Hello, fellow creepers of the Internetz! I spent my summer in lovely Central Ontario with children who think that shoving baby powder into their nasty-ass rear ends, and then farting, is a good idea. That being said, my three month-long silence is officially over and I’m back to entertain you with more unfortunately fucked up, yet deliciously hilarious, real-life stories. You’re welcome. My return to Toronto was great. The fresh scent of human feces and air pollution stung my eyes and clung to my clothes in a way that only home could. It was a truly refreshing welcome back to the city. Of course, my first order of business was to head straight to the bar. I’m not an alcoholic. I just work with children. I should have probably just done this instead: Cheaper self-care. My friends and I wound up at this bar that thought it was shat out by God Himself. It had some hipster name that I don’t remember (I’m pretty sure some ‘obscure’ animal was in its title), but also a neat indoor-outdoor concept. My three friends and I were pleased to settle there like pigeons loitering by the lake, waiting for someone to harass for food. About 45 minutes into whooping it up, I glanced across the bar and noticed there was a guy in his late-twenties trying to get my attention. As we locked eyes from opposite ends of the bar, he waved at me. My naive stupid ass thought, “Oh, he’s just saying hi!” So I waved back. Big mistake. “You’re beautiful,” he mouthed to me. My facial expression sank from semi-friendly to what-the-fuck-kind-of-shit-are-you-trying-to-pull? so fast that I’m pretty sure it looked like a Pokémon evolving.

I’m not sure if I prefer Totodile or Feraligator…

You would think that he would stop trying to talk to me at this point. You think that he would shut the black hole-like rupture in face. Logic says he should! Sadly, fucking bullshit prevailed again. He sauntered over to where my friends and I were sitting, eager to pour more toxic sludge into my ear. “I just want to say that you’re absolutely beautiful!” “Thanks…?” “You remind me of Storm from X-Men. You have such authentically African features. It’s perfect. I’m a Marvel Comics artist, by the way. When I found out they chose Halle Berry to play Storm, I was like ‘No!’ She does NOT have African features. You? Oh, just grow your hair out and it’s perfect!” Couple of things I’d like to address: 1. About halfway through this guy’s rant, I realised he was not trying to get in my pants because he does not like vaginas at all. 2. I don’t know what the fuck this man’s drink was spiked with, but it’s clearly stronger than Absinthe. Actually, buddy? I look like fucking Storm, princess of a Kenyan tribe and the former wifey of The Black Panther of fictional African country, Wakanda? Are you fucking joking me? This is what she looks like:

I don’t even look a little bit like this skinny broad

Who, on God’s green Earth, are you trying to fool? The only “authentically African” feature she possesses is her fucking skin colour. She’s basically a white girl with a tan. Not even her skeletal structure could be classified as Negroid. How are you going to come up to me and tell me I look like this?! 3. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right. I don’t look authentically African. Not even a fucking little. Ask other Caribbeans. Hell, ask some African folks and every single one of them will tell you without hesitation that I don’t look like I’m from that continent. At least not recently. 4. You illustrate for frigging MARVEL and you’ve clearly forgotten what a character looks like? Fuck, I hope you were lying. Or quit your job if you weren’t. Useless. 5. You cannot just go up to random black women and tell them they look like Storm. That chick is fucking possessed. Do you see her eyes? She has no pupils. That’s how people get exorcised, dude. I’m serious. That shit ain’t funny.

I warned you

Needless to say, we left shortly after the incident.