Teach Me How to Dougie

Well, as promised, I have come back to the marvellous world of blogging a.k.a. making fun of legitimate dumbasses around me. A couple of things have changed for me in the past year and a half:

1. I moved from the big stinking city of Toronto to the small stinking K-W area to do my masters program. You would think that, in a first world country, because the town is smaller it would also be cleaner since there is literally less shit to clean up. Nope. Still the same crazy-ass motherfuckers here to bring confusion and contemplated suicide (Ha! No, I could never leave Oreo cookies for the afterlife) to my daily life.

2. I now attend WLU for a masters in music therapy. ‘Nough said.

3. The rest is none of ya’ll’s business until I make it your business. Don’t be so damn nosy into a girl’s life. Rude.

Since one of my biggest life changes right now is moving from the city back to suburbia, let me set the stage for those of you unfamiliar with Kitchener-Waterloo-Guelph. First off, the whole town is whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite. Like met-their-first-person-of-colour-in-university white. Like thinks-kale-is-delicious white. Like names-their-kids-Susan-and-Simon white. I’m talking Andy Samberg-(attempting)-rapping white.

I actually love him.

I actually love him.

Now, this wouldn’t be a problem if the guy selling fried chicken was actually born in Louisiana like the sign says, and not very obviously born in Karachi. Everyone just ASSUMES that the chicken will turn out okay. It does not. And no one knows any better about the quality of chicken to stop going to that shit hole. What a fucking shame.

Anyway, the area used to be called Berlin and actually has a really large German population. The schnitzel here makes me  so damn happy I cry tears of grease and Lowenbrau.

Trust that cretinous toe jam trolls walk about here as freely as they did in my previous location. Yes, whatever shit I must have done in a past life still haunts me to this day because they all come to talk to me.


One example of such a creature was when I decided to go out dancing with one of my roommates. I know. I’m an idiot. I really deserved what was coming to me because leaving my home is already a fucking land mine. So this is my fault.

My roommate, we’ll call her Farah, convinced me to go out to the scuzziest bar in town. Another one of those this-is-where-STIs-come-to-socialize types. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t planning on touching anyone, and sure as hell they weren’t planning on touching me without giving me their whole arm to take home as a souvenir for my trouble.


Farah said that on this particular night there was really good music: lots of hip hop, soca, and reggae. This night at that particular bar is known as “black guy night” by the locals. Wildly inaccurate since my roommate and I represented half the black folk in the whole bar. Excuse me, I mean the whole town.

I danced with Farah and another friend of ours, who we’ll call Trish, without too much hassle. We were actually having a pretty good time, minus watching the most ratchet dancing I have ever seen outside a rap video, when the predator pounced upon me. It was horrific. One moment I was dancing, the next, this was glaring into my face wide-eyed like a donkey that got surprise sex in the bum:

Ughhhh! Fuuuuuuck.

Ughhhh! Fuuuuuuck.

“UM… I MEAN THIS IN A NON-BLACK WAY…. CAN YOU TEACH ME TO DANCE LIKE YOUR PEOPLE?” she drunkenly managed to scream at Farah and me.

Honestly, that’s probably the stupidest sentence that I could ever imagine saying out loud to a stranger, so I thought she was finished talking. That was evidently my mistake.


Farah was truly in the mood for zero bullshit that night and started grabbing my arm to pull me away. “Let’s move away from this nonsense,” she enthusiastically suggested. We figured that our clear shunning of this girl would be enough for her to recognize that we did not want to talk to her or help her on her quest for negro-inspired dance moves.

This did not help.

“NO, PLEASE! I REALLY WANNA LEARN TO DANCE. BLACK GIRLS ARE JUST SUCH GOOD DANCERS!!!!” she explained as she followed us around the bar for 30 minutes.

Actually? I couldn’t believe this girl existed in damn real life. Like what in the fuck do you not understand about people looking at you and walking away after you open the gaping flesh wound that is your mouth? I get that this heifer of a chick was drunk, but she was making a scene for no reason. To the point where I almost snapped and told her to pull her goddamn gets-blackout-drunk-the-night-before-her-granny’s-funeral-because-#YOLO-and-#TURNUP life together. I mean, come on now. This isn’t a frigging Miley Cyrus video.

There were no blurred lines in regards to our friendship status with this drunk fuck. No means no!

There were no blurred lines in regards to our friendship status with this drunk fuck. No means no!

I feel like one of the worst parts about this situation is that this girl was not alone. This girl had friends who saw us ostracizing the fuck out of her and just kept watching it happen. What the fuck sort of friendship is that?!

I know what you’re going to say. “Timmi, you and your friends could have showed that dumb bitch some kindness, and at least smiled and danced with her for a little.”


She danced like ass. I’m not about to be associated with that on purpose.


What’s good, fams?

I know. It’s been a while. I’m prodigal as fuck. But it’s really for a good reason.

Okay, it’s not for a good reason at all. I was a lazy wench and was applying to grad school. That’s pretty much the end of it. But now I’m back. I’d like to tell you more stories of my life’s nonsense. Trust that plenty of postable and hilarious bullshit has happened to me in the last year and a half.

Let’s take this on another spin, shall we?


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.

My Hair

Now that I finally have enough hair to be rocking a Macy Gray afro, I feel like I can finally talk about it.

I’m not sure what it is with people, but they have no fucking manners. Not even one drop. I mean I understand that my vivacious, curly locks are irresistible to even those with the most self-control, but goddamn. When a girl says she does not want your ripe-ass, sticky fingers in her hair, she means it.

How impressed I am when I realise my peers cannot follow instructions and/or are deaf

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh, man. You’re one of those black women who gets all uppity about their hair, aren’t you?”


I’m one of those people who doesn’t appreciate their personal space being violated without any fucking permission. I know. Difficult to understand. I mean, instead of asking if you can jam your hands (and I have no idea where those have been) in my afro, braids, or twists.

My favourite comment whilst someone I don’t want touching my hair is touching my hair goes something like this:

“Wow, it doesn’t even feel like a person’s hair. It feels like an animal!”

No. No it fucking does not. An animal that does not want you touch them does not feel docile. An animal that does not want you to touch them feels like it’s hauling your ass into a world of pain via attacking your face with its teeth. Possibly with a side of rabies.

Somehow I feel like this and my hair are not comparable

I didn’t ever think that I would have to do this but obviously I do:

How to ask a black woman permission to enter their bloody personal bubble and not have them kick you upside your fool-ass head

1. Approach the woman and stop several metres away from them. Caution: black women are wild creatures and may attack at any moment. It is important that you respect the space so that, if need be, you can run. If you do not understand this instruction, please refer to the second image in this post for your fate.

2. Smile. And don’t be creepy. She will kill you.

3. Ask if you may touch her hair. Read this part real carefully because it’s here where most of you fuck up. Wait until she responds with a yes or a no. Do not be already moving your hand towards her rocking do as you ask. WAIT. She will kill you.

4. Once she has said yes, and only yes, may you step closer to her and GENTLY touch her hair. Do not grab. Do not squeeze. Do not ruffle. She will kill you.

5. If, for some reason, she becomes angry with you, it means that you have not properly followed the instructions. I don’t feel sorry for your idiot self because you obviously can’t read along with not being able to hear. And those who cannot hear must feel.


As a university student, I am eternally grateful to the divine Flying Spaghetti Monster of Pastafarianism for what is officially my summer holiday. Although I will spend most of it working summer jobs, there is definitely one thing that I will have at my leisure every once in a while: sleeping in. Sleeping is pretty much the best thing ever. Right after food. Nothing beats food. Except for maybe pandas but that’s because they have claws and shit.

I, personally, would not fuck with that.

Sleep is the ultimate date with your bed and pillows. I’m pretty heartbroken every morning to leave my beloved.

When I was in my first year of university, I had a close friend who loved sleep as much as Ronald McDonald loves to sell you crack in burger form. We’ll call her Carol. Now, Carol was later diagnosed with sleep apnea, and that shit ain’t funny. Goldfish with their dinky eyes are funny. So is chasing your haters with a running chainsaw. Just saying. We didn’t know Carol had sleep apnea so I just attempted to wake her the fuck up for class.

One morning I walked into her room and tried to rouse our half-dead beauty. I called her name. “Carol,” I said whilst rubbing her arm. “Wake up!” The girl didn’t even budge. She was off having a fantastic-ass time with magical fairies and pink velociraptors, so she had no ears for my fool ass. I tried again. “Carol! Get up, woman! I’ll shove condoms from the don’s door up your nose!” No luck. This was going to take drastic measures.

Shit just got serious. Time to kick it into high gear.

I took hold of Carol’s shoulder and gave her a bit of a shake, still calling her name. I wasn’t even sure it was going to work. Legit. My next planned step was to call the coroner.

Luckily for me, that did it. Carol twisted in her bed and gave me one punch to the face before rolling back over to sleep. Bravo. That’s the way to do it! It’s at times like this where I am super appreciative that I have a virtually non-existent bridge in my nose. Or else it would have been busted up like a Nascar accident. Or a child molester’s face in prison.

I stumbled off to the bathroom to make sure I wasn’t bleeding as Carol drifted back off to sleep…