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.



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: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a84IowoW00w 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.

Farewell for Now!

It’s that time of year, ladies and gents: camp time. That means that I won’t have very much access to the Internet to give an account of the fantastical adventures of bullshit that I will inevitably endure. I will be back in late August/early September and I’ll make sure to fill you in on all my juicy “WTF?” moments. With that, I leave you with this video very reminiscent of my childhood.

Africa Pt 3: Bollywood Edition

I’m not sure how in fuck’s name I have so much to say about Africa on this blog; I honestly don’t.

Maybe it’s because I keep encountering people who are highly uneducated and ignorant. Or maybe these people just eat Quaker Instant Dumbass for breakfast. Whichever be the case, it absolutely always tickles me pink when a mouth-breather approaches me without warrant.

One such time happened as I was once again pedaling on a stationary bike in the gym. I should have known. Bad shit always happens when I’m on the fucking bike, as you may recall from “Sweat” ( https://daysinthelifeofthesociallyawkward.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/sweat/ ). I should just stop using that machine. It so obviously attracts the wrong crowd.

As I exercised and listened to the string of expletives that is aggressive rap music, I noticed a woman around my age come into my line of vision. She started talking like I was expecting her, when really I was just trying to live my life and ignore the world. I kept pedaling but paused my music and removed one of my ear buds. She repeated her question.

“Are you from South Africa?”

I should have punched her out for her stupidity right then and there, but I was feeling rambunctiously playful and decided to see how much tomfoolery I could coax from one person’s mouth at a time. It turns out, that’s a lot.

“No, but close!”

“Oh really? Where are you from, then?”

“I’m Jamaican.”

She was sort of close…?

I thought at this point she’d stop talking to me. I figured once I pointed out that the geographical area she guessed I was from was highly unlikely (you know, because of all the white folk that possess enough wealth to travel outside of South Africa), that she’d leave me the fuck alone… I need to stop assuming people will leave me the fuck alone.

“Wow! Neat! Well, I was wondering if you’d like to see a Bollywood film with me some evening. Do you know [insert Hindi here]? I don’t really have a lot to do in the evenings and it would be good if you’d like to go, too.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe that could happen.”

Why did I say that? Did I just agree to a date with this female? Did I agree to go anywhere with this human being?! I will do no such thing. Hell to the fucking no. She thought I was from an African country where white people live. Honestly, you can’t really get any worse than that. I’m not saying I’m a geography wiz… I’m just not Christopher Columbus trying to pass off America for India.

Which brings me to my next point.

If she thought I was African, why did she think I was an expert on Indian/Pakistani/Desi culture? In fact, this girl  was of  South Asian background herself so I didn’t understand her angle at all. The situation was making less and less sense to me, and my brain was starting to shut off. I allowed my mind to wander, hoping that Zeus would strike me down with a lightening bolt, for a few moments when I heard:

“Great! When you’re done here, I’ll get your number!”

You know my ass was out of there faster than this guy’s.

Note: I know that this post is two days late. I’m really sorry. I’m preparing to go to camp. It’s a strenuous ordeal; so much bug spray! Friday will be my last post until September when I return.

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.

N*gger, Please!

Sometimes people follow me.

A person would think this happens because I live in the creepy-ass city of Toronto. Downtown. Sadly for me, that shit has nothing to do with location. It happens everywhere. I mean, goddamn, some guy followed me around the streets of Bordeaux and then asked me to be his girlfriend. I wish I was making that up even a little bit.

“Girl, I’ve known you for 2 years. You haven’t known me half as long but I think I’ll make you very happy. Will you marry me?”

The particular event I’m speaking of did, however, happen in Toronto. I was on my way out of my apartment to catch a subway train around the corner. Obviously this is some sort of unpardonable sin that I didn’t know about because 2 minutes into my short journey, a man in a winter parka started screaming at me. I was listening to my iPod, so when I turned towards him, it seemed very much like he was yelling:

Ooooh! You lookin’ good in them jeans;
I bet you’d look even better with me in between.
I got my mind on my money, money on my mind,
But you’s a hell of a distraction when you shake your behind.

I quickly realised that it was impossible he was saying any of that because a) I wasn’t wearing jeans and; b) That was Ludacris’ voice.

I turned down the volume and listened intently to what he was saying as I passed.

“N*gger! Fucking n*gger!”

Hmm… that is much different from my original interpretation. Normally I like to handle my business, but I don’t like making scenes in public and I was in a goddamn hurry. I moved past him, thinking that this man’s fuckery was over.

I guess I can’t read social cues at all. He wasn’t even close to being finished.

This random started to follow me, the whole time calling me every version of the n-bomb he could think of. “RICH N*GGER! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE?!”

Obviously I’m better than everyone to you. You’re the one following my ass around like a groupie, screaming shit. All I need is some music and I’ll feel like a frigging rock star.

Conversely, I do not have the moves like Jagger.

I continued to ignore this fool, looking straight ahead. In my peripheral vision I could see people with expressions on their faces that read, “How the fuck isn’t she giving him one bitch kick to the face right now?” Eventually I got to the subway. I guess he had no money because he didn’t follow me. Oh well.

Looking back on the situation, I feel sorry for this man. Truly and honestly. He obviously doesn’t have even ONE black friend. That’s so fucking sad. He has no one to make him quality fried chicken. And with me he’d get jerk chicken! Poor, poor soul.

You catch more flies (also black!) with honey than with vinegar, I say. I should have probably let him know.