False Appetizing

add fallopian to the list of tubes i've eaten. it's a pretty short list admittedly; the only other kind i've had is a philly tube jesus from crif dog's in nyc, an exquisitely prepared dish of boiled processed meat in the form of an american 'hot dog', melted cheese, and sauteed onions (and don't forget the jalapeno peppers!) on a fresh squishy bun. it is divine, but fallopian is utopian.

i ordered it because it was the most bizarre item available at this particular restaurant, and my friend was leaving for hanoi the next day so i figured it would be something like my version of a going away present. it was officially listed as 'crusty fried fallopian tube' under the appetizer section of the menu. the waitress soon brought out a dish full of fried tube, and when i bit into the first one i understood why it was described as 'crusty,' and not 'crunchy,' or 'crumby,' or 'yummy.' but i couldn't understand how this could be considered an appetizer, as i found my appetite diminishing with every crusty chew of each chewy tube.

i found out about halfway through the dish that the tube and pieces of tube i were eating belonged to the fallopia of a pig. at the time my reaction was mostly indifferent. the waitress could have told me it belonged to my own mother and i still wouldn't have cared because i was hungry. i think the only thing that could have stopped me from finishing my food would have been if i was told she was menstruating; the waitress, my mother, or my food, either one... because that's disgusting, even to me.

i don't really know why i like to eat weird shit. perhaps it's because growing up my family ate the same 6 dishes every week (one day for left-overs/wild card), and none were even remotely exotic, except to a penguin maybe, and i'm sure even a penguin would get pretty god damn sick of 'pork chop tuesdays' by the end of the first month. and i wouldn't be surprised if in seeking variety that penguin eventually became addicted to fast food because there's more variety in a 6-pack of chicken nuggets than an entire week of the food i grew up on. well maybe not since mcdonald's began making chicken nuggets only from chickens.

i eat weird shit, and i think it's because i find it exciting. as long as the odor of the food doesn't make me want to vomit (digestive tract shit), then i'll put it in my mouth and chew it and swallow it. like maybe this animal's organ will be delicious, or maybe it will actually make me vomit. who knows? i don't know. that's high stakes dining. the only form of dining with a greater risk is trying to eat waffles while sky diving, a fool's game if you ask me.

anyway, so the meal was adequate though definitely not appetizing, as i finished the whole plate, except the pieces carrie, simmie, and patrick wanted to try. the problem actually was the rice. as i was digging through my bowl of rice i discovered a bottle cap at the bottom, like the prize in a cracker jack box. see i'm usually really excited about finding prizes in my food but, maybe since i'm older now, i found this prize extremely disappointing. or maybe it's just because there's only so much enjoyment you can get out of spinning a bottle cap or flinging it at someone. either way, this was the worst prize ever and i didn't even ask for it. i ordered the 'plain rice' and this certainly wasn't plain. it's false advertising for sure. i could even understand if i had ordered 'fried rice' and maybe they thought i said 'prize rice.' that would make sense, but this? i can't even eat this.

The 11th Commandment

if you've been keeping track of the score between me and god then you know that it had been a tight match until god blew it wide open by stealing my pants. that, in addition to him breaking my camera, left him ahead by some quantity that because i was depantsed, exceeded a million points. well i think by passing the course and then celebrating by eating not one, not two, but three duck fetuses, excuse me feti, i'd closed the gap quite a bit... and then just the other day having my camera repaired by someone who i think surprised even god that he was capable of repairing a loose shoelace let alone a digital camera, evened the score.

which brings us to my favorite shirt: a pink lacoste. now because god made some people mass killing psychopaths, and others indiscriminating rapists, and many people only discriminating racists, and even more who just harbor disgraceful prejudices, and even more people than that, a vast majority even, who are simply prone to making naive generalizations - most people think i'm gay for wearing a pink shirt. the spectrum of characterizations ranges from 'effeminate' to 'faggot,' but neither particularly offends me because i just think it's a cool shirt. maybe because my sister bought it for me right before i left, or because i had never owned a pink shirt, or because it was my newest shirt, or because it's the most expensive shirt i've ever owned, or because i think the magical coolness of pink can somehow rub off on me and make me cool simply by apparel association; but shit, i really liked that shirt... until god ruined it.

ok to be fair, i half ruined it before god finished ruining it. i had worn it out to dinner sometime last week and got some shrimp slop on it, trying to break open and peel those stupid delicious sea roaches. actually now that i think about it though, god's one sneaky son of a bitch, because i didn't exactly ask for the unpeeled shrimp covered in projectile stainy sauce, and he knows how irresistible shrimp are to me. i think i was set up.

anyway, regardless of who was to blame, orange stains speckled the front of my favorite shirt by the end of dinner, and it horrified me because judging by the cleanliness of the attire worn by the locals, i don't believe there's any vietnamese word for "stain," and certainly not any phrase that would translate "please please please remove this stain from my favorite shirt." the first laundromat i took it to reaffirmed this belief, as i got my shirt back reeking of unremoved stains. i hung my head while humming the death song, and laid the shirt to rest on top of my dresser, though i hadn't really lost hope yet.

the best chance for its revival came several days later, after carrie asked me to let her and alison's maid in while they were working. one of her chores was to do their laundry so i inconspicuously slipped my generally-considered-feminine-colored shirt into their laundry pile. i was sure that if anyone could remove these stains, it would be a personal maid who happened to be on her first day of work for these generously paying foreign girls.

i waited anxiously to see the results, and a couple days later they got their laundry back. i unfolded the shirt, and voila! the stains were almost completely gone and definitely faint enough for the shirt to be wearable again. "joy!" but carrie was looking at the back of the shirt with a perplexed look on her face, so i turned it over. "god damn it!" there were 2 huge brand new stains on the back that look like the shirt was smeared in greasy tar-covered ink.

nice one, god.


11. THOU SHALT NOT WEAR PINK, LEST THOU BE A MAN OF WO, OR A FAGGOT. 'MOUT.

Yeah, Thanks... Thanks For Nothing

in recognition of thanksgiving, i've compiled a list of people i'd like to give thanks.

mom: thanks for giving birth to me.
dad: thanks for giving mom's vagina a deposit of your semen so that your sperm could travel up into her uterus and unite with her egg, and then 9 months later she could give birth to me, a crude, deformed, sticky combination of yours and mom's sex juice.
ange: thanks for giving me high academic expectations all throughout school.
cass: thanks for giving me pepper in the form of a spray aimed at my face.
grandma: thanks for giving 'crazy' a definition.
grandpa: thanks for giving grandma a disapproving look and then yelling at her whenever she starts that crazy talk.
nanny: thanks for giving me a reason to explain to my friends that you're not actually my nanny, but that's just what we call grandmothers who request to be called 'nanny.'
uncle chris: thanks for giving me that gun, so i could keep myself busy trying to shoot that empty beer can while you were shit-faced.
gwen and her family: thanks for giving the lorusso family at least one group of relatives who aren't complete wackos.
tyrell braunskill: thanks for giving me a reason to never make generalizations about people of different races and religions when you befriended me in elementary school.
tyrell braunskill: thanks for giving me a renewed passion for stereotypes when you dropped out of high school, probably to work at kfc.
chip: thanks for giving me a reason to hate jews.
mike butcher: thanks for giving me a reason to never have children.
ken: thanks for giving ralph that purple-nurple that, according to legend, purpled his nurple so bad it made him cry.
kristen: thanks for giving jasper way too much to eat, because he's the fattest bea-
jasper: thanks for being the fattest beagle i've ever seen.
clay: thanks for giving me a scoop of chewing tobacco so that i could be a man.
kim: thanks for giving me permission to vomit violently into your toilet after i became a man.
sal: thanks for giving me the super soaker at clay and kim's so i could shoot blatt.
blatt: thanks for giving the concrete your two front teeth trying to escape the wrath of my water gun... oh and for giving me your car, at first just for the weekend, but then forever.
stellach: thanks for giving me a better stick to dislodge the burning leaves from the drivetrain of the other car i set ablaze.
adina: thanks for giving me the worst haircut of all time.
phil cilella: as someone with one fucked up eye, thanks for giving me an extremely obscure reference.
left eye: thanks for giving me sight.
right eye: thanks for giving me insecurities, you lazy motherfucker.
racquel: thanks for giving me a severe complex about dating girls when we were in junior high.
steiding: thanks for giving brian stahl a severe complex about being a fat loser for the rest of his life.
devon: thanks for giving me my first high.
reiss: thanks for giving me more highs than i could ever possibly remember.
couch: just thanks.
ariel: thanks for giving your shit to your pants.
jael: thanks for giving me dinner and cleaning the dishes all the time, bitch.
mikey: thanks for giving the streets of new york a golden shower from the 10th floor of our dorm.
cromie: thanks for giving up because i was right and you were wrong.
kelly: thanks for giving as little effort as possible to learn italian, and inspiring me to do the same.
chanon: thanks for giving the world a fancier way to spell 'shannon.'
alison: thanks for giving me a reason to go to vietnam.
carrie: thanks for giving that really nice vietnamese guy a wrong number when he asked you for yours, and then looking so uncomfortable when he tried calling it right away.
vietnamese guy who carrie gave a wrong number to: thanks for giving us a round of beer before carrie made you look like an ass in front of all your friends.
mike: thanks for giving us your knowledge of what's good in this city.
sam: thanks for giving us your bizarre impressions of american culture, and then doing brilliant impressions of americans.
minty: thanks for giving waiters here a look of utter disbelief when you ask for food and they just stare at you with a blank expression on their face.
smelly vietnamese guy who fixed my camera: thanks for giving me back a camera that works, so that now i can take photos of motorcycle ninja babes.
motorcycle ninja babes: thanks for giving me an erection.
god: your welcome.

Your Welcome, Asshole

if you'd like to respond to the thanks i gave above, please express your gratitude here, in the comments section.

House Hunting

this is a warning to all abodes, potential abodes, and places that harbor abodes in the saigon area: i will hunt you down, and kill you. or live in you, whichever i see fit. i don't care if i have to search every roach infested mansion, house, cave, cyclo seat, and reunification palace garbage can in this city; if you are found guilty of being a suitable place for me to live, you will be bought to justice. i will eradicate all current inhabitants and/or institute a substitution program whereby you are replaced by me and my coalition of the willing... willing to live in your home, that is. occupancy is on the march.

Dear Mat,

i'm sorry. please, don't hate me. i know you think i'm 'a lazy, free-loading, good-for-nothing mexican,' but i just want you to know that you hurt my feelings when you say that. yes, i do have emotions... what do you think only lefty over there cries? i feel pain too, you know. just because i'm not as responsible as left-eye, or as good at seeing, or have as nice of eyelashes, or be named after a dead rapping arsonist doesn't mean i'm any less worthy of your love.

we've shared so much together. remember when we were little, and i was first diagnosed as being clinically lazy, and i had to go under the knife for you? i was so scared but i did it for you. and then remember how much fun we had pretending to be a pirate when you had to wear that patch over left-eye to make me stronger? "arrrgh matey!! i've got the eye scurvy!! arrrrgggh..." remember? and there was the time when i got hit with a soccer ball and i didn't cry like that bitch lefty would have. i made you look like a man that day... i made you a man! and when sal poked me with hot sauce i only cried a little, and that was only because it was really spicy. do you remember? you asked the waiter for the hottest wings they could make. you know left-eye would have been crying for his mommy. he's such a pussy, i hate him.

you know i'm good to you baby. it's just that whenever i get a little alcohol in me... i don't know, it just makes me crazy. i can't help it; it's not my fault. i just get so tired. i work all day long for you... every single day! sometimes i just need to kick back and relax, you know? i can't be perfect all the time. i know you complain about not being able to drink as much as you could because you have to worry about me sleeping on the job, and embarrassing you. but i just want you to know that i try really hard, even when i'm drunk. i mean have you ever thought about maybe not drinking as much?

oh yeah, and it bothers me when you tell me to 'shut up' because you know i can't defend myself, except by writing blog entries on your website. why can't you just be thankful you have me? how would you feel if you only had one eye, huh? think you could handle being called 'cyclops' wherever you went, huh? and having no depth perception, constantly poking your chin or your upper lip with a forkful of food everytime you eat. would you like that huh? or it could be worse, i could be one of those wandering eyes, like phil cilella's. remember him? he looked so stupid, and it was because he had one eye that refused to stay put. i may be lazy but at least i'm not a wandering retard. i just have motivation issues, and i swear i'll try to try harder.

so i just want to say i'm sorry and ask for your forgiveness for my 'condition.' i love you always.



see you in the mirror,

your lazy, but loyal, right eye

Duckus Fetus Isus Delicious

in vietnam, november 20 is teachers' day (the day after is 'japanese tourist day,' in case you were wondering). coincidentally, i became a teacher november 19, and the school where i did my teaching practice invited us all to a celebration there in the evening. all the vietnamese teachers were friendly and hospitable, serving us a truly excellent dinner before karaoke-ing the night away. i performed 'beat it,' minus the fire eating and hoola-hooping.

well if you haven't already guessed what i might've eaten at dinner, then maybe i'll just tell you. the waiter brought out several courses and the last one was a plate of eggs next to a pot of boiling water. carrie suspected they were half-born chickens, but in fact the eggs contained duck embryos, which is a delicacy here. she said she'd try one if i had one, and i of course agreed. so the waiter picked up an egg and cracked it open over the pot. i held my hand over my mouth as i watched some blood ooze out just before a baby duck plopped into the water. it looked really nasty - absolutely the worst kind of disgusting. mike, who's been living here for quite some time and who's tried both dog and snake, later told me that he refuses to eat this dish based on looks alone. the only thing that could have made it more appalling would've been if it screamed right as it hit the water. carrie, unsurprisingly, reneged on the deal. i sat there both horrified and hungry.

after letting it cook for what seemed no more than 30 seconds, one of the vietnamese teachers scooped it out and put it in my bowl - 'it' being a sac of yolk, maybe some kind of bloody placental organ (not really sure), and of course the fetus, which in my head i named george. i ate each section in this order and it didn't taste nearly as gross as it looked. when i got to george, i just wished he'd turn into daffy duck and slap me in the face and run away so i wouldn't have to eat him. but he didn't - he went in my mouth and i squished him with my teeth. (everyone's had that fruit snack 'gushers' right? ok now imagine that, except change the fruit snack to a duck fetus and the goo inside to guts.) i was just happy that his bones hadn't really formed yet because that made it easier to chew his frail, aborted little body.

after i finished eating him, i was surprised at how much less disgusting he tasted than he looked. and i was still hungry so i had another, which this time made me gag just a little. i think this one would have been beautiful because its bone structure was a little better formed. i ate it, namelessly, and then had another. this next one made me sad because he reminded me of george... so delicious, except just a little spicier because i dipped him in pepper. i named him jorge.

"so what did it taste like?"
"well i hate to say the obvious, but it really did taste like something halfway between a chicken and an egg, or more appropriately, a duck and an egg."

at this point i think i'd rightfully repulsed everyone at the table except the vietnamese teacher, who was either impressed or properly disgusted. but in my defense, the next morning i said a prayer for george and jorge and the one that was too beautiful to name as i was taking a dump.

A Sock Fucking Pedant

there was a reason why i never wore sandals, and it's not what i'd thought. as anyone who has heard my speech about 'the tactile pleasures in putting on a taut brand new pair of cotton socks, preferably after a hot shower...' will attest to, i like socks. i really do. the first time i heard cromie blurt out the phrase 'fucksocks,' i thought it was the most offensive thing i've ever heard in my life. "you'd have to be outta your mind to say 'fucksocks' you crazy bastard." i mean i like most anything offensive, but even i couldn't bring myself to adopt this vile phrase.

so this whole time i thought the reason i was never a sandals person was because my love for socks was too strong, but i was wrong.

here, it's just not practical to wear socks. for one, you're expected to remove your shoes if you enter someone's home. walking around someone's house in socks just looks retarded when everyone else is barefoot, and even worse, the socks become defiled. plus i'm lazy and don't like to tie shoe laces.

also the laundromats here suck. the first time i did laundry my socks came back looking sickly, as if they had emphysema. it was sad and i mourned their lost elasticity.

but the main reason is that every day is really hot and humid, every single one. and hot and humid are socks' two greatest adversaries. together, they make wearing socks uncomfortable... uncomfortable! could you even imagine? it's insane, but true. wearing socks here just doesn't bring the same rush of pedal ecstasy as wearing socks back home. it's fucking crazy.

and of course you can't buy socks here. well you can, but they're not the same. they're cheap disgraceful slut socks not worthy of my feet.

so what? so that means i have to do what everyone else does and wear sandals. and that means no more taut socks and now i have to say 'fucksocks' and mean it. it's horrible.

but the worst part about it is finding out the real reason why i never wore sandals: my feet look ridiculous. they're different sizes and the sandals make that difference obvious. the toes on my right foot barely peek out past the strap while my left foot looks normal. i'm afraid my students will think their teacher's an invalid. so i need to find out how to say "don't worry, i'm just a sock fucking agent orange baby" in vietnamese and i'm sure they'll understand.

No One Wants To Be Defeated (So Just Beat It)

on friday night, the tefl people (recent grads, instructors, staff, and the photocopier guy... who i really had to suppress my urge to ask to photocopy some napkins) went out for dinner together to celebrate the end of the course. we met on a boat that was shaped like one of those mississippi river boats with the big circular paddle in the back, or at least that's how i remember it. the outside of it was decorated with lights to make it look like a shark, which i thought was a cruel trick because i'd much rather eat dinner on a real shark.

disappointments aside, it was probably the most surreal experience i've had here so far, thanks in large part to my heavily inebriated state. i blame it on the 100%, which is a call, or challenge, to finish all the beer in your glass. the more familiar term to you upside-downers is of course 'chug,' or perhaps even more familiar, 'chug you fuckin pussy.' either way, it was a long week and the beer went straight to my hairy corpuscle, which is a statement that would have made sense at the time.

it was great to see everyone from the course there joking, and poking, and playing with their food, and just generally having a good time. but the highlight of the night came when these 3 vietnamese girls took center stage and blew my fucking mind with some of the most amazing fire tricks and crappiest dancing and hottest hotness i think i've ever seen. well, all at once at least. i can't remember the right order, but i do remember them dancing (or girating erratically, depending on your definition) to 'beat it', and trying to lip sync in the most embarrassingly unsynched fashion. i was laughing so hard i could hardly contain myself. it was so bad but they were trying so hard and they were really hot but it was really bad and luckily they were hot and...

anyway after the song and dance, one of the girls broke out some fire and did some really cool shit like hoola-hooping a flaming hoola-hoop, and rubbing a flaming stick up and down her arm, and breathing fire and then eating it, which at the time reminded me that we were still in the middle of dinner and i thought about how bizarre this whole event was, but i was hungry so i continued to peel shrimp and tear the legs off, and then i got pissed because i'm tired of working so hard just to eat a stupid piece of shrimp and it's so messy and it gets all over me no matter how hard i try to avoid it and how come the shrimp in america don't have legs and why can't these god damn vietnamese shrimp be more like them, i mean what do they need legs for anyway, they're shrimp... that's why america's better than vietnam, because our shrimp don't have the pretense that they're actually going anywhere in life, they accept their fate: to be eaten with minimal effort on behalf of the eater... man, i could really go for some more of those little fuckers right about now

...and yeah i was pretty drunk. or at least much more so than the rest of the people there. so after dinner i called it an early night and beat it because i was beat, and went home to beat it while humming 'beat it.'

An Ode To That Dirty Bastard

Ol' Dirty Bastard (aka Osirus aka Dirt McGirt aka Dirt Dog aka Big Baby Jesus) died last week and that upsets me. he was only 35, a young dirty bastard by my estimate, but had lived quite a storied life. here is a short account from msnbc:

When MTV News followed him around at the height of his popularity, he took the camera crew and several of his kids (he was said to have more than a dozen, by numerous mothers) to the welfare office — in a limousine — to get an allotment of food stamps.

And he received them.

In February 1998, he crashed the stage at the Grammy Awards and hijacked a microphone from singer Shawn Colvin as she accepted an award, apparently upset over losing the best rap album Grammy to P. Diddy (then known as Puff Daddy). He complained that he spent a lot of money for new clothes because he thought he was going to win. ["Wu-Tang makes music for the children!" -ed] The rapper later apologized.

In 2000, after escaping a court-ordered stint in a California rehabilitation center, authorities searched for O.D.B. for a month. He was finally arrested in Philadelphia — three days after performing in a New York City concert with his Wu-Tang clique.

Over the years, he was wounded in shootings and arrested on a veritable laundry list of charges, including menacing security officers, illegally possessing body armor, driving with a suspended license, shoplifting and threatening a former girlfriend.


"First things first man
Ya fuckin with the worst,
I'll be stickin pins in ya head man
Like a fuckin nurse..."

-Protect Ya Neck (36 Chambers)


"I'll grab the mic
And now i damage ya,
Cut ya whole stamina,
Here comes the medical examina..."

-Damage (Return to the 36 Chambers)


She flew in like calm breeze
Tall brown skin, her weave like palm trees
I went coconuts
Dipped my Dunkin' between your Donut
Don't want it if it ain't no slut, bitch!
Fathership touch ground, like fly on soup
Don't invite me I tear the fuck down
White boys cut my toupee!
Seventh day rester, or screen play
I slump MC slay, it ain't nuttin to bust ass
Bullet him, get him fast
Bitch I don't break out, pass to the next rash
The dog piss on MC's like trees
Got meals but still grill that old good welfare cheese

-Dog Shit (Wu-Tang Forever)

of course transcribing his lyrics can hardly do the man justice. his character can't be defined by words. so my true homage came friday, accidentally but unregretfully, on my last day of teaching practice. i was allowed to teach pretty much whatever i wanted so i chose hip hop. well i brought in my ipod and stereo and decide 'triumph' would be a good song to set the context for the lesson. hit play and what starts blaring throughout the classroom? "AAIIGHT MY NIGGAS AND MY NIGGERETTES...WE GONNA DO IT LIKE THIS: IMA RUB YA ASS IN THE MOONSHINE..." forgot to fast forward past odb's drunken ramblings at the beginning of the track, but luckily i don't think my students knew what 'nigga' means and certainly not 'niggerette.' actually to be honest they don't know much english at all, except my observer was that dickhead tom and i thought he was gonna rip into me for it, but didn't. afterwards it was nice to think odb was heard calling 17 and 18 year old vietnamese kids 'niggas' and 'niggerettes' and telling them he'd rub their collective asses in moonshine. it's as absurd as he'd want it to be.

rest in peace you crazy old dirty bastard.

"...a one-of-a-kind person, a one-of-a-kind artist, he’s one of a generation, one of a lifetime.” - the rza

An 'Unconfessional' Confessional Jellyfish Preacher

so this past week and a half has easily been the busiest i've had in years. even surpassing that week and a half where i said i'd never be sober again. i've been doing 'teaching practice' at something analogous to a public high school and it was a lot of work, and i don't really like work. there i said it. but getting little vietnamese kids to say they'd like to be astronauts because they want to 'leave earth' is just as entertaining as it sounds. and then making them say they dream about 'going snowboarding' with 'a penguin' and 'fighting monsters' with 'a giant robot' is like seeing my dreams come true right before my very eyes.

so yeah, i did actually have fun this week, but i was waking up at 6 in the morning and going to bed after 1 most nights. i don't usually consider myself a morning person, but last saturday i woke up at 5:30...at night and i think that might be a new record for me. if i'm not married before i'm 30 i'm going to propose to Sleep, because i love it so much. and i won't even sign a pre-nup to show how much i really mean it.

the week was not without the now familiar threat of failure however. fucking fat people. on wednesday, i was completing my lesson plan just before my class began while i was supposed to be observing my classmate teach... which i was, but i guess the senior observer (let's say his name is 'tom') in the room felt that those two actions were mutually exclusive and said to me in a real low fat slob kind of voice, "you can't be doing that now."

flashback: last week he had observed me (he wasn't observing me this particular day) and had requested to see my lesson plan which i would put at something close to 90% complete...80-90% maybe. he got all in a tissy about how the lesson plan is the most important part of the bla bla bla and whatnot and then said the next time it happened i wouldn't be allowed to teach and i'd fail and have to wait another month before i could make it up. then in my evaluation, he stressed that i needed to 'tighten the screws.' oh yeah, i'm actually paying this guy to tell me this.

so fast forward to this class i was in, observing my friend while making sure to have a complete lesson plan before i teach. i had stopped writing when he spoke to me, but given that if i didn't have my lesson plan complete before my next class i'd supposedly fail, i really didn't have much of an option except to ignore him and continue writing. again he says, this time more forcefully, "you can't be doing this nowww." so i did what came naturally to me in my new role as teacher: i looked at him, put my index finger to my lips, and made a 'sshhh' sound, motioning for him to pay attention to the class. he must not like me as a teacher though because he ripped the lesson plan from my hands, and called me a 'fuck' in an enraged breath of muffled frustration and fat.

well i was still in need of a lesson plan for my class which was about to start in 30 minutes, so i moved seats and took out a new lesson plan and wrote it from scratch, finishing just in time. as i left the class i handed my observation to pat, the guy i was observing and went to the classroom i'd be teaching in. well of course this fat fuck walks in right behind me and rats me out to my senior observer, who also happens to be the course instructor. "uhhhh i think we have a bit of a problem...he was writing his lesson plan in class and then he snubbed me." i thought to myself, 'is that what it's called? i thought a snub was when you turn your nose up in the air and turn away fromm...oh ok, i guess it was a snub...ha...snub."

but c'mon, this guy's a professional, why is he handling this as if we're in high school? and then i looked around, and realized i was in a public high school surrounded by vietnamese kids and my course teacher and this half-american half-vietnamese shit bag of a slob has tattled on me to the teacher. i was quite mind-fucked at the moment so after removing the dong from my ear, i pleaded my case. i didn't say anything about him calling me a fuck in the middle of class or him ripping the lesson plan out of my hands, i simply said i had a complete lesson plan, like i was told to have.

so after all this, nash (that's my instructor's name) allows me to teach, but because i didn't have any time to prepare mentally for class it was complete crap, one of the worst i've had, but still not even close to the worst i've seen. afterwards, during my evaluation, he tells me that because i showed a 'lack of professionalism' and had 'no crediblility' with my students (ouch), that my teaching practice wouldn't count. "wait let me finish...if you perform better over these next 2 days then you can still pass." i was real close to not letting him finish but luckily i did, nodded an 'ok,' and walked out of his office.

this whole episode left a bitter taste in my mouth and poisoned my mind with the most distracting thoughts. i couldn't believe that i, the one minding his own business was the one accused of unprofessionalism. and no credibility? where'd that come from? god i hate fat people. but the next day one of my classmates didn't show up because she was sick so i took her place, and saved face by teaching twice in one day.

long unclimactic story short: today i received my TEFL certificate and am now an 'unprofessional' professional english teacher.

...well, an unemployed english teacher, which is actually quite similar to an unemployed professional economics uhhh guy, but now i have a new piece of paper with my name on it and it's written in fancy font.

"hmmm, i want to look smart. someone hand me my dictionary... i have some reading to catch up on."

Dear Motorcycle Ninja Babe,

i think you're super. and by super i mean hot. do you understand 'hot?' no, not like the weather, like ummm you. you're just hot, ok? everyday i see you ride by me on your cool motorcycle...huh? no, 'hot' and 'cool' aren't opposites, they both mean i think you're hot. i don't know how you do it, but it's like i see you in more than one place at the same time. my friends tell me that you're actually different people, but i tell them that they're just showing their ignorance of the ancient martial art of ninjitsu. i hate ignorant people, don't you? i don't know though...i can't tell you people apart anyway.

i know everyone here has a motorcycle, but yours is awesome. it's way better than all the rest. why? because you're on it, and you are a motorcycle ninja babe. you straddle that vibrating urban rocket-on-wheels, weaving in and out of the sea of inferior motorcycles while sitting perfectly straight, with your arms firmly stretched and confidently gripping the handle bars, prepared to leap off doing a spinning back flip while chucking throwing stars at any moment. i think that would be really sexy if you did that.

during the day, you wear your school uniform, a white skin tight dress with long tails that you tuck underneath you. even though i think it would be awesome if it got caught in the wheel and ripped off, it's smart that you tuck it away. i bet if you spoke english you'd be the smartest girl in the world. on the weekends, you like to wear your casual 'going out' clothes. you know, those butt-hugging jeans with a top that make me believe they must be made from some kind of space-age flame retardant super material. no, not that kind of retarded...well kinda, but it's hard to explain... just let me finish: it's because you're so hot. yeah, it's called a pun.

the gloves must be made from the same material, stretching just past your elbow like the gloves the ladies would wear at a burlesque house, or a masquerade party. of course you wear a mask as well, to conceal your identity. even though you insist it's just to prevent lung cancer, you can't fool me; you're invincible, totally immune to the toxic fumes that permeate throughout this city. all i can see behind the mask is a faint outline of an almost freakishly petite little nose... no, babe, 'freakishly' means it's awesome. and your dagger-like eyes, constantly scanning the environment, are intensely focused on your business...the business of killing. specifically, ripping out and selling my still beating heart.

i don't care that you're trying to kill me, we can work these things out. and i don't care about the fact that you know less than 50 english words either. i promise you, we can smile and nod our way through an entire conversation about pretty much anything: politics, economics, existentialism... i've done it before. and so what if i don't have a motorcycle, i figure i can just hop on the back of yours, squeezing you tightly with both arms as we ride off into the hypothetical sunset. motorcycle ninja babe, i think i love you.



head over heels for you,

mat

Intermingled Feet & the Not-So-Incredible Feat of Self-Defeatism

i think i was raped last night, dry raped, but liquid toxins have impaired my memory of the experience. i can't remember much, but i can tell you this: if Hallmark invented Valentine's Day, then Kleenex has most definitely had some pun-intentional hand in the whole dry humping phenomenon. shit, i need a wet hump.

...but every wet hump has a cost involved, whether it be emotional or monetary and, hold on a sec [beep bop boo mmMmmMmmMm beep beep] yeah, both are outside my budget...




stupid emotions...

fucken economics degree.

Friends Fried With Beach: Part 3, The Obligatory Trilogizer

[the following words were written strictly for profit. the publisher is not responsible for your disappointment and furthermore may not be solicited for "a better version" or "something that doesn't suck."]

it's dinner time but before we eat we walk down the road a bit to get a quick drink. we walk through a place called something like "the paradise beach resort." i thought the name was pretty cheesy, but i commend them for at least having the words in the right order. as we walk through, we pass underneath a giant spinning disco ball that verified my suspicions. it was in the dining room and about half a dozen waiters were just staring at us as we passed right on by, not even dancing. had they been dancing, or more specifically, doing the hips-to-the-left right-index-finger-pointing-to-the-moon in sync with the beat, the place somehow woulda crossed some singularity that'd put it firmly in the 'awesome' category. but no.

out on the beach we went next door and ordered drinks, and then after waiting way too long for them to come, played a game of 20 questions with the waiter. "where are the drinks." "no, drinks." "um, do we have to go inside to drink them?" "no" "do you mean just some of the drinks aren't coming." "no, i sorry...i can't sevve you." "hmmm do you need to see ID?" "...uh...no." "identification?" "no sorry i cannot help you" "...can we see your boss?" "no" "what did we do?" "I'm sorry. Queries in which i cannot respond in an affirmative or negative manner are not allowed." of course he didn't respond this way but the look on his face said it all. we eventually found out that the bartender wasn't working. that's all. so we went back and had drinks under the disco ball in the danceless dining hall.

when we finished we promptly left and went somewhere for a dinner with a far less penchant for cheese. i can't remember the name but it was one of the best i've had since being here. i ordered the tiger prawn and was extremely disappointed when they served it and it wasn't a tiger's well... it wasn't what i thought i ordered but it was still as delicious as i'd expected.

when everyone had more or less finished, i was asked if i would eat someone's leftover fish eyes. i immediately realized that i had become that guy... that guy who eats animal eyes. well i guess it could have been worse. i could've gotten what i thought i ordered and become a totally different kind of 'that guy.' that would be gay. so i ate the eyes to reaffirm my masculinity, simultaneously cementing my status as 'that guy who needs to reaffirm his masculinity.' i don't care though because masculinity is in the eye of the beholder and i'll eat it... if you dare me.

after dinner we got more drinks and i can't remember how much whiskey and wine and beer i drank that night but it was somewhere between more than a little and just shy of grossly excessive. when we got back, some of us went dipping that was not technically skinny, but maybe on an on-again-off-again diet.

the next morning i woke to the sounds of someone puking and wouldn't have it any other way, as long as the sounds aren't accompanied with the feeling. i once more staggered and zig-zaggered my way to the beach and had a couple beers left over from the night before, blatt-style. there was an odd sensation on my tongue though: in addition to being warmer than a beer should ever be drank, as it had been left in the heat for hours, it had somehow acquired a spice, that made every sip a sorta masochistic science experiment. it was gross, but in an intriguing way, perhaps like heroin but a million times less intriguing.

anyway, once again i defeated god and was up 3-nil (i drank both beers) on that bitch. by the time we had left i was feeling pretty god-damned satisfied with this particular weekend. it wasn't until we reached saigon though, that i realized that i, not god, was the bitch. i had inexplicably left my camera in my sand filled pocket and apparently sand got in my camera's crotch or something like that and now it hates me. luckily there's a witch doctor in the village that i'm sure has plenty of experience with canon powershots.

oh and i left my pants in the bungalow.

final score:

god - a million
mat - pantsless.

[the end.]

Friends Fried With Beach: Part(s) 2 Stuck 2 Fuck

[the answers to all those queries are irrelevant. for at the moment we find the protagonist stumbling and mumbling towards the beach from the bungalow in the morrow of 2.]

"saki... only here would i ever find wine made from rice. these people would make everything out of it if they could... and then immediately eat it. shit."

i decided this morning that if i was given the option of living the rest of my life on a beach, i would decline... because i don't like the fact that when a wave breaks, and crashes onto the shore that no one cares. where i'm from if something breaks, you'd better fix it, or run, or tell everyone it was like that when you got there. just lying there sleeping, pretending everything's fine, is a fixin for an ass whoopin.

the sun was nice though, and i've never seen one so high in the sky, let alone before 10. later in the day i would challenge the sun god, decalaring that i was invincible and couldn't be burned. i was right; my skin was red and quite sensitive to touch by the time we left, however it was still very much intact. the only part that was missing was the fore, and that happened years ago and wasn't my fault. nevertheless i'm satisfied with my skin, but not all that impressed with it. they say the skin is the largest organ in the human body. i would respond by saying, "maybe your body." mat 1, god 0.

once everyone was awake we went to breakfast, where among the usual egg and noodle dishes was a rather peculiar item: 'friend fried with beef.' (i have a photo of it, but i left my camera in my pocket and sand got into the shutter, and has hated me ever since.) i didn't order any of my friends though because i'm on a diet...and all my friends are fat. no that's not the reason, i'm just trying to cut back on fried foods, but i was tempted.

so somewhere around mid-day i heard a great story from alison that i regret not having seen transpire first hand, but will relay to you as best i can. she, mike, and carrie were walking from the beach and came across a pair of dogs stuck together... in the fucked position. i'd say they were in the doggy-style position but the picture alison took looked more like something out of the later chapters of the Kama Sutra, perhaps the S&M-updated version, because the bitch was pretty much dragging poor rover around. now i don't know much about sexual reproduction in general, let alone dogs, but i can tell you that that has to suck, to be stuck in the fuck. i know the first thing i wanna do after i bone some bitch is one of two things: leave or fall asleep... but i guess they never make it that easy. and this particular bitch, a proper bitch as it were, had seduced this wide-eyed pup and wasn't about to let him go.

so if it didn't suck enough for that unfortunate stud to be stuck in the worst kind of coyote ugly moment, along comes your friendly neighborhood brit, hellbent on separating these genital-crossed lovers. "hmmmm...it seems uhh the poor pooch's got his wanka stuck in the other one's uhhhh i-don't-know-what-you-call-it." duhrr. first he tries pushing them and then he tries pulling them apart, and when neither of these brilliant ideas resolve the sticky situation he goes to his last resort... and i just wanna emphasize the point that what motivated him to do this was his strong sense of moral obligation to alleviate the incredible amount of pain these canines were in: he threw the dog, or dogs in actuality because it didn't work. ouch. imagine bungie-jumping with one end of the the rope tied to your cock, and the other tied to your bitch's "uhhhh-i-don't-know-what-you-call-it." yeah.

[tomorrow: will mat eat more eyes for dinner... or more to the point, will he eat his friends' eyes, fried? is a prawn what he thinks it is? hmmmm...perhaps most likely, will he become fuck-stuck to his own hand?]

But First A Brief Message From Our Sponsors

brief moment of collective contempt and disgust for paul hamm and other suspected repukelicans before i continue. it's my sister's blog and it kicks ass, despite being written upside down. i think chip would agree.

if you want to hear the best halloween story ever told check out devo's blog, also written upside down.

...and if you still want to hear the drunken ramblings from a man with blattant disregard for his own front teeth, check out this slob's website, written right-side up only because he's usually a drunken mess when he writes it.

of course there's always the other nam bloggers mentioned earlier, and if there's anyone else writing upside down that i'm leaving out then let me know.

peace 'mout.

Mmmmm...Friends Fried With Beach: Part 1 Too Many

this weekend i left the block, went through the bush, and arrived at the beach town of Mui Ne to celebrate alison's birthday. along for the trip were my new friends carrie, minty, mike, and megan who have all quite easily replaced the people i used to call friends back in america. my upside down "friends," and i use the term as loosely as all of their moms, combined, i now consider unrefined commoners not worth the caviar i use to brush my teeth, which is actually giving them way more credit than those savages deserve because the caviar is truly extradectory.

ok so now that i've established who my real friends are, let me first say that i had to swallow my feelings of guilt for the trip because i was responsible for delivering alison the birthday presents from her delightful mother and failed miserably, leaving them at home with most of the other stuff i was supposed to give her. but i made up for it by uhhh...hmmmm well i haven't actually made up for it yet, but presumably the presents will arrive soon and belated birthday presents are just as good as birthday-delivered birthday presents right?

blehh so after a 5 hour bus ride we arrived sometime after midnight and about the only thing anyone was up for doing was drink the saki mike and alison had brought, which came in a jug bigger than all the jugs ever made, combined... and was enough to get us all nice and some [ahhkckk carrie] so nice that she didn't feel so nice in the morning. despite the temptation, i somehow managed not to say 'saki it to me' the entire night, which i feel is an accomplishment worthy of a sentence. we sat alone on the beach drunkily ranting and recanting, and when we began to pant we called it a night. we stayed in bungalows owned by a creepy, insane old swiss man... not to be confused with the bunghole of an old swiss man, which would just be creepy and unsanitary. i slept confidently and securely within the confines of a mosquito net, in which its presence alone always inspires my belief that there is absolutely no possible way i could ever get malaria here.

[will mat wake up with malaria, or just a bad hangover? does he fry his new friends and eat them for breakfast? will the creepy old swiss man do him in the bungalow? find out tomorrow]

Four More Years In The Bush?

saigon, vietnam is one of the furthest cities in the world from new york, both geographically and culturally. so far life here has been a blindfolded tightrope walk, placing one foot in front of the other and hoping i don't stumble. but as long as i'm focused and making progress towards my goal, i won't fall. it's exciting and i enjoy life here, but my home it is not, and i know i'll find my ultimate goal at home.

i know i'd said months ago that if bush was re-elected, i would leave the country. well i've been true to my word, and am happy i've distanced myself from the shit storm of american politics, though that certainly isn't the only reason i'm here. while monkeys hurling feces at each other will always be funny, even the best jokes get stale after you've heard'em too many times. so in the meantime, ima venture out into the bush and watch actual monkeys hurl feces at each other, instead of metaphorical ones, so that when i come back, there will be new jokes to be told; perhaps one about a pregnant monkey who slipped on a banana peel and was convicted of attempted murder. ahhhh you don't laugh now, but you will...

or won't, see if i care...i'll see ya in june.

Upside Gone

after little deliberation, but much procrastination, i've decided to remove my name from the domain name. i'll be working here soon and i don't want to have to explain to my employer or students what a 'lice-picking rice patty nigger' is and why i find distatesteful stereotypes funny, should either decide to google my name {update: i just googled my name and this blog didn't come up...but apparently i earned a religious emblem of my faith that no one ever told me about, so i'd just like to say 'thanks, this is totally unexpected...[nervously] i..i-i don't even have a speech prepared. ummmmmm god rules! [tripping as i clumsily run off stage]'}

so effective uhhh as soon as the current domain name stops working, the new web address will be:

www.upsidegone.blogspot.com

brilliant right? ...so why upside gone? well, the pull of gravity on us tends to help us distinguish what's "up" from what's "down," even if our eyes are closed. but when i came here, i wasn't sure if gravity would be working in quite the same way as it does in new york. so i'd have to rely on other indicators of "up" and "down," and if you could experience this place for yourself i think you'd agree that the upside is indeed gone. here i have to rely on a whole new set of...nah i'm shittin, it just rhymes with saigon.

Predictions...

are for morons to make, and idiots to believe. that being said, here are my predictions based on the outcome of the upcoming election:

1. either a member of the democratic or republican party will be elected president of the united states of america.

2. after the election, the vast majority of americans will continue to work more hours per year than the average citizen of any other industrialized nation in the world.

3. a vast minority of people throughout the world will continue to be willing to die for the purpose of destroying american property and lives.

4. your property and your life will not be destroyed by these people.

5. you would prefer if everything you own was more technologically advanced than it is now.

6. machines will eventually inherit the earth.

7. your vote will not affect the outcome of the election.

8. monkeys hurling feces at each other, with the weaker one having his face smeared in his own excrement, will continue to be funny.

9. i love y'all. peace, 'mout.

Potty Mouth

i've gotten in the nasty habit of using dirty words here. not that i spoke as if i was a choir boy back home, but here it doesn't matter if every other word is a 'fuck' or a 'shit' or a 'cunt-licking monkey sac' or a 'lice-picking rice patty nigger.' i'm sure they just assume i'm commenting on their excellent driving skills, or thanking them for that always delicious dish of mystery meat. but the purpose of this entry isn't to levy stereotypical derogatory comments against the vietnamese, it's to ask a simple question.

the word for toilet in vietnamese is 'toilet.'

now to me, this means that when the best shittiest invention ever made was first brought into this country, there wasn't one word that approximated the word 'toilet.' nothing even resembling a poopy facility. i have no idea when the toilet first perplexed the vietnamese, but i do know that the modern toilet may, or may not have been, invented by an englishman named Thomas Crapper. i'd like to declare now that if this is true, if a man named Crapper really did invent 'the crapper,' then there is a God and he's awesome but if not, then there is no God and no one's life has any meaning...not mine, not yours, and most of all, not Tommy Crap's.

anyway, as far as i know, the majority of the population still wipes their ass with their hand. jesus christ. now i could be way off on this one because no one i've met here in saigon has smelled of stool (of other things for sure but not poo), but i know that outside the major cities it's a whole other story. either way, for the purpose of this entry let me assume that most vietnamese have at some point in their lives scooped poop out of their butt, which is something i think most americans have never done. the worst an american might have to deal with is making an emergency stop at a dirty gas station, and i can almost guarantee you that that gas station will at least have a faucet, which here, is sometimes replaced with a bucket filled with water. personally i'd rather flush the toilet and swish my hands around in there.

which brings me to my next point: napkins

what the hell is so hard about leaving a piece of paper next to my plate for me to wipe my hands on as i'm eating. the only places i've been to that respect the virtues of the napkin have all been popular expat restaurants. none of the native vietnamese restaurants hand out napkins, and i'm pretty sure that there is no word in the language that means napkin, not even 'napkin.' though they do give you a wet wash cloth to wipe your face and presumably whatever else needs wiping, i don't care because it's not the same, and some restaurants have even made me pay for it. so if i could leave one lasting legacy in vietnam it would be to liberate the napkins from the tyranny of ummm communism. if only napkins could be made from rice.

ok so here it is: if many vietnamese still clean their ass with their hand, but also use their hands to wipe their mouth after eating, then is it still fair to say that i'm the one with the potty mouth?