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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I’ll Get Shot

Oh, man. Thank God it’s Friday. It has been a long-ass week. All I want to do is snooze.

So I feel that lately I keep coming across the same… catch-phrase, if you will, when having what I thought to be casual to semi-intelligent conversations. It has quite sadly come to my attention that people are even more daft than I thought, to the point where I’m not even fucking sure how they made it this far in life.

People ask me all the time where I’m from because I have a slight accent, depending on how comfortable I am in the situation. I have no problem telling them that my very Jamaican grandmother took care of me when I was young, setting Jamaican inflection patterns in my speech. This is usually when the person gets really excited. “Oh, that’s so cool! Jamaica! I’ve always wanted to go there, but I’m afraid. I’ll probably get shot because I’m white.”

He plans to shoot her later

I’m never sure whether to be pissed off or feel bad that they’re so stupid. You think you’re going to get shot in a place where a lot of black people live because you’re white? What the fuck kind of troll logic is that? No, I change my mind. You must be extremely fucking idiotic to come up with that piece of trash to tell me. I feel like shooting you for real when I have to hear that nonsense.

Let me first make something very clear. White people have been living in Jamaica by choice since colonial times. If the black, Indian, and Chinese people there wanted to get rid of them, it would have already happened. Trust, they already did it to McDonald’s.

Secondly, I’m not sure why in God’s name you have this idea that black-concentrated populations are the equivalent to a modern-day gas chamber for white folk. Do you think this is the Holocaust? Seriously, I’m not playing. Why do you think that your mere, insignificant existence in the world is going to bother every black person so much that their reflex would be to kill you? What makes you so important? I’m sorry. Black people probably have better shit to do than kill and torture white people who come to their neighbourhoods. I certainly cannot speak for all people who share the phenotype, but I know I enjoy activities such as playing video games, working out, and reading books. But no doubt my primary life concern is to quench my white blood-thirst and fuel racial tension.

Thirdly, do you not think it is possible that this could happen the other way around? Oh wait…

Fig.1 A traditional African carnival cruise to the Americas

All shits and giggles aside, the question still stands. I have lived in primarily white neighbourhoods my whole life and have yet to have the Ku Klux Klan burn crosses on my front lawn and hang me from a tree. I don’t live in fear that it will happen, either.

Fourthly, in regards to Jamaica specifically, as a third-world country it gets a lot of its income from tourism. Shooting tourists is a terrible idea. Now, I’m not sure which countries you’ve visited, but clearly you’ve had some fucked up experiences if you think that that’s going to happen on vacation. If you’re white, they’ll probably treat you better because they know you have money. Dumbass.

I hope that clears up (mainly) white concern for being shot in areas where black people live. These places can be dangerous (just like any other) but your risk of getting murdered increases if you don’t mind your own fucking business, are a drug dealer, a gang member, a police officer having to bust people, and when you say dumb shit like, “I’ll probably get shot because I’m white.”

“Why can’t I call you ________?”

“Why can’t I call you n*gger?”

I feel like I get this question often. At least a couple times a year, some moron posing as a great intellect has to blow their damn cover and make it public. It’s as if ass-clowns just can’t keep that shit to themselves. After an extremely fatiguing process, the most ideal response seems to be:

“Shut up or I’ll throw you under a bus.”

Now, you, dear reader, must be thinking, “Oh, but that isn’t fair! The person was merely asking a question and maybe wondered why the word offended you so much.”

Fair enough response. Story time.

Two years ago, I sat in a bar with a few friends with whom I attended university. It just so happened that it was February 28. Black History Month. My personal beliefs toward this so-called “celebration” are not relevant to the story. It will suffice to say that one friend of mine, we’ll call him John, and I constantly make “Happy Black History Month” jokes throughout February. John, his girlfriend, my roommate at the time, and our mutual friend who we’ll call Craig, were to be my companions for a drunken night (Canada had just won gold for Olympic hockey; enough said).

20 minutes into lounging at the bar, John and I started up again with our antics. We were having a pretty good time, when John looked at his watch and mentioned that Black History Month was soon to be over as it was nearly midnight. We would be forced to poke light fun at something else. This is when Craig piped in:

“Yeah, I’ve had enough of hearing about you n*ggers.”

I’d first like to address that John is Caucasian, so the comment was solely directed towards me. With all the strength in me, I remained calm and asked with a deep scowl on my face, “Did you just call me the N-word?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he smiled, his eyes twinkling like Edward Cullen’s skin in the sunlight. “I called you a n*gger.”

Wow. He must have lost his fucking mind. Maybe he had a brain tumour that interfered with any and all neuro-pathways for higher functioning. It’s also possible that he thought he was a Super Saiyan and could fend me off if I tried to murderize his fool ass.

Next time on Dragon Ball Z: Black woman kicks the absolute shit out of jackass

Some people do not know what is good to say and what is not. Before I could even begin to process this dipshit’s troll logic, John stepped in:

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Listen, man. Of all the Black people to pull that shit out on, Timmi is not the one.”

I love John. And just when I was about to let the whole conundrum go, Craig decided to fan the flames:

“Why can’t I call you that? It’s just a word! Listen, I’m gay and people call me f*ggot all the time and you don’t see me getting into a huge fuss about it. You need to stop acting like you’re the only one with problems.”

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

You poor thing. You just called me one of the most offensive words in the English language and you need to ask me why? Here, let me give you some pencils to sharpen so you can fall on them. Oh you poor, poor thing. I feel terrible for you.

Seeing as how you don’t understand what I’m saying, let me give you the remix.

Reasons to not call me the N-word:

1. I asked you not to. Prick.

See, I thought that refraining from ever using that sort of vocabulary in my language would aid those with a low IQ in understanding that I find it unacceptable. I don’t use any word that is specifically designed to belittle a demographic. That’s right, shit-licker. If you’re getting an insult from me, I won’t get lazy and call you a word to describe something you can’t help. That’s no fun. I’m going to personally hand-craft and specialize an obscenity for you, delivered at your convenience. However, clearly I am the fucking idiot in this situation. Instead, I should have allowed someone else to tell me what should offend me as a Black person. Yup, makes perfect sense.

It’s strange the amount of persistence I get every time I ask someone not to call me the N-word. I feel like there’s a club and  you get to be part of it when you get a Black person to say, “Oh, yeah! Right on, bro! You can definitely call me n*gger! No problem!” Oh wait, that’s already a club…