How To Get Your International Idiot License

My stepdad invited a friend of his from India to help us with our pizza parlor. His friend had a slight problem with the English language: he could barely speak it. There were several times I wanted to beat the crap out of him with a Merriam-Webster dictionary.

He would constantly offend customers by asking them inappropriate questions, such as if they wanted his sausage in their “pieces.” When the customers would cuss him out, I would have to clarify that he meant “pizzas.” He also had this odd tendency to raise both eyebrows after every statement he made, like a villain from a 1970s movie.

About six months after arriving from India, he wanted to learn how to drive. My parents, being Asian, convinced him to save money by not going to driving school and use me as a free teacher instead. I was being used for free child labor in the kitchen anyways, so why not. Plus, the working conditions were probably not as bad for me as children in Chinese sweatshops.

He had difficulty comprehending the written test questions in English, so my stepdad found out that they offered the exam in other languages such as Chinese, Arabic and Braille. Yes, Braille. Because it makes sense to give blind people the right to take a driving test. Anyway, his friend got really excited after finding out he could take the test in Punjabi. They both started Bollywood dancing in their ridiculous chef hats in the kitchen. I told them I thought that didn’t make any sense. They both stopped dancing and asked me why I thought it didn’t make sense to take the test in Punjabi.

Because road signs are written in mother f***ing English!!

I got grounded. No video games. For a month. His friend failed the driving test all three times. But he earned his license…to be an international idiot.

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This is exactly the reason why I wanted to punch my f***ing radio today.

I need to get this off my chest: I almost punched my radio today. Why? Because I f***ing hate the radio! It’s like every time I turn it on, it’s cyanide to my brain cells. It’s always some crappy digital sound that escapes through my speakers, and some douche sporadically yelling “bitch” and “ass” through a auto-tune. You call that music? F@#% no! That’s two robots having intercourse, and a person with Turret’s syndrome. The only reason why radio companies play crappy songs over and over again is because that’s what most people want to hear lately. It just goes to show you that most people have HORRIBLE taste in music! But it’s not always that bad. They play nice depressing songs from artists like Adele and Leona Lewis. But even they don’t make sense sometimes! How can you set fire to the rain, Adele? Of course your friends are going to pull you away from a bad relationship, Leona! Those are horribly depressing and retarded metaphors! I have to admit that it is definitely much better to listen to beautiful voices, but if you listen to them on repeat for about 4 hours straight, you will want to kill yourself. Artists like Adele use music as a form of therapy to get depression out of their system and share it. But some people are so dumb that that they act like they’ve been part of a horrible relationship based on the vicarious experiences of a radio song! Get out and go experience an actual relationship. Or if you have had a bad relationship, stop making generalizations that every other girl or guy out there is the same. You haven’t f***ing tried them all. If you want a decent guy or girl, chances are that you would want them to serenade you with some Michael Buble or Diana Ross. At least they will have the balls (or ovaries) to “Call You Maybe.”

What does Chick-Fil-A, Batman, and Lego have in common? Gays, that’s what. But let me explain…

I was playing a demo of the new Lego Batman 2 video game, and it SUCKED. Now before you ask why a grown man like me is playing a Lego video game, I should explain that I loved playing with Legos as a kid. I would spend hours building my yellow and green city, and then snap in little Lego people as the inhabitants. The things I would build as a kid were simple, and they meant a lot to me because were things that I wanted to build; not things my parents, my teachers, or my friends told me to build. Everyone lived happily there, except for the pirate. He had obsessive compulsive disorder and the mismatching Lego colors bothered him. When I play with Legos these days with my younger nieces and nephews, I suck at building creative things. I  have trouble building a house because the brick colors don’t match. When I was a  kid, I could build a mansion because I didn’t care what colors the bricks were. Somewhere between potty training and driver’s ed, I accepted someone else’s opinion — that it is not correct to mix yellow and green Legos. Accepting that opinion robbed me of my ability to build a mansion. Sure the Lego are different colors, but they are still Lego after all. Whether we are different — Gay or Straight, Asian or Martian — some people fail to see that we are all still human beings. Maybe someone gave Chick-fil-A the same advice, because they have their all their Legos together with the same colors.

How To Sell Ice Cream & Cocaine

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My English professor once told me that questions are the mark of an intelligent person. I doubt she ever had a job in customer service though.

A few years ago, I used to work at my parent’s ice cream store. This one time, a customer was looking in our menu for a long time, looked up and asked me if we sold ice cream there.

“Umm…Do you guys sell ice cream here?”

Wait, what? You do realize this is an ice cream store right? That’s like going into Starbucks and asking if they sell overpriced, sugary drinks. I can’t imagine why an ice cream store wouldn’t sell ice cream. I don’t think most store owners buy twenty-foot advertising signs for shits and giggles… unless they were covering up a drug operation or something.

So I replied, “Yes we do sir. Anything in particular you’re looking for?” “Well, I really like French vanilla. What you guys make that stuff with?”

Now, I’m not really an expert ice cream producer. I tried once — in 5th grade — and it tasted really crappy. But I’m going to go ahead and guess there’s milk, sugar and vanilla extract. “Well, I’m not sure sir. We just order the product and get it shipped to our store.” “How do you not know the exact ingredients of the product you sell?”

Well because if I told you, I’d have to kill you. You see, as well as running several meth and cocaine labs in Costa Rica and Venezuela, my workers also run an ice cream factory in Cape Canaveral where I exclusively produce my French vanilla ice cream. Remember, we’re covering up a drug operation here? We ship our cocaine with the French vanilla because it effectively masks the cocaine scent. It leaves customs guard dogs stumped every time. “Sorry about that, sir.”

My English professor was right. This guy, with only two questions almost busted my cocaine operation! It was a close call, man.

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“Indian Toilet. Indian Toilet Paper.”

You’ve been there. I know you have. You might not admit it, but we’ve all experienced one of the biggest fears known to the civilized world: having to take a dump without a clean toilet in sight.

I was nine years old when I first visited family in the country of India with my parents. After a lengthy eight-hour drive from the airport with no air conditioning through the overcrowded streets of rude people, rickshaws, and eunich beggars, the first thing I wanted to do after arriving at the destination was to visit the “porcelain bank” to make a deposit, and then take a nice hot shower to relax from a long day. I went inside the house and asked my new aunt where the bathroom was located, and she pointed outside to a brown and silver metal door. “The kingdom of relief awaits.” I thought as I walked outside. When I opened the door, I thought there was a misunderstanding. Inside, there was a porcelain hole in a small 3×5-foot closet with a large plastic cup underneath a water faucet; and a giant lizard on the ceiling wall. Confused, I went back inside and asked for the toilet again and also for some toilet paper. My aunt took me back outside, pointed to the hole in the ground and said “Indian toilet.” She then pointed to the cup and water faucet and said “Indian toilet paper.” I was shocked and disgusted at this idea. But nature was calling, and it does not care about morals or values when you have to go.

It’s not easy to squat over a hole in the ground to take a dump, let alone ignore a large lizard on the ceiling above. Sitting in that position made it impossible to relax enough to let anything pass through. After a few days, I was finally able to accomplish something. Sort of. Nothing says welcome to a foreign country better than having to clean up by splashing freezing water on your private credentials.

The following day, we went to go visit family friends that lived in the neighboring village. I had to go “fulfill my duties” again, but didn’t see a bathroom in sight. I asked my cousin, and he stood there for a minute. He then proceeded to give me his small half-filled bottle of water and chuckled as he pointed outside to the sunflower fields and said, “Indian toilet.”