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.

Yay.

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.

Anyway.

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.

“NO…. NO, I’M SERIOUS! MY SISTER, SHE CAN TWERK SO GOOD AND SHE’S A WHITE GIRL! SHE ALWAYS MAKES FUN OF ME ‘CAUSE I CAN’T SHAKE MY ASS…… (gurgles)….”

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.”

No.

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

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Storm

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.

Let me demonstrate to you all the ways…

People talk a lot of shit. That seems to have been the theme of my weekend. People speak too much and think too goddamn little. It’s a real shame, too, because that usually means the difference between enjoyable conversation and a moment awkward enough to make Kanye West look like he was in the right telling Beyonce she had the greatest music video of all time. One of the easiest examples is demonstrating.

Demonstrating is when some freak show of a human being decides that they need to interrupt my fucking day and show me (to prove to themselves) that they are or are not something. Because God enjoys trolling my life, randoms come from far and wide to demonstrate to me that they aren’t racist. As if that’s my problem.

On Saturday night, I went out to the bar (a rarity in my social experiences as of late) with a few friends after our performance. It was great; we had drinks, some laughs, and a strange old man offered me free cake (I politely declined). We were at the point of deliciously inebriated when one of the servers approached our table. He looked at me.

“You know what? People can be so stupid.”

“Oh, really?” I said as if I had no clue that he was about to say something dumb. “What happened?”

“Well, I was just downstairs talking to this group of guys at this table. All of them were white and there was one black guy.” He paused for effect, or very possibly because the tumour in his brain slowed down his thought process. I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to finish. I figured the faster he finished his demonstration, the faster I could get back to my rum and coke.

“So, I told them this joke and it goes like this: What do you call a black man with a PhD? A doctor, you racists! They all stared at my and one of them said that he didn’t get it. They’re so dumb right? I mean, the obviousness of why the joke was awkward and…”

Hold up. These people are stupid after you tried to demonstrate to them? Let me break it down for you, homeboy. Your prejudice is no one’s problem, and it is especially not mine. In fact, the more you try to prove to me you’re not a racist, the more you look like a racist. Oh shit, I fucked up! Let me just go saunter off to the nearest black person and have them validate my feelings. Do you think that I’m going to be interested in your stupid black joke because I’m black? Let me be clear, then. I don’t give a fuck!