Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle

Dear God,

Please do not allow for the child I babysit to further pull down his pants in front of me and sing LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”. I feel like you are determined to send me to jail. Or at least cause a law suit. I’m not sure what has happened because lately I’ve been a pretty good person. That’s ok, though. I know that you probably want to troll. I’m sure that you find this hilarious. You trolled Abraham into almost killing his son (haha! jk! roflcopter! ^_^) but this could get waaaaay serious if handled the wrong way. You’re lucky I know to avert my eyes extremely quickly now whenever little Simon yells, “Timmi, look what I can do!” before he removes his clothing. I don’t think that he even knows what sexy means. Is this possibly about the time that I told the cat to fuck right off because he was trying to drink my tea? Fine, I’ll make amends. Just please get Simon’s mom to stop being a dumb broad and address her kid’s freaky habits.

Amen,

Your friendly neighbourhood Timmi

ohaithere!

The last couple of days have been pretty fucking random, and not necessarily in a negative way, either. I’ve had a fantastic time as an utterly confused and bewildered individual. I feel like it adds to my truly irresistible Borat-like charm. For example, today on the subway, a little girl no older than 7 and wearing a pink flower in her hair, black Mary Jane shoes, and a zebra print coat was hardcore LMFAO shuffling (if you live under a rock, as I do, refer to the very helpful instructional video is at the end of this post) as her mother read the Holy Bible, unaware. She was also stripper-style swinging on the support poles. I’m still not even sure if I’m a pedophile for glancing over more than once.

I’ll keep you guys updated on the trial. As long as I can get into contact with O. J. Simpson’s lawyer, I should have a case.

I probably won't write a book, though

Two nights ago I got home at around midnight and started getting ready for bed because I had work early in the morning. I changed into my sexy pink Winnie the Pooh-themed pajamas, and went upstairs to take some medicine and grab a glass of water. As I stuffed my mouth with drugs, I heard a key being turned in the front door’s lock. I didn’t think much of it. I assumed it was my flatmate, we’ll call him Chet, also getting in late. I sipped some water to swallow my health-helpers.

“Chet?” I heard a woman’s voice say from the door. This wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t the only female living in the apartment. Chet has never introduced me to any sort of girlfriend. My first logical thought ran along the lines of, Jesus Christ, it’s Karla fucking Homolka! I left my mobile in my bedroom; I can’t even call the police! I bet Paul Bernardo is waiting outside in some car in which to load me. What if they chop me up and feed me to camels in Dubai? Oh my GOD! Dubai! It’s warm there, though…

“Uh… What?” I managed to muster. Yeah, not one of my shining moments. Note to all readers: if think there is a killer in your house, don’t talk to them. It’s not like you’re going to become friends and make margaritas together. Grab a frying pan and beat that fucker over the head. Or run. That option is also good for getting in your cardio.

“Is Chet here?” she asked again.

Wait a second, I thought. Some broad has a key to my apartment and I don’t know about it? It’s at about this point that I grew a pair. “I’m sorry but who are you?”

“Oh! Haha! Sorry!” she giggled. “I’m Veronica, Chet’s friend. We’re going on a trip early tomorrow morning and it was easier to travel for me to come tonight. Is he sleeping?” She shook my hand.

Hell if I know! I didn’t even know you existed, but you apparently have all sorts of access to where I live. On top of it, I’m in these stupid ass PJs without a bra! My boobs are EVERYWHERE as you’re shaking my hand. This is not the kind of show for audience participation. Nor is it one that is free. Cover’s $30, bitch. “Yeah I think he should be sleeping in his room. Have a great trip!”

Picture these guys with visible nipples. Yeah. Uncomfortable.

I retreated to my bedroom and started trying to figure out against which surface I was going to massage Chet’s face when he got back: a retired stripper’s hairy armpit or splintered wood with rusty nails protruding from it.

And as promised, the instructional video on how to shuffle even though now you are a year late. It gets helpful at 2:26:

“Wait, so you don’t…?”

I’m going to start this post off with a list; the top 5 things I dislike most (in order of diminishing agreeableness):

1. People who believe they can function in the world without using their common sense

2. The childish belief of, “I am always right. Fact.”

3. Discrimination of any kind

4. Peanut butter (except to feed to idiots with an allergy who dare cross my path)

5. BET (Black Entertainment Television)

The last one I should probably explain (even if I find it to be quite obvious). The completely ridiculous stereotypes that are perpetuated from the content on that channel make me want to roll over and spew slug hearts everywhere. Everyone speaks in Ebonics. Everyone calls pregnant women “baby mamas”. Everyone acts highly abrasive and louder than a Wookie on steroids. Yes, I have the choice to opt out of watching this incredibly stupid channel filled with more bullshit than I can imagine. However, a lot of this absolute toxic sludge mixed with the shit of drugged clowns seems to work as character referencing in non-black featured shows and films. Due to the very limited variation of caricatures of black people introduced to the big and small screens (tokening), especially in comparison to the race that represents the majority of the cast, I get a lot of people seriously asking me very fucking moronic questions. “So you DON’T listen to rap music all the time?”; “How come you don’t like watermelon?”; “You talk like you’re white… do you also speak Ebonics?”; “Do you know a guy named Jerome?”; and my personal favourite, “OHMAIGAWD isn’t this necklace just soooooooooo ghetto?”

Hollaaaaaaaaaa

Apparently skin colour is a surefire method of knowing if a person is interested in ghetto/ghetto-fab culture. According to Western entertainment and society, black = ghetto. I think I am within my God-given human right when I deem everyone who believes this coagulated elephant piss to be true as a fool. Really? You’re going to take shit you saw on television and try to realistically apply it to life? I’m sorry, you must’ve eaten Quaker Instant Dipshit for breakfast with that logic.

I’m not saying that there isn’t a grain of truth behind stereotypes. I understand the psychology behind them and their existence, but Jesus Christ before you open your mouth, take a few things into consideration:

  1. Figure out where the fuck the person is from. All these questions of, “Do you like watermelon?” are not so much offensive as they are incredulously amusing to me. They are also confusing. Most of these stereotypes are exaggerated ideas from urban African-American culture. Seeing as how I am a Jamaican-Canadian who grew up in the suburbs, I don’t really identify with much of that, if at all. I hate watermelon, my brother’s name is Tyler (yeah, it’s actually not Marsavius), and Frank Sinatra (<3) had relations with the original idea of a gang.
  2. Think before you talk. It’s a pretty simple concept but people seem to lose all filters around me. Maybe I’m being punished for something. Like chopping off new-born puppy dog tails with a weed whacker. Or removing the seminiferous tubules of horses with Satan’s tweezers. Anyway, if your question does even have a hope of being feasible in real life, you should probably just shut your mouth or gargle sloth piss. There is no excuse for, “So, like, do you have tons and brothers and sisters?” out of nowhere when were were just talking about the linguistics project.
  3. Besides being black, what other “telltale” signs does the person have of being a ghetto stereotype?People tell me all the time I talk like I’m white. I’m not even sure what that means. A word having three syllables does not constitute a race having claim to it. Nobody really owns grammar, either. Are you expecting me to goddamn apologize for having a command over the English language? Unlikely! Another sign is the university education that I have actively pursued my entire life. Or maybe it’s because I braid my hair so that small animals don’t get lost and die in it. Is it possibly my very ghetto-looking clothing that gives me away? Leggings and Converse-style shoes make for a hell of a ghetto-fab queen.

    … Or not.

    And you better believe it, sugar.

  4. Please stop asking me what shit means in rap music. I have no fucking clue, either. I’m not sure what you think but most of my vocabulary, in fact, is not composed of slang derived from urbandictionary.com. In fact, if you’re so curious, why don’t you get off your goddamn lazy ass and do a search yourself? Instead, you have to open your dumbass mouth and expect me to know “because [I’m] black”. Did you pull that sort of shit in school? Too fucking stupid to figure shit out on your own so you use Wikipedia with sketch-ass sources instead of opening a book? I should knock your sorry ass into next Tuesday for that. The only reason I know what some of it means is because I do “research” before I have to work with children. There’s not a chance in hell I’d use yolo in real life. I’m a grown-ass woman; not a child. I have a grown-ass vocabulary.
  5. Just because I’m angry does not mean I am being abrasive. I think this one has psychologically fucked me the most. Apparently if I get angry, suddenly I am being “ghetto”. I am having a “black moment”. I am “getting all black on yo’ ass”. I did not realise this, but 10 years ago scientists discovered that it is ghetto to have feelings. Even if I express them in a way closely resembling Boy Meets World, it is perceived as me getting up in people’s faces and screaming at the top of my lungs in broken English and with a whooooole lot of attitude. Yeah. Mind fuck.

I am tired of watching shit on television or in films with others, having a black stereotype come up on the screen, and have some dumbass turn to me and say, “That is so you!” Actually, no it is not, motherfucker. Just because my phenotype matches that of one of the few “characters” that the entertainment industry has to offer you does not mean that my personality matches theirs. I understand the human desire for congruence but holy walrus cock, personality is shaped in response to the environment. Please do not let my fist shape a hole in your teeth. Or you can just kiss my black ass.

Evangelical

Greetings and salutations! First off, I’d like to wish everyone (who celebrates) a happy four-twenty. For those of you who don’t celebrate, eat a burrito instead!

As some of you know, music is my life. It’s such a productive way of expressing the contents of your soul and reaching the souls of others. If music was embodied as man, I’d marry him twice. So yes, I like being a vocalist and a pianist. Due to the piano being an extremely cumbersome and heavy instrument, I stopped carrying it on my back everywhere with me about 7 years ago. My voice, however, is extremely portable. I’ve never forgotten it anywhere (except for that one time in Calcutta ’10…) and it’s about as low maintenance as Lindsay Lohan’s career.

My only issue is that I sing ALL the time: in the shower, under my breath as I write exams, while I make myself a sandwich, during the Rapture. I like to call it having a musical interlude. My friends call it Timmi-having-a-burst-of-energy-making-her-sing-at-random-with-possible-awkward-dance-moves. I embarrass my fool ass every day with the help of TLC and Adele.

What I hope I look like when I sing

What I probably look like when I sing

One night I went to visit a friend in her dormitory and some friends of hers came to the door for a chat. We were briefly introduced and discussed philosophical topics such as who would win America’s Next Top Model and Nicki Minaj’s seemingly self-induced dissociative identity disorder. Eventually there was a lull in the conversation and the obvious response was to start singing to fill the silence. One of my new-found acquaintance’s ears perked up. “Oh my GAWD! I just love how black people sing! You guys sing all the time! It’s so… Evangelical!” she exclaimed excitedly.

Couple of things:

1. Singing “Superbass” (a secular piece of music) does not by any means make me affiliated with any sect of religion. Unless I am mistaken and John 3:16 actually reads, “For God so wanted to troll the world that He gave his only begotten Nicki Minaj so that whomever might consume her bullshit music shall have their ears bleed and perish immediately.”

In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Woman who Dresses Like Barbie on Speed. Amen.

2. Evangelicalism, according to the Institute for the Study of American Evangelicals, has three meanings in the 21st century. A) Christians emphasizing on doctrines/practices such as conversionism, activism, biblicalism, and “crucicentrism” (fixated on Christ’s sacrifice); B) Religious traditions which fits many Christian labels; C) A group that came to be during the Second World War in rebuttal to the fundamentalist movement of the 1920s/30s. I believe I have every right to call this girl out for being an idiot because she has no idea what Evangelical even means and used it anyway.

3. Not all black people sing. From the ones that do, not all of them sing well. Trust me. Listening to my brother sing is like listening to my ass talk.

4. Being black does not automatically mean I love Jesus. Yeah, He’s great and all but the amount of melanin in my skin has nothing to do with Him and His dad. This is not the first time that someone has linked me to gospel church on basically zero grounds. Please shut up. You sound like a tool.

For the record, after she said that I promptly shut the fuck up.

Unattended

I am a huge asshole. Just in case those of you who read were unaware, I’m making it clear. Yes, I have been absent for two weeks with no warning. I know. Let it out. Cry. I’d be sad, too, if I didn’t have someone’s fucked up life experiences to laugh at. I promise I’ll be less MIA unless I talk to you about it first. Deal? I’m even posting early because I won’t be around on Friday. Yeah, you can thank me later.

Anyway.

As the weather gets warmer in the deliciously piss-stained city of Toronto, I’ve come out of my self-induced winter-I-fucking-hate-you-and-therefore-shall-stay-inside-and-not-walk-around-outside hibernation phase and go walking. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping (albeit they are the fucking rats of the sky, i.e. pigeons). It is goddamn fantastic; something close to what Hugh Hefner must have felt like in his Playboy Mansion every day. No, not horny. Like a boss, pervert.

Hugh: I'm too amazing right now.

I’ve also been noticing a really fucking idiotic trend amongst families walking together. Parents meander with their very small child (no older 5), taking in the sights of downtown Toronto, and fucking have the child walking BEHIND them. Hmm… that makes perfect sense. Have a kid, then leave it to be frigging snatched up by pedophiles and kidnappers! Guaranteed it’s these same motherfuckers who are going to go on television later and cry because their kid is missing. And I will feel no sympathy because they fucking let it happen.

People take better care of their precious phones and music players than their kids. Have you ever seen anyone put their mobile down in a public place and walk away? Fucking right, you haven’t. They don’t want their shit jacked. It’s unsettling because for some reason, this common sense rule doesn’t translate over to watching over the results of one’s procreation. It’s okay for a child to just drop out of you like a bag of sand and keep walking without looking back.

Dear, God! People, the world is dangerous even for grown-ass, mean folks like myself. How in hell is child supposed to fend off some guy with a knife? HOLD YOUR KID’S HAND! They are still little. Or over-feed them. Fat kids are harder to kidnap, it’s just a fact of life.  Either way, do something. Don’t be so complacent.

So, Toronto, this is my warning to you. My very explicit and direct warning. I’m going to start snatching unattended children the fuck away from their parents and selling them to the circus. I’ll be dressed in a sundress, converse trainers, and glee. You’ll hear me laughing maniacally as I zoom past your family with your child in hand. That’s right. You read correctly. I feel that stupidity should be rewarded, so here it is! This also goes for you dumb fucks who let your kids crawl on the floor at restaurants. I’ll kidnap your child and give them a fucking tetanus shot for all the bullshit they must have contracted on the ground.

See this cute shit? Yeah, say goodbye because I'm taking it, you fool.

Mhmm.

From Behind

I’m going to cut to the chase. Yeah, the title to this story is awkward as fuck. Mainly because it is exactly that.

A few summers ago, I had just finished work and was walking at a leisurely pace toward the subway entrance to go home. It was a beautiful day; sunny and bursting with motherfucking happiness.

Suddenly I felt someone’s hand grab mine. No, not brushed against; full on grabbed. So the natural human reaction is to turn the hell around and see what sort of bum-fuckery is happening behind me. Lo and behold there was a middle-aged man attached to that hand grabbing mine and I obviously jumped the shit out of my skin.

Run, run, RUN!!!

“What the fuck?!” I screamed as I snatched my hand away. He continued to walk beside me as my pace quickened. Why in the good Lord’s name would this man not leave me the hell alone? I was staring him down like an angry bull on acid and he still wasn’t getting it.

“No, no! You don’t understand. I’m one of the nicest guys you will ever meet!” he exclaimed, showing me a grin with several teeth missing. “I would never hurt you.”

This man needs to change is goddamn technique because you just can’t approach a lady like that. Seriously, what the hell? The guy was outside of my peripheral vision and his first response was to make bodily contact with me. Now, I’m no stud or anything but I know for damn sure even I can do better than that. Say hello! Damn, fool, you can’t just pick me and claim me as yours upon sight. That’s called prostitution. And even then you have to pay. The world is completely lost in regards to etiquette but I have come up with the perfect solution. I’m going to have printed on all of my shirts the following message:

Warning!
Completely hostile motherfucker
Approach at own risk
If so stupidly inclined, state your name and reason for disturbing her day
Violators will be shot upon first attempt

For those of you who wish to buy one of these shirts, they cost $20.99 a piece. Sizes from XS to XXXL. For more ordering information, please email me at snazzy_tshirts_that_detract_human_beings_with_rapist_tendencies@nodomain.net.