Get in the Cab

Happy Hurricane Sandy, everyone! I hope that you all get days days off (especially you American folk) and have hurricane parties and drink lots of beer. Or tequila. Whatever. But seriously, in this weather don’t make yourself a fucking liability and do dumb shit. Stay inside. Lord knows we’re going to hear about some fool-ass tomorrow anyway who decided they were bigger and “badder” than any goddamn hurricane.

Speaking of taking unnecessary risks with one’s life, that brings me to today’s topic: taxicabs.

Don’t fuck with this

I’m not playing. Taxis are a death trap to the next level. You’re getting into a vehicle with someone you’ve never met before. You don’t know where the dick-wad is going to take you. For all you know some serial rapist murderer could be your driver ready to fling your sorry ass into a lake. I bet most of us don’t even think to take note of the license plate just in case. That’s just too much damn risk, if you ask me.

Earlier this month I had no choice but to get a taxi to drop me at the train station because I had a hella ton of luggage to haul. The taxi showed up, the driver got out, and he looked a fucking lot like this guy:

Jesus fuck

I was only mildly sketched out because a) I’m a Torontonian and, therefore,  jaded, and b) I feel like most of my taxi drivers have looked approximately at least this pedophile-like. I clambered my exhausted body into the back of the cab and sighed loudly as I buckled my seat belt, slumping over. The driver confirmed with me that he was taking me to the train station and reversed out of the driveway.

We rode along in silence for a while, which I didn’t mind because I didn’t have a burning desire to engage in conversation with some guy who looks like he would probably buy a 12 year old girl to lock in his dungeon of a basement equipped with security cameras and rope. That didn’t last long, though. This man was jumping down my throat with questions. Just my luck.

“So you’re heading back to university?” he first inquired. Standard question. No problem.

“Yeah, I’m just bringing the last of my stuff back to my apartment,” I answered like a completely normally-functioning member of society.

“Oh ok. So are you in first year… second year?”

“Haha! No, I’m actually 22. Good try, though.”

“Oh… you look young!” he said, surprised.

“Yup! Most people can’t tell how old I am. I’m ok with it.”

In my mind, the conversation was now over. Nope.

“Nice, nice. So, uh, do you got a boyfriend, then?” he asked, trying to make a really bloody awkward question as casual as possible. It wasn’t like I could go anywhere anyway; my ass was already firmly strapped into the back seat tighter than Beyoncé’s clothes, ready to be suffocated with a garbage bag and left in a dumpster.

See, creepy shit like this happens to me a lot. Dudes who were undoubtedly born in the Jurassic period try to “subtly” ask me to be their girlfriend. I would not mind so much if they did not initially think I was in high school. What the hell does that say? I attract grown men who think that fucking children is as good a life choice as applying to university. That is not only so disgusting that I want to vomit into my own mouth, it is also a great opportunity for me. How?

See, the thing is that I’ve always dreamed of starting my own television series. The show would be called Get Your Shit Together, You Perverted Sick Fuck. It would feature me living my daily life and posing as a 16 year-old. Apparently I can easily pass for that age. Then when degenerates talk to me, I’d call the cops on their worthless asses. Not only would I have my television series, I would also be able to put throbbing bags of dicks of people in jail, where they will most definitely be bum-raped.

Anyway, I experience this sort of inappropriate attention often and you’d think that I would have a well-rehearsed response such as:

Oh, yeah! I actually have a boyfriend who is named Jamaal. He’s a hulking 6’8″ and weighs well over 300 pounds. What a man! And he’s such a great pro wrestler! Usually when I go to watch his matches, I need a ladder to be able to wipe the sweat off his brow. I mean, my waist is only half the size of his biceps. Did I mention that Jamaal is just sooooo spiritual? One of his favourite pastimes is hunting wild moose and killing them with his bare hands to sacrifice to the Brazilian Orixàs of Candomblé. He smears their blood on a drum and pounds his chest as he ferociously howls. He told me he does this particular tribal ritual to keep me safe from harm’s way. Isn’t that just SO sweet of him, looking out for me like that with the gods? I love him so much!

Jamaal back in high school. Isn’t he dreamy?

Like I said. Taxis are a precarious life experience. I need to find me a Jamaal for real.


Dancehall Queen

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, everyone! And also a very happy birthday to myself this weekend.

Yep. Another year older, another year wiser, another year of random bullshit people try to pull.

One of my very oldest and closest friends, we’ll call him Rob, insisted on taking me out on the town to celebrate my age being a palindrome. Obviously I said yes because you can’t say no to Toronto’s gay village. Or to Rob. Let’s be honest, the boy has skills like a lawyer.

I got myself casually dolled up for the occasion and we met up with 2 of his other friends for dinner at a sushi restaurant. I swear to God our server had never seen black folk in her entire life before. She was so excited when we finished all our food and paid the WHOLE bill. Seemed like some kind of paranoid/post-traumatic stress disorder shit to me. That sushi was fucking delicious, though.

I’d be a liar if I said this was what we actually ordered

Our peachy little friendship crew headed over to the club, which filled up quickly half an hour after arriving. We were having a great time dancing away when a man who was dancing in close proximity to our drunken tomfoolery approached us. He first spoke to the other girl in our group and then came up to me.

“Hi! My name is (Dave)!”

“Oh hey, Dave! It’s nice to meet you! I’m Timmi!” I danced to the blaring club tunes as we exchanged conversation. Ain’t nobody getting in the way of me shaking my groove thing. I assumed he was gay anyway. I am yet to see a straight man walk up into a gay bar alone.

“I’m Colombian!” he gestured to himself as I noticed his heavy accent. So he was. “What is your background?”

“I’m Jamaican!” I screamed back over Rihanna’s auto-tuned wailing.

I figured that because this man also shared a non-Anglo Saxon North American background, he would just leave it at that. What in fuck’s name he said next I still can’t believe.

“Oh that’s cool! You don’t dance like you’re white!” he said with a big stupid grin smeared across his face.

Hold the fuck up. What?

“HIiiiiiiiiiiiiii! I’m Jenny!”

Ok, I know I don’t take a lot of photos but I know for damn sure the girl in the image above is NOT me. I don’t dance like I’m white? What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you dirty sack of shit? Was the light glaring from my teeth so much that you couldn’t tell I’m not white? It’s not like my name is Beyoncé Knowles or anything.

Listen, Dave. Sharpen some pencils and fall on them. Best birthday present ever.

Dick Nuggets

Hey, kids. I know. My post is later than a teenage girl’s period after her boyfriend convinced her pull-out is a legitimate method of birth control. Blame Standard Caribbean Time. We’re always behind.

These last two weeks have been sort of messed up. Some asshole drunkenly slurred the N-bomb at me as I walked home three days ago. He probably thought he was being clever with his insult. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Some random-ass woman asked me for change for the subway, which is stupid because I’m a student and the $3.00 I have in my pocket is supposed to buy my groceries for the week. So obviously I told her no. I shit you not, right after I said no, she asked about the surgical scar on my chest. Like that’s not a fucking invasive question to ask a stranger at all. I’m not going to lie, though, I usually get, “What happened to your chest?” as a pick-up line.

After these eye-opening weeks, I’m so fucking disturbed I can’t even talk about myself. So I’m going to tell you about my friend, who we’ll call Sandra, and dick nuggets. What is a dick nugget, you ask? I swear, it’s not nearly as graphic as you think it may be. It is merely when a fucking tool cannot refrain from participating in highly idiotic and usually offensive behaviour; an asshole, if you will.

Now, Sandra approached me a few days ago and told me what I find to be a hilarious story. Sandra has, in recent months, procured a male companion with whom she enjoys engaging in coitus and sharing mutual romantic feelings; boyfriend, a highly volatile and unstudied species. Unlike most human beings, Sandra is able to manage her goddamn time and not ditch all of her friends like a fucking high school student. This girl has her shit on lock. She knows what’s up. So it was to her surprise when she found out some friends of hers, who we’ll call Dick Nuggets 1, 2, and 3 (no need to embarrass them further; they’ve already done it to themselves with their shit behaviour), were talking smack behind her back. They were yammering their maggot-gargrling mouths about how Sandra cannot balance her time wisely between her friends and her boyfriend. These bitches did not think it would be smart to stop there. They kept blabbing in front of her best friend, bemusedly wondering aloud why Sandra and her boyfriend would pick each other as partners.

From what I understand, Dick Nugget 1 is the ring leader who probably doesn’t wash her vagina and this is why she has so many stink-ass things to say about shit that’s not her business. She’s a generally rude human being. Dick Nuggets 2 and 3 are more forgivable because they are easily pulled into circumstances. Dick Nugget 3 even has a long-distance boyfriend and is probably a little jealous of Sandra’s proximity to her sweetie pie (yeah, I said sweetie pie; get the fuck over it). Sandra was trying to defend Dick Nugget 3 a little but I see no excuse for childish behaviour from grown-ass people.

I take Sandra’s word to be true. She’s never been a liar. She’s never been rude. She never complains. So the fact that she came to me about these three was hella bewildering. I don’t like it when people fuck with my friends. So listen here, dick nuggets. Get a life. My friend did shit-all to you, and neither did her boyfriend. If you want to play at being a child, I suggest the three of ya’ll go back to kindergarten where “make-believes” and “magic” is acceptable to believe in. You can’t just make shit up. In fact, how in God’s name are you in university and don’t know that? You need to back up everything you say with something. You know what, refer to the letter in a previous post of mine:

Just address it to YOUR school. Fuck, I am so tired of women being bitchy to each other for no reason.

Oh, and Dick Nugget 1? Go wash your crotch.