Get in the Cab

Happy Hurricane Sandy, everyone! I hope that you all get days days off (especially you American folk) and have hurricane parties and drink lots of beer. Or tequila. Whatever. But seriously, in this weather don’t make yourself a fucking liability and do dumb shit. Stay inside. Lord knows we’re going to hear about some fool-ass tomorrow anyway who decided they were bigger and “badder” than any goddamn hurricane.

Speaking of taking unnecessary risks with one’s life, that brings me to today’s topic: taxicabs.

Don’t fuck with this

I’m not playing. Taxis are a death trap to the next level. You’re getting into a vehicle with someone you’ve never met before. You don’t know where the dick-wad is going to take you. For all you know some serial rapist murderer could be your driver ready to fling your sorry ass into a lake. I bet most of us don’t even think to take note of the license plate just in case. That’s just too much damn risk, if you ask me.

Earlier this month I had no choice but to get a taxi to drop me at the train station because I had a hella ton of luggage to haul. The taxi showed up, the driver got out, and he looked a fucking lot like this guy:

Jesus fuck

I was only mildly sketched out because a) I’m a Torontonian and, therefore,  jaded, and b) I feel like most of my taxi drivers have looked approximately at least this pedophile-like. I clambered my exhausted body into the back of the cab and sighed loudly as I buckled my seat belt, slumping over. The driver confirmed with me that he was taking me to the train station and reversed out of the driveway.

We rode along in silence for a while, which I didn’t mind because I didn’t have a burning desire to engage in conversation with some guy who looks like he would probably buy a 12 year old girl to lock in his dungeon of a basement equipped with security cameras and rope. That didn’t last long, though. This man was jumping down my throat with questions. Just my luck.

“So you’re heading back to university?” he first inquired. Standard question. No problem.

“Yeah, I’m just bringing the last of my stuff back to my apartment,” I answered like a completely normally-functioning member of society.

“Oh ok. So are you in first year… second year?”

“Haha! No, I’m actually 22. Good try, though.”

“Oh… you look young!” he said, surprised.

“Yup! Most people can’t tell how old I am. I’m ok with it.”

In my mind, the conversation was now over. Nope.

“Nice, nice. So, uh, do you got a boyfriend, then?” he asked, trying to make a really bloody awkward question as casual as possible. It wasn’t like I could go anywhere anyway; my ass was already firmly strapped into the back seat tighter than Beyoncé’s clothes, ready to be suffocated with a garbage bag and left in a dumpster.

See, creepy shit like this happens to me a lot. Dudes who were undoubtedly born in the Jurassic period try to “subtly” ask me to be their girlfriend. I would not mind so much if they did not initially think I was in high school. What the hell does that say? I attract grown men who think that fucking children is as good a life choice as applying to university. That is not only so disgusting that I want to vomit into my own mouth, it is also a great opportunity for me. How?

See, the thing is that I’ve always dreamed of starting my own television series. The show would be called Get Your Shit Together, You Perverted Sick Fuck. It would feature me living my daily life and posing as a 16 year-old. Apparently I can easily pass for that age. Then when degenerates talk to me, I’d call the cops on their worthless asses. Not only would I have my television series, I would also be able to put throbbing bags of dicks of people in jail, where they will most definitely be bum-raped.

Anyway, I experience this sort of inappropriate attention often and you’d think that I would have a well-rehearsed response such as:

Oh, yeah! I actually have a boyfriend who is named Jamaal. He’s a hulking 6’8″ and weighs well over 300 pounds. What a man! And he’s such a great pro wrestler! Usually when I go to watch his matches, I need a ladder to be able to wipe the sweat off his brow. I mean, my waist is only half the size of his biceps. Did I mention that Jamaal is just sooooo spiritual? One of his favourite pastimes is hunting wild moose and killing them with his bare hands to sacrifice to the Brazilian Orixàs of Candomblé. He smears their blood on a drum and pounds his chest as he ferociously howls. He told me he does this particular tribal ritual to keep me safe from harm’s way. Isn’t that just SO sweet of him, looking out for me like that with the gods? I love him so much!

Jamaal back in high school. Isn’t he dreamy?

Like I said. Taxis are a precarious life experience. I need to find me a Jamaal for real.



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: 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.

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.

Dat Ass

It seems that the gentlemen idiotic or brave enough to make advances towards me have a general means of approach: they pounce. Out of fucking nowhere. It’s like they’re part of some ninja rapist club or something. I’m not sure why they want to surprise me like that. I have a goddamn heart problem; that could kill a girl. You know what; I figure as long as I’m still alive to collect the insurance money after I have a heart attack, it really isn’t that big a problem.

This morning I was on the subway with a shit ton of sweaty and sticky Torontonians. It was great. It was like being in a nightclub but homeless people were there, too. I even had my iPod so I could groove to Marvin Gaye like the smooth cat I am. Standard procedure.

Until I felt someone’s hand firmly grab my behind.

I whirled my head around faster than you can say, “Motherfucker, please!” all the while thinking,  Hell yeah! It’s finally my chance to make the front page in the newspaper: “University student goes ‘I Know What you Did Last Summer’ all over dumbass perpetrator for unwanted physical contact”. The title is a little wordy but I think it’s workable. About 20 different variations of Jamaican expletives raced through my mind when I came face-to-face with an elderly man. My next thoughts ran along the lines of:

Jesus Christ with a side of Charlie Sheen, what do I do? I can’t beat the fuck out of him now! He’s old. On the other hand, he’s already on his way out. Maybe if I just break his hand…

As I was making this deliberation, the man nonchalantly returned my gaze, his hand still gripping my rump, with all the God-given “right” to be copping a feel on my divine ass. Yes, it must have been looking pretty divine if he couldn’t control his bloody reflexes.

Before I could even say anything, he sort of pushed off and walked out of the of subway car as if nothing had happened. I looked around to see if anyone else was as outraged as I was. Or at least frigging witnessed that pile of fuckery. Nope. My sexual harassment subway audience were quite impressed.

I really need to start kicking people in the kidneys. For real.


I am a huge asshole. Just in case those of you who read were unaware, I’m making it clear. Yes, I have been absent for two weeks with no warning. I know. Let it out. Cry. I’d be sad, too, if I didn’t have someone’s fucked up life experiences to laugh at. I promise I’ll be less MIA unless I talk to you about it first. Deal? I’m even posting early because I won’t be around on Friday. Yeah, you can thank me later.


As the weather gets warmer in the deliciously piss-stained city of Toronto, I’ve come out of my self-induced winter-I-fucking-hate-you-and-therefore-shall-stay-inside-and-not-walk-around-outside hibernation phase and go walking. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping (albeit they are the fucking rats of the sky, i.e. pigeons). It is goddamn fantastic; something close to what Hugh Hefner must have felt like in his Playboy Mansion every day. No, not horny. Like a boss, pervert.

Hugh: I'm too amazing right now.

I’ve also been noticing a really fucking idiotic trend amongst families walking together. Parents meander with their very small child (no older 5), taking in the sights of downtown Toronto, and fucking have the child walking BEHIND them. Hmm… that makes perfect sense. Have a kid, then leave it to be frigging snatched up by pedophiles and kidnappers! Guaranteed it’s these same motherfuckers who are going to go on television later and cry because their kid is missing. And I will feel no sympathy because they fucking let it happen.

People take better care of their precious phones and music players than their kids. Have you ever seen anyone put their mobile down in a public place and walk away? Fucking right, you haven’t. They don’t want their shit jacked. It’s unsettling because for some reason, this common sense rule doesn’t translate over to watching over the results of one’s procreation. It’s okay for a child to just drop out of you like a bag of sand and keep walking without looking back.

Dear, God! People, the world is dangerous even for grown-ass, mean folks like myself. How in hell is child supposed to fend off some guy with a knife? HOLD YOUR KID’S HAND! They are still little. Or over-feed them. Fat kids are harder to kidnap, it’s just a fact of life.  Either way, do something. Don’t be so complacent.

So, Toronto, this is my warning to you. My very explicit and direct warning. I’m going to start snatching unattended children the fuck away from their parents and selling them to the circus. I’ll be dressed in a sundress, converse trainers, and glee. You’ll hear me laughing maniacally as I zoom past your family with your child in hand. That’s right. You read correctly. I feel that stupidity should be rewarded, so here it is! This also goes for you dumb fucks who let your kids crawl on the floor at restaurants. I’ll kidnap your child and give them a fucking tetanus shot for all the bullshit they must have contracted on the ground.

See this cute shit? Yeah, say goodbye because I'm taking it, you fool.


Opa and the Underground Railroad

Before I get into the actual story, some background information is required.

During the school year I look after an 8 year-old boy for some side cash. We’ll call him Simon. The kid is freaking adorable and he likes Star Wars. That’s enough to make me stick around. That aside, his mother is a single parent and when I am unable to play Wii with him for two hours, she’ll ask her parents, German immigrants, to hold down the fort. I’ve met “Nana” and “Opa” a few times and know them to be really sweet and gentle people.

Back to the story:

Right before Christmas break for elementary schools, Simon invited his grandparents and I to his school’s Christmas concert in which he’d be performing. I had to pick him up from school that night anyway so I agreed to stay the extra hour and bemusedly watch sunglasses-wearing kindergarteners rap a song in French (I’m not kidding; that was a real performance).

Soon after Simon and I got home and had a snack, his mother and grandparents make their entrance. After some shuffling around is done, we start piling on the winter clothes. As I tugged on my boots, the following conversation took place:

Opa: Timmi, I have a question for you.

Me: Of course, what’s on your mind?

Opa: Were you born here in Canada or in your country of origin?

Opa and I had never talked about me having a “country of origin”, but in Toronto this is a pretty standard question. Nobody was born here. Not even white people. We resume:

Me: Oh, I was born in Canada.

Opa: Ah ok, then. In that case, did your ancestors come to Canada using the Underground Railroad?

Me: *poker face*

Simon’s mother: Jesus Christ… *face palm*

Nana: Oh, it’s ok! It’s not a bad question! Besides, Timmi doesn’t mind!

Me: No, no! My biological parents are Jamaican.

See, I’m not even mad at Opa. I’m really not. I applaud his curiosity, in fact. That could be a valid question if you didn’t know that about 90% of Torontonian blacks are from the Caribbean, making it extremely unlikely that I have Canadian ancestry that goes back very far. It would also have been a valid question if I were a mermaid. I’m not sure. Perhaps to Opa I bear a very striking resemblance to my great-great-great grandmother:

Harriet Tubman