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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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.

Never Before

You know that awkward moment when you’re walking down the street with your best friend when, suddenly, a man holding a bunch of bananas and a box of cookies stops you and says, “Excuse me. I’ve gotta be honest… Would you like to buy some bananas?” No? You must live a sad and sheltered life, then.

New experiences are fantastic. They’re so fucking great, in fact, that it’s innate for people to want to tell others about them. No big deal, right? Wrong. Sharing with your friends that you drunkenly made out with a carved pumpkin on Halloween is a lot different than confessing your life story to a complete stranger. Trust me; I have experience. As the complete stranger who wants nothing more than to shoot themselves in the foot as some random drones in their ear.

A friend of mine convinced me to go clubbing with her and a group of friends one night. I don’t know why the fuck I went. As a woman, being in a nightclub is the worst experience ever. There’s always some creepy guy who dances like a dog in heat following you the whole night, some annoying-ass girl you’ve never met trying to make friends with you because her (intelligent?) friends ditched her there, and several drunk and skimpily-clad girls vomiting in all over the washroom stalls so it’s impossible to pee. By the end of the night you just want to tell everyone to wipe their ass with barbed wire or Falcon Punch them in the crotch.

I digress.

About halfway through our magical and unabashedly drunken evening, a guy approached me and asked me to dance. My logic was that he was wearing a really cool fedora and maybe he would give it to me later, so I said yes. Like a fucking fool. As we danced we made small talk and I mentioned that I really liked his hat, so he let me try it on (mission: halfway accomplished). Two minutes later, he leaned in and said in my ear:

This is fun. I’ve never danced with a black girl before.

Bloody. Fucking. Shitcakes. Are you new? How am I even supposed to respond to that? You don’t tell a girl that you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. “Hmm… I’ve never worked with this model before but I’m sure that if I just use my wrench and tweak…” No, dumbass. Just no. Do you go to your goddamn job interviews and tell them that sort of shit? Yes, everyone lies on their resume but you don’t just straight up say that you have no experience and expect to get the job. How in Jesus’ name do expect me to take you seriously at this point?

The thing is, this was not the first or last time I’ve had some idiot admit that he wants me to be his black girl fix.

I want to fuck a black girl. I’ve never fucked a black girl before. I know I’m no black guy but…

I’ve never dated a black girl before. I think they’re just so much more spirited than white girls.

I’ve never liked a black girl before. I think you’re the first. You’re really pretty for a black girl.

Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to be flattered? Not only is the stupidest man in the room trying to talk to me, but he also thinks that he should win an award for it, too! I do not give even an eighth of fuck that you haven’t had whatever experience with my race before. What makes you real dumb is the fact that you assume it would be so different from whatever the fuck you’ve experienced that you couldn’t keep your lips firmly pressed together. You just had to blab away and ruin it with, “I don’t have the credentials.” Well, then peace out, motherfucker! I’ll find someone who does. I assume dating human beings still counts as having the full credentials. If not, I don’t know what the fuck kind of weirdness you’ve been up to.

As for the fedora guy, I should have hijacked his hat.