The Phuc Diju Jussay?

try saying 'foot.' faster. ok, repeat the word, but replace the last consonant sound with a very soft 'k,' closing your mouth before the offending click can escape. you'll know you're doing it right when your cheeks puff out. now say it in a slightly higher pitch, as if you were at a noisy dinner party and you were trying to get your friend's attention without yelling. "phuc!"

i have 3 different phuc's in 3 separate classes, and whenever i call them by name i'm always mindful of the vietnamese pronunciation, except when i want to express frustration. then i use the american pronunciation, "fuck," as in "what the fuck are you doing?" and "so why the fuck are you late" and "quit fucking around" and "fuck, you do the next one." i sympathize with these phuc's because, as you may know, i'm no stranger to people mispronouncing my name. it's quite common for students to say my name in that higher pitch i described above, which in vietnamese means something like "lunatic." i figure if i can take being called mental, they can surely withstand a nominal likeness to the english language's most infamous 4-letter word.

i've hung out a few times with the eldest phuc, an extremely impressionable but nevertheless cool guy with whom i share a sardonic sense of humor and a perverse passion for pool. he'll be in seattle before the end of the year, so i asked him how he thinks people will react to his name. well aware of the impending controversy/confusion/hilarity, he believes it would be best to just adopt an american nickname, like 'luke' or 'mickey.' (i'd have offered up 'razor,' but i'm reserving that awesome title for my first born.) instead, i suggested he wholly embrace the vulgar nature of his name. when somebody asks him what his name is, he should let out an uncamouflaged f-bomb. "yeah, my name's FUCK, fuck nagooyen" (nguyen). he didn't like that idea at all.

so anyway, phuc, along with every other vietnamese student i've ever had, can be hard to understand sometimes. like last week when he asked me out of nowhere about 'conservate,' with the vowel sounds all over the place and accents on the wrong syllables. typical of what i go through on a daily basis, the exchange went something like this:

"kuh-SA-vat."
"sorry?"
"kunh-SUH-vat."
"huh?"
"kun-suh-vate."
"again?"
"KANH-suh-vate."
"uhh... can you write it?"

...

"ohhhh... yeah. conservate. that's not a word."

my ears have by now adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the vietnamese version of spoken english, marked most distinctly by a pervasive disregard for accurately enunciating the last consonant sounds. (juice guy anyone? "yeh, thah one chee omeleh an one mango smoo-ie.") and i'm reasonably good at deciphering their b's from p's and g's from c's, which they often don't distinguish clearly. so if one of them asks me where he can find "pig cocks" i won't send him somewhere that sells "big cogs" (though it might not be all that much of a disappointment).

as long as the students stay within the boundaries of a normal conversation, i usually understand what they're talking about. but when they try using low frequency words without context or knowledge of the correct pronunciation, i often have to cycle through a number of similar sounding words to guess what they mean. this becomes quite tedious after a while so if i think it's important, i'll take the time to listen, but often after the second or third time the student repeats it, i have to just acknowledge whatever they said with a simple "ok" or the ever ready "really?" or occasionally an utterly unthoughtful "hmm... interesting." and there's always that old standby the smile-nod-and-move-on which i assure you, judging by their silent dejection, is as inconsiderate and condescending here as wherever you're from.

but today my patience paid off when one of the slightly stuck up high school girls stood up and asked me if she could leave. since i was mid sentence i said "no, wait a second" and continued my inquiry into what another student was saying. she remained standing for a moment until one of her friends said she was sick and had to use the bathroom. in the 4 seconds from when she had first asked me to when i looked at her again, she had contorted her face into such a comically exaggerated expression of agony that i just smiled and waved her by. as soon as she left, one of the older guys said something directed at me that made some of the students around him laugh. i thought it was a comment regarding the lesson so i said:

"sorry?"
"dorra."
"huh?"
"dorry."
"... what?"
"dah-orry."

at this point i'd have just said "ok" and gone on with the lesson, but the boys' giggles and the look of disgust coming from one of the girls signaled to me that this was worth knowing.

"sorry, just say it louder."
"she has DIARRHEA."

of course. once i understood what he was referring to, his mangled meaningless mumble-jumble snapped into the verbal symbol for shit pouring out of someone's ass which, much like people getting smashed in the face and crotch in Dodgeball, has been empirically proven to be pan-culturally humorous.

i can understand why a student would have trouble pronouncing 'diarrhea' what with all those r's and a rogue h. it's gotta be french. but earlier in the day i was baffled when one of the engineers from hanoi, minh, the unanimous winner of the whiny bitch -- excuse me, 'complainy-loo' -- of the year award, asked me what 'jarn' meant. I was surpirised not because i didn't know what he was talking about, but because i couldn't believe he was pronouncing it like that.

"sorry?"
"jarn"
"what?"
"jarn"
"...jarn?"
"yes."

the word was 'yarn.' it appeared in one of the questions on a practice exercise we were doing in class, and i had been explaining what it was for at least a minute before he asked me. it was obvious he hadn't been paying attention so to prove my point and embarrass him a little, i started writing some words on the board: "you," "yet," "yellow..." [shoulda just written 'yes' in retrospect] but before i could finish he said "ah see," and showed me his electronic dictionary which said exactly this: yarn - jarn.

"what is this?"
"the pronunciation: JARN."

i started laughing. "minh, it's wrong. that thing is useless. 'y' is a 'yuh' sound not 'juh.' look at all these words."
"i know but i think uhh you're wrong."

and he was serious, which made me laugh even harder. it was at that time that i remembered all the hanoi students speak with the northern accent which uses "zuh" sounds instead of the southern "yuh's." so i asked all the hanoi students to pronounce the words on the board and they all said the words with a half 'j'-half 'z' kinda sound (but they had to've been humoring me to say "ju" when i know they all usually say "you"), while the southerners had no problems.

i was still reveling in the absurdity of the situation when minh finally admitted i was right, but only after seeing someone else's electronic dictionary with the correct pronunciation. of course i wasn't gonna let him off that easy so i then went on a minute long spiel thanking god that i was right because i'd thought for 23 years of my life i'd been mispronouncing all those words. making sure the irony escaped no one, i suggested they all drop out and instead watch mtv for 6 hours a day, and spend their money on expensive pocket dictionaries and candy.

let's see, what else happened today? someone wrote 'matt suks' outside my door. that was very nice. it was before the above incident occurred, so i originally assumed it was my colleague/housemate/australian/functionally illiterate friend euan, but the spelling was too good. hmmm, was it phuc in my SSP class, the confused 15 year old high school kid not yet aware he'll one day be a raging homo? well at the time, i figured it could be anyone...

"hey fuck, did you write that outside my door?"
"what?"
"you know what. don't play stupid with me, fucker."
"i don't know what..."
"look i know you fucking wrote it."
"..."
"relax man, i'm just fucking with you."
"...teacher, my name is phuc not 'fuck.'"
"that's what i said... ok. everyone open your books to page uhh..."

Sex with a Cave Girl: A Cost-Benefit Analysis

occasionally consciously, but more often unconsciously, we compare the estimated value of certain actions in deciding whether to keep with the status quo, or risk one of an array of other actions. it's a technique known as a cost-benefit analysis -- the scale used we use to weight out all rational decisions.

for example, if i asked why you were reading this sentence, you'd probably say that you thought this might be the sentence in which i detail my sexual exploits with a slutty primitive hominid. or perhaps you'd say you're desperately bored. but i'd say you're reading this simply because you believe the benefit of its knowledge exceeds the negligible cost of time and energy you just spent reading it. but what if you were wrong? in fact, you've been duped again and i never actually had sex with a cave girl. would you continue to read, or would your reevaluation deem this blog unworthy of your time? before reading the next sentence, maybe you should navigate to your favorite porn site and invest a bit more time and energy for guaranteed (and potentially copious) returns. surely that would be a better use of the next couple of minutes than to risk reading another dull, pointless blog entry.

yet you continue reading this. oh my rational reader, i'm certain you have way too much free time on your hands. you need a hobby. have you ever tried pool? ok, but have you ever tried playing it all the time? well maybe you should. instead of watching that simpsons rerun for the gazillionth time, reciting each line word for word and laughing not for humor's sake, but only out of habit, you can try pocketing 7 like-patterned balls and the 8-ball while your opponent does the same... all the time. [be forewarned: it really can be time-consuming, as once you've started a game, it's impossible to stop in the middle of it, and once the game has finished, "yes" is the only proper response to "another?" so pretty much the only way to end a session is if the ever-worsening carpel tunnel in your cue guiding hand disables you or your partner's girlfriend says he can't play anymore.]

i used to play at a few different places until rationality kicked in and i realized that one was far better than the others. despite the ever-present clientele, there's usually a table available, and there are even different kinds such as snooker, billiards, and both american and english-style pool tables which are all in excellent condition. the cues match the quality of the tables and are rarely misaligned, let alone broken. both drinks and food are available and, along with the use of the table, are quite reasonably priced. though, as a self-confessed pool junkie, it would be absolutely worth frequenting based on these criteria alone, i'd be remiss if i failed to mention that there are no less than a dozen scantily clad female employees who stand around waiting for that glorious moment when you shout their call to duty: "rack'em ladies!" or just begin throwing the balls very loudly on the table (they don't like that). and hey, don't have a partner? point to one, point to a stick, done. but don't be surprised when she 7-balls you cause these girls play like it's their job... and it is.

so naturally, if i'm not working, sleeping, or eating there's a good chance you can find me at 'the cave,' an apt name if ever there was one since, according to my imagination, daylight has never penetrated into the vortex within. people have been known to lose afternoons, evenings, even entire days holed up in there, mesmerized not just by the allure of sending each ball to its mesh coffin, but by the bevy of sexy spectators all eager to be impressed by an authoritative break, a well-calculated bank shot, or a clever quip delivered eloquently in their mother tongue -- none of which i am capable of doing consistently, if at all.

yet i continue playing here. it offers something of a time-killing trifecta: competition with a minimal amount of physical exertion; girls whose job it is to make sure you don't do anything except play pool and ogle them; and beer whose sole job is for you to drink it. hell, what more could i possibly want? well sir or madam, if you said 'absolutely nothing' you'd be absolutely wrong. the economists and consciously rational minded alike would all choral in unison that a better question to ask is how can i improve the cost-benefit margins of my leisure?

after much consideration, my evaluation is that fucking would be the most cost effective way to spend my free time. unfortunately i spend so much of it at the cave that i don't have any time left to go out in search of that ever-elusive -- uhh how to put this... squish-hole-with-titties monster. so, being the anointed 'laziest person in need of sex ever,' i've tossed around the idea of courting a cave girl. the obvious route was immediately proposed, which is offering my english teaching services in exchange for a chance at getting in one of the girls' pants. seems reasonable until that total buzzkill the cost-benefit analysis offers its irresistibly logical advice. observe:

on the one hand there's getting it on with a sweet looking asian honey who probably hasn't been with too many guys before, if any. that's a pretty awesome plus-side. since there's no need whatsoever to explain this any further, let's just value the absolute benefit completely arbitrarily at about 482,913.0004.

now let's consider the costs. first, i already teach english about 30 hours a week. i know you 9to5ers are thinking that's not so bad, but believe me, i'm not sitting in front of a computer during any of those 30 hours (administering 'sit-and-reads' yes, but even then i have to be marking or otherwise appear teacher-like). being both educator and entertainer (yes), as well as disciplinarian (ok not so much disciplinarian) takes its toll. on top of that is prep time, which if i'm serious about teaching this girl english (i'm not) then i'll have to have some kind of lesson plan (or not). and honestly, who wants to do their job when they're not getting paid for it. of course you'd say, "but she's paying you with the most widely accepted currency in the world: hot fresh pussy, the gold standard of vaginas." and i'd reply, "good point" and concede that this is probably my weakest argument so we'll value this cost at a mere 0.0003.

ok so let's assume i agree to sit down with her and educate her as best i can. cave girls don't speak english. any. perfect, right? 1-on-1 with a beautiful girl and i don't even have to engage in meaningful conversation! shouldn't this be on the benefit side? well not if i realize that i'm the only one thinking of it as a date. she just wants to learn english which, without any previous knowledge, will undoubtedly be a nightmare. not only is teaching elementary grammar mind-numbingly boring, but you can't even imagine how ridiculous, and often a bit demeaning, it is when you have to listen to and correct shit like "i eat hamburger. what you like eat?" for an hour or two. especially if all i'm thinking about the whole time is how much i wanna do her. "oh really? i like to eat fur burger. shall we take a break and have a quickie?" so it'll suck cause she won't really understand me, but at least... she won't understand me. estimated cost: 913.

which brings me to my third point: if the only way i can bust a nut around here is by offering to help some poor girl learn english, then i should really just give up in life cause that's really pathetic. why don't i save myself all the time and effort, and straight up give the girl money so i can borrow her hole for a few minutes, which would still be sleazy, but at least i could console myself in that i didn't just coerce sex out of a student. so yes, i draw the line at 'total scumbag.' that being said, i still wouldn't rule out anything on principle alone, so i'll approximate the value of this cost at a relatively hefty 482,000.

if you've been keeping score you know that so far the benefits outweigh the costs by a mere 0.0001. but there's still one more cost to factor into the analysis: the risk of rejection which, unlike the others, is extremely variable. some days i'm zen and don't give a fuck, or rather, i'm completely aware of and accept a not necessarily imminent, but nevertheless inevitable, death, and thus act to maximize my happiness by ignoring oppressive and essentially negative thought processes such as concern for how others perceive me and unrealistic expectations of others. on these days i'd value the risk of rejection at no more than 0.000099999, totally leaving me in the black and thus ready to get it on with a cave girl. but then there are the other 364 days of the year when i'd value it at 482,913.0004 which, when added to the other costs, is precisely double the estimated benefit, placing my default options strictly within the red realm of complacent inaction. and thus secures me the title of absolute pussy.