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.”
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.
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.
I wanted write a blog from my smartphone about a smartphone texting fail to my manager. This is the horrible autocorrect result:
I’m not the first one to say this, but what the health?! my smartphone is making look dumb. how? well the other day, i was cremating a new resume to submit for openings of sales jobs. i have a lot of experience selling thangs, but i needed more references on my resume. i sexted my old manager to see if she could give me one. she did not respond, so I called and left a massage. she responded later that day, and replied she was really happy that i called all over her back. she said that she’s be more than happy to recieve my message because I did good work under her. I said I thank you so much for the reference and that I was really stoned that she would give me a great reefer. then a really awkward conversation ensued where she talked about about get college days and her experience with weed and I said that’s funny. it was strangle that she mention this to me be cause she was my OLED manager. thank you and have nicest day i says to her.
-Sent from my iPhone
There’s always something exciting about being invited to a traditional wedding. If you’re already married, you’re reminiscing on stressful yet memorable times. If you’re in a relationship, you’re stressing out your significant other with tentative planning.
And if you’re single, you’re most likely drinking your stress away. Heavily.
At least that was the case for a few people I met the day of my friend’s wedding. My date and I sat down at our table, and I introduced myself to everyone. One of the girls was propping herself up against the wall, and looked like she was struggling to stay awake. As I sat down, she leaned over to ask me, “Hey, are you hung over too?”
Confused, I responded, “Yes. Yes I totally am. How about you?” for no reason. She responded, “Oh man, I am hung over like hell! I partied way too hard last night.”
You decided to consume lots of alcohol the night before a loud Asian wedding? Well done.
Her friend reached over and told her to shut up. She herself had a half empty bottle of Hennessy sitting in front of her, with two full shot glasses of liquor. She eagerly asked me if I wanted to take a shot, and I politely responded “No thanks.” She then proceeded to cheers herself and take both shots. Something told me she wasn’t having a really good time either.
She passed the bottle over to a guy sitting next to me. Probably not a good idea since he was already radiating with Asian glow and cursing. He was so miserable, that instead of pouring eight individual shots for everyone, he tried drinking eight shots himself; almost an 1/8th of the bottle. Or at least tried to until he turned into an automatic vomit sprinkler.
“Why was everyone getting so drunk?” I thought. And then it hit me– not the vomit luckily.
Another group of girls at our table caught my attention. They started explaining to the rest of the table how infinitely happy they are in their current relationships, and justifying the absence of their boyfriends at the wedding, while gossiping about the insecurites of their female friends and how Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise’s divorce will affect the vibes of the cosmos. It was like being a captive audience for Dr. Phil mixed with The View.
For some reason, I started to regret the decision of being the designated driver.
Bill Nye the Science Guy was one of my favorite shows of all-time. Nothing used to be cooler than submerging dry ice into water and watching smoke bubble out. In fact, I still think its one of the coolest things ever.
Bill has been the Executive Director of the NASA-affiliated non-profit group “The Planetary Society” since 2010. They are a group of really smart people that like to get billion-dollar equipment stuck on the surface of other planets. Remember when Spirit A Rover got stuck on Mars’ surface in 2009? Neither do I.
According to an article released by CNN, The Obama Administration proposed a $300 million budget cut to NASA’s branch of planetary exploration. Bill is very unhappy. He explained that the U.S. might lose the edge in the space race against other countries. Well, this is interesting. Especially considering that most of their projects have been collaborations with the Russian Federal Space Agency. I think he forgot to mention that.
However, one of Bill’s biggest concerns is that the budget cut would relinquish the ability for NASA to deflect a possible asteroid collision that may pulverize all life on planet Earth; except for jellyfish and squids.
Darn. Well why don’t we just eat more calamari and jellyfish to make ourselves immune from death by asteroids?
Freeze your worries in liquid nitrogen and chill, Bill. Deflecting giant asteroids that can destroy the entire planet? Not a problem. I saw the movie a few times, and I think The Avengers can handle that sort of thing.
He’s a scientist who is passionate about his work, and essentially the budget cut means his paycheck is taking a cut and jobs will be lost. I mean, I would be pissed too if I were unemployed, or someone decided to cut 1/3 of my earnings out of my paycheck. It’s a good thing none of us know how that feels…
I agree that people losing jobs is always a sad thing. But so is the lack of clean and decent flush toilets in other countries. Some of that money should be used to universally standarize toilets, because you just can’t be Charmin clean using banana leaves.
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.”
It was one of those birthday nights when the bartender violates your debit card so badly, she returns it to you with a Band-Aid by the end of the night. I was driving home after a friend’s birthday celebration, and forgot to fill up gas that morning. I pulled into a nearby gas station and walked in to pay since the card reader outside wasn’t working. I looked around the store for the attendant, and a middle aged Indian man emerged from the back of the store. This guy was a cookie cutter Indian attendant you find at almost every convenience store, fully loaded with bad grammar, strong Indian accent and never at the front of the store when you walk in. This attendant came in a special “Deluxe Indian Package” wrapped in curry leaves and sealed with turmeric paste.
I knew I should have filled up gas in the morning as soon as he looked at my debit card with my very Indian name on it. “Aaaah, Rajendra! What part India you are from?” he asked in broken English as he kept grinning through an open mouth containing bad teeth. He took my money and looked outside at the pump where I was parked and asked “You have a Toyota car? I am looking for the car you know?” he explained, “How much you sell your car for? What is the mileage?”
I wasn’t sure if I was buying gas anymore, or selling my car. His change in conversation was as random as the thick gold chain he was wearing. While I explained to him that my car wasn’t for sale, another group of Hispanic people pulled up to fill gas. They had a “For Sale” sign on their well-maintained Honda Civic. I told the attendant that he should inquire with them, to which he responded “Oh they are Mexican. Dirty people. They drink the tequila with worm in it. Disgusting people, no values.”
“Yeah that’s true,” I agreed. “I can’t believe how Mexican people can eat that stuff. But anyway, let me purchase these two hamburgers and this bag of beef jerky. I don’t know why beef tastes so good!” His eyes bulged out from behind his thick glasses. “You eat beef?! What kind of Indian are you?” he yelled at me. I swiped my debit card, collected my receipt as quickly as I could and headed for the door. But not before turning back to say, “The kind who doesn’t sell his car to disgusting Indians.”
From my humble knowledge of health, I understand that it is impossible to burn fat from a specific area of the body. There are many ridiculous diets and machines that are advertised in magazines, television and websites that guarantee 6-pack or even 8-pack washboard abs in as quickly as two weeks. I think the one advertisement that takes the cake is a fat-burning belt that was being advertised on a Spanish channel.
I went to go get a haircut at my local barber shop. My barber is a funny and quirky middle-aged Hispanic woman who speaks limited English. I try to speak to her in Spanish to maintain my language, while she tries to speak to me in English to improve her conversational skills. She was cutting my hair, and eventually turned my chair around so that I was facing a small television. An infomercial came on, and an over-enthusiastic narrator started rapidly blurting out words in Spanish. The infomercial showed a depressed, balding overweight Caucasian male. He was offered a heating belt that he put on for 20 minutes. Not only did he develop a 6-pack after taking the belt off, he had a full hair of head, and changed his ethnicity to Hispanic. Amazing.