘streamline position’ (he’s a swimmer). Right now he’s singing ‘Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong’ (funny because its true).
So, now my friends, you understand. That is Bethune. That is why I write this blog. And that is why I cry when I masturbate. Don’t feel bad for me, I’m already dead.
I attend York University for reasons that I do not want to get into, and will probably explain in another very angry blog entry. For one reason or another, everybody I know wanted me to live on residence. And when I say everybody, I don’t literally mean everybody, I just mean a large portion of people who’s opinions actually matter to me. So chances are, not you. As you may or may not know, I A) cannot resist the temptations of peer pressure, B) Am an idiot, so I decided to live on residence. At the time I really did think this was a good idea. My knowledge of university life was completely derived from the movie ‘Animal House’ and thus was expecting lots and lots of drinking and partying. As far as I was concerned, drinking led to several enticing things. Drunk partying, sex, fun, and my conception. I was wrong (about my rez life, not my conception.)
The day I moved in seemed promising enough. Everybody moving in with boxes of knick knacks, being super-friendly, talking to me (for the first and last time). I hopped on the elevator to go up to my room, when it reaches the top floor, my stop. Floor 13. The first sign of things to come. I then proceeded, with my boxes, to climb another flight of stairs, because while the elevator stops at the thirteenth floor, I do not. I live on floor 14. After settling in, grabbing lunch, and having my roommate steal my side of the room, I proceeded to empty my bladder. For those of you who have been following this blog long enough to remember the story written yesterday, you also may remember that this bathroom is co-ed. Now picture this, me, half skipping half walking down the hall toward the washroom, excited because I’m moving in. Smile on my face, I’m whistling the theme song to ’The Jeffersons.’
“Moving on up"
I turn the corner and enter the bathroom,
“To the East side”
And what do I see? A female already in there washing her face.
“Moving on up”
Without missing a beat, or losing any momentum, I walk in a small semi-circle, make a full 180, smile still on my face, and casually walk back to my room.
“To a DEEEE-lux apartment, in the sky-yyy.”
Naturally upon hearing of this discovery, my father immediately had to pee (I love you dad, but you’re a horny old man). And with that, it was done, I was now an official resident of Norman Bethune Residence. The day I moved in. The day which will forever be known to me as D-Day.
For those that have been to my residence they can attest to the fact that there is more life in Owen Hart’s tomb than in Bethune. There is more drinking at an AA meeting, and more partying at an Osh Kosh B’Gosh. My floor is silent, every door is closed, and the concept of socializing is nothing more than a myth. With one exception. Outside of my roommate, I do have one friend on rez. His name is Doo Young, and he doesn’t speak English. I cannot fairly describe his mannerisms and do them justice so I will not attempt. Who am I kidding, of course I am. He is skinny, and speaks in broken English. Imagine Jackie Chan after 6 months in a concentration camp. He watches the Raptors but hates them equally. Often I’ll find him pacing the hallway saying obscenities to himself about our latest loss. It’s fucking scary. He nods his head endlessly for no reason, and doesn’t laugh at any of my jokes (because he doesn’t understand them). It’s like talking to a bobble-head doll. When he responds I can barely understand what he’s saying. Talking to him is like listening to a kid with downs syndrome at a spelling bee.
It’s not all bad though. I have a really hot neighbor…. who I’ve never spoken to. She’s like a Picasso painting (I’m Salvador Dali.) I introduced myself once, and she just stared at me with a look of contempt. She was too good to speak to me, and we both knew it. Bitch. There are times when I seriously consider cutting a small circle in my wall and making a glory hole, but I haven’t become that desperate…yet. To the other side of me is a gentleman who goes by the alias of Kyle, I’ve spoken to him, but never had a real conversation. I’m pretty sure he’s a psycho killer. He’s just one of those guys who you know if you look in their fridge there’s gonna be a dismembered body part, or a large jar of goat semen, or something sick like that.
My room is the only exception, it’s nice, if you can look past the used Kleenex everywhere. I’m joking, my roommate (who will from here on be called CaptainRoomie) and I have a no masturbation rule, which I respect, and rarely violate. Our room is pretty big, and two walls are completely consisted of windows. Unfortunately, these windows are transparent and you can see the filth outside. The official York colors are Grey, Cement, and Dismal. It looks like a new, unused coloring book. I would look back inside, but that view usually consists solely of CaptainRoomate topless practicing his ‘streamline position’ (he’s a swimmer). Right now he’s singing ‘Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong’ (funny because its true).
So, now my friends, you understand. That is Bethune. That is why I write this blog. And that is why I cry when I masturbate. Don’t feel bad for me, I’m already dead.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
The Bathroom Follies
I live on rez, and have a shared CO-ED bathroom, so naturally, I try not to shit more than once a week. Unfortunately the time comes when you either go in your room, or go in the shared bathroom, and when those times come, all you can do is pray. This time came for me recently and while I was sitting on the toilet watching people come and go, brushing their teeth and wash their faces, all I was doing was trying to silence my rectum, and reduce any splashing noise by making one continuous stream of fesces right down into my pubic hair covered bowl. It was somewhere in here that I began wondering if this is the path my life has taken. And then I had a revelation. The idea came to me to write a blog about my flatulent escapades, which I will name in admiration after a somewhat similar article written by my hero, Tucker Max. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…
THE BATHROOM FOLLIES.
Welcome to Bethune
The residence I live in is called Bethune, and it is the most horrid place on gods green earth, but that’s another story. As I previously mentioned the bathrooms are co-ed, and this story takes place not long after I moved in:
There’s a moment. Before you decide to go to the washroom, there is always a moment when you decide, you have to go. Sometimes, for me at least, you make the wrong decision. I was headed for the bathroom one day to take a piss, and as I entered I noticed a fairly good looking female brushing her teeth. I gave her the old ‘good morning, enjoy brushing your teeth 10 feet away from my exposed penis’ head nod, said hello, and entered the stall. This stall will forever be my cubicle of shame. I whipped it out and started pushing, gently at first awaiting the stream of recycled liquids to exit my shaft, when much to my surprise, nothing came out. Imagine my surprise, standing there with my dick in my hands pushing, and I‘m shooting blanks. Normally I would admit defeat, pack things up, go back to my room, and pretend this whole fiasco never happened, but there was a female present. I will not admit defeat to my body, and sulk away embarrassed in front of a mildly attractive female, so I did what any self respecting male would do. I pushed. Hard. I pushed until my face was as purple as my head, and I was 10 seconds away from having an aneurism. I pushed for my pride, I pushed for mankind, I pushed for my piss, and lo and behold I pushed too hard. Standing in the stall, dick out, female across from me, face red from pushing I let one rip. I let a fart go that was so loud it could raise Princess Di from the grave. And then… silence. I stood there in shock. I can only imagine what the girl was thinking. I slowly looked through the cracks in the door to get a look at her reaction. Utter disgust. Glancing over her shoulder at me with a look that made me die a little bit inside she spat out her toothpaste. Needless to say I was embarrassed, embarrassed and ashamed, but not dissuaded. I kept pushing, thinking in my euphoria of urination that if I could just squeeze a few drops out than everything would be okay. I could then make a funny one liner to end the awkward silence and show off the yellow water in my toilet bowl. So I pushed again. I pushed harder than before, I pushed hard enough to shit a kidney. And that’s exactly what it sounded like happened. I let another one go. Not as loud as the first, but twice as disgraceful. I didn’t quite know how to react. I did NOT see this coming. My hopes were crushed, my dreams shattered, I was no longer a man. So I did what I assume anybody in my position would do, I sat down on the toilet, waited for the girl to leave, and sulked back to my room.
God, I hope she didn’t get a good look at my face.
Holy Shit (not really)
This story occurred to me while I was about 10 years old on a trip to Israel with my family, and although it is not poo related, I still found it relevant enough to include. Please note that due to my age at the time, and my habit of exaggerating/making up stories to make people like me, the facts may be twisted, and I may have made this story up, but here it is to the best of my recollection. While in Israel we took a trip to what was called the ‘Holy Forest.’ I don’t know what makes it holy, I’m assuming God. For those of you who have never been to Israel, and are completely retarded, let me point out one simple fact to you. Israel is hot. I don’t mean, “it’s hot in here, open a window“ hot, I’m talking “YOU HAVE BEEN DAMNED TO THE LOWEST DEPTHS OF HELL” hot. So naturally, being the fat son of a bitch that I was, I was drinking water. A lot. At the time I was unaware of the deadly combination that is fat kids walking, lots of water, and running brooks, but after about half an hour of witnessing god’s green beautiful landscape, it hit me. It hit me like a goddamm brick. I had to pee. NOW! I asked our tour guide, who will from here on out be called Yitzhak if there was an outhouse around. His answer? No. Apparently god has always hated me. So I held it in. And I held it. And I held it. But as everybody learns sometime or another, you can only hold it for so long, and my time had come. So I took off, separating from the group, until I found my own little oasis in the Holy Forest. A place where I was alone, just me and god. God blessing me with his beautiful, enchanting, holy forest, and me, pissing all over it. I let that forest have it. I pissed all over god’s holy rocks, and god’s holy trees, his bushes, and rabbits. I peed until there was nothing left inside me, and the only thing left to do was drink more and catch up with the tour group. So if you ever visit Israel and the Holy Forest, try not to trail off the path. Oh, and don’t tell Yitzhak.
The Snowhill
I used to attend a school called Bayview Glen Public School, and it was by far the most rewarding, greatest place I have ever attended. With some exceptions. Every winter, all the snow was pushed towards one area where a huge pile of snow was constructed which we, being the creative geniuses that we are, named the snow hill. All the students used to play on the hill, running around, screaming, just generally spazzing out on our cold elevated terrain. I was up there one day, just goofing around when whatever I had for lunch, must have been curry, came back to haunt me. It was bad, I was at that stage where you just stand there because you’re scared that any change in the shape of your butt hole will result in fesces spewing in every direction. It was making weird noises, and I can only assume that I was making funny faces, if you were watching me you’d probably be half expecting that little thing from ‘Alien’ to burst out of my chest at any moment. Only, you know, made of poo. After I made the bold decision that I had to get to the bathroom NOW, I began trudging my feet towards the edge of the hill, trying not to lose control of my sphincter, when all of a sudden I hear, “Hey [Ving]”, and the next thing I know I’m tumbling down the side of the hill. Don’t feel too bad for me though, my fall was softened by a giant pile of my own shit. Looking up the hill at the perpetrator, I saw my friend, who I will refer to as Satan. Distraught and disillusioned I made my way to the bathroom to clean up. I did NOT however, flush that pair of underwear down the toilet, and I still take pride in that decision today. So it was a little shit covered, it’s still a perfectly good pair of underwear. I then made my way to my classroom, where I quickly, half hiding the still shit covered underwear, approached my bag. That’s right, I not only didn’t throw it out, I didn’t clean the underwear, and I had every intention of just shoving it in my bag, shit and all, and hoping for the best. It was at this point that I heard the voice behind me, the voice that still haunts my dreams, and turning around to face my third grade teacher, smiling from ear to ear, tried to formulate my reply to his haunting question.
“What you got there [Ving]?”
THE BATHROOM FOLLIES.
Welcome to Bethune
The residence I live in is called Bethune, and it is the most horrid place on gods green earth, but that’s another story. As I previously mentioned the bathrooms are co-ed, and this story takes place not long after I moved in:
There’s a moment. Before you decide to go to the washroom, there is always a moment when you decide, you have to go. Sometimes, for me at least, you make the wrong decision. I was headed for the bathroom one day to take a piss, and as I entered I noticed a fairly good looking female brushing her teeth. I gave her the old ‘good morning, enjoy brushing your teeth 10 feet away from my exposed penis’ head nod, said hello, and entered the stall. This stall will forever be my cubicle of shame. I whipped it out and started pushing, gently at first awaiting the stream of recycled liquids to exit my shaft, when much to my surprise, nothing came out. Imagine my surprise, standing there with my dick in my hands pushing, and I‘m shooting blanks. Normally I would admit defeat, pack things up, go back to my room, and pretend this whole fiasco never happened, but there was a female present. I will not admit defeat to my body, and sulk away embarrassed in front of a mildly attractive female, so I did what any self respecting male would do. I pushed. Hard. I pushed until my face was as purple as my head, and I was 10 seconds away from having an aneurism. I pushed for my pride, I pushed for mankind, I pushed for my piss, and lo and behold I pushed too hard. Standing in the stall, dick out, female across from me, face red from pushing I let one rip. I let a fart go that was so loud it could raise Princess Di from the grave. And then… silence. I stood there in shock. I can only imagine what the girl was thinking. I slowly looked through the cracks in the door to get a look at her reaction. Utter disgust. Glancing over her shoulder at me with a look that made me die a little bit inside she spat out her toothpaste. Needless to say I was embarrassed, embarrassed and ashamed, but not dissuaded. I kept pushing, thinking in my euphoria of urination that if I could just squeeze a few drops out than everything would be okay. I could then make a funny one liner to end the awkward silence and show off the yellow water in my toilet bowl. So I pushed again. I pushed harder than before, I pushed hard enough to shit a kidney. And that’s exactly what it sounded like happened. I let another one go. Not as loud as the first, but twice as disgraceful. I didn’t quite know how to react. I did NOT see this coming. My hopes were crushed, my dreams shattered, I was no longer a man. So I did what I assume anybody in my position would do, I sat down on the toilet, waited for the girl to leave, and sulked back to my room.
God, I hope she didn’t get a good look at my face.
Holy Shit (not really)
This story occurred to me while I was about 10 years old on a trip to Israel with my family, and although it is not poo related, I still found it relevant enough to include. Please note that due to my age at the time, and my habit of exaggerating/making up stories to make people like me, the facts may be twisted, and I may have made this story up, but here it is to the best of my recollection. While in Israel we took a trip to what was called the ‘Holy Forest.’ I don’t know what makes it holy, I’m assuming God. For those of you who have never been to Israel, and are completely retarded, let me point out one simple fact to you. Israel is hot. I don’t mean, “it’s hot in here, open a window“ hot, I’m talking “YOU HAVE BEEN DAMNED TO THE LOWEST DEPTHS OF HELL” hot. So naturally, being the fat son of a bitch that I was, I was drinking water. A lot. At the time I was unaware of the deadly combination that is fat kids walking, lots of water, and running brooks, but after about half an hour of witnessing god’s green beautiful landscape, it hit me. It hit me like a goddamm brick. I had to pee. NOW! I asked our tour guide, who will from here on out be called Yitzhak if there was an outhouse around. His answer? No. Apparently god has always hated me. So I held it in. And I held it. And I held it. But as everybody learns sometime or another, you can only hold it for so long, and my time had come. So I took off, separating from the group, until I found my own little oasis in the Holy Forest. A place where I was alone, just me and god. God blessing me with his beautiful, enchanting, holy forest, and me, pissing all over it. I let that forest have it. I pissed all over god’s holy rocks, and god’s holy trees, his bushes, and rabbits. I peed until there was nothing left inside me, and the only thing left to do was drink more and catch up with the tour group. So if you ever visit Israel and the Holy Forest, try not to trail off the path. Oh, and don’t tell Yitzhak.
The Snowhill
I used to attend a school called Bayview Glen Public School, and it was by far the most rewarding, greatest place I have ever attended. With some exceptions. Every winter, all the snow was pushed towards one area where a huge pile of snow was constructed which we, being the creative geniuses that we are, named the snow hill. All the students used to play on the hill, running around, screaming, just generally spazzing out on our cold elevated terrain. I was up there one day, just goofing around when whatever I had for lunch, must have been curry, came back to haunt me. It was bad, I was at that stage where you just stand there because you’re scared that any change in the shape of your butt hole will result in fesces spewing in every direction. It was making weird noises, and I can only assume that I was making funny faces, if you were watching me you’d probably be half expecting that little thing from ‘Alien’ to burst out of my chest at any moment. Only, you know, made of poo. After I made the bold decision that I had to get to the bathroom NOW, I began trudging my feet towards the edge of the hill, trying not to lose control of my sphincter, when all of a sudden I hear, “Hey [Ving]”, and the next thing I know I’m tumbling down the side of the hill. Don’t feel too bad for me though, my fall was softened by a giant pile of my own shit. Looking up the hill at the perpetrator, I saw my friend, who I will refer to as Satan. Distraught and disillusioned I made my way to the bathroom to clean up. I did NOT however, flush that pair of underwear down the toilet, and I still take pride in that decision today. So it was a little shit covered, it’s still a perfectly good pair of underwear. I then made my way to my classroom, where I quickly, half hiding the still shit covered underwear, approached my bag. That’s right, I not only didn’t throw it out, I didn’t clean the underwear, and I had every intention of just shoving it in my bag, shit and all, and hoping for the best. It was at this point that I heard the voice behind me, the voice that still haunts my dreams, and turning around to face my third grade teacher, smiling from ear to ear, tried to formulate my reply to his haunting question.
“What you got there [Ving]?”
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
My first blog.
My first blog. YEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW. I'm
not gonna explain to you who I am because if you're reading this you already know me, and if you don't, I don't really care, so fuck you. After watching an anonymous family member's blog reach the hight of popularity I decided it's time for me to try and steal the spotlight back (I'm a middle child, don't judge me, you scum). And so, here is my blog. I've run out of things to say, but chances are I'll be back a little later to write more, because I have the attention span of a 5 year old with ADHD and downs syndrome.
not gonna explain to you who I am because if you're reading this you already know me, and if you don't, I don't really care, so fuck you. After watching an anonymous family member's blog reach the hight of popularity I decided it's time for me to try and steal the spotlight back (I'm a middle child, don't judge me, you scum). And so, here is my blog. I've run out of things to say, but chances are I'll be back a little later to write more, because I have the attention span of a 5 year old with ADHD and downs syndrome.
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