You Think You Can Dance?

Well, judging by the video, I don't know if Anna Kasprzak can dance or not, given the incomplete video. But one thing's for sure though: She definitely can't measure her sense of depth perception. Ouch...



I'm surprised that the producers of American Idol have not followed suit with such a stage design, what with the pit and all. You would think that the pit would be a great defense system against angry contestants who choose to storm towards Simon Cowell...

Robert's Rules of Order Neglected This...

Not too long ago, I wrote about a close encounter of the gassy kind with my boss, and how I was utterly unprepared of the rules of conduct in such a situation. I mean, Emily Post left this one out of the books, I think.

Well... Apparently, city council members of Medina, Ohio, had a similar situation. Almost, that is. Whereas my encounter was all in private, their encounter was in public. What does Robert's Rules of Order state when someone farts in a meeting?

Click here for the news article. Below is the video recording of the council session.



So what does that say about Ohio, a former fattest state in the union? Tee hee...

A Legal Question

So... A friend forwarded me an email wanting to know if the following falls within a certain legal framework:









"Is this statutory rape???"

Hotel a la Carte

For some odd reason, the Hilton Seattle no longer has the IBM negotiated rate in 2008. Instead of the usual suspects of hotels that usually pop up in the IBM online travel reservation tool, I was presented with a whole set of unfamiliar new hotels! The Hotel Vintage Park by Kimpton looked interesting, because it looked like a nice and classic hotel with rich interior decors. Plus, the website did a good job selling that property that I was won over. So I booked my stay at the Hotel Vintage Park.

When I arrived, I was quickly under whelmed. The room was tiny. And worst of all, the lobby could not provide me with complimentary toothpaste like most other hotel chains such as the Hilton or Marriott! Instead, I was forced to go through this basket filled with bottled waters, snacks, candies, a DVD about the state of Washington, and other miscellaneous junk. This basket contained a small, travel-sized package of toothpaste. I looked at the basket price list, which was separate from the mini-bar price list, and was shocked to see that I would be charged four freaking dollars for a toothpaste that was probably expired!

Bastards!

At first, I didn't deduct many points off of my personal review of this hotel. I was still relatively impressed, given the rich linens used in the bedding, and the interior décor. I thought it was rather neat at how they made the hotel room all romantic. The entire hotel had a wine theme, and each room was given a Washington winery name on top of the usual room numbers. I thought that was cute. And plus, I have read online that the hotel is good for romantic getaways and couples.

Then I kind of got a little nauseated later on. I noticed that perhaps the hotel was a bit too romantic. I mean, I'm on a business trip, and I expected the IBM negotiated hotels to be more on the professional side instead of romantic. All along the wall next to the bed was a giant mirror, extending the entire length of the king size bed. All the décor had red color as its central theme. And in the closet hung a couple soft and supple bathrobes with leopard prints.

LEOPARD PRINTS!!!

And to make things all the more kinky, I saw in the aforementioned basket price list an item costing $14 called, "Intimacy Kit." When I saw that, I quickly stared at the bed, and hoped that the linen was super cleaned with no remnants of any human DNA left. This would be my turning point in my personal review of this property from good to bad.

Then, as nature would have it, nature called. I went to the bathroom, and at first glance, things looked fine. But perched atop the toilet flush tank cover was yet another price list. Holy shit! Apparently, they charge you for almost every single thing, including the cotton swabs that are typically complimentary at most other hotels!

When I had finished dropping the kids off at the pool, I turned towards the toilet paper. Right before I tore off some squares, I made sure that there was no rolling counter installed on the toilet paper dispenser, as well as double-checking the bathroom price list to ensure that I wouldn't be charged extra for each sheet of luxury toilet paper.

Thank goodness the toilet paper was free. I have never, ever stayed in such an a la carte hotel that nickel and dime'd its guests! One thing was for sure though. I will never again stay at another Kimpton hotel ever again. Not even for my future honeymoon, if God willing.

My Crooked Back

After waking up hung over on New Year's Day, I promptly went home to check my work email. I didn't get an email response from my client instructing me not to come to Seattle, so I quickly booked a flight out that night as well as a hotel reservation. I was pretty sure I was done with traveling, but I guess this will be my absolute last trip.

Given the fact that it was already 15:30, and my booked flight was to depart at 20:00, I quickly showered and did laundry. I was down on the wire when it came to clean underwear, because I was on the last clean pair. After running around like a headless chicken, I finally managed to leave my house with enough time to swing by Maria's place to pick up some yummy dinner she had prepared and drop off the second Nintendo Wii that my sister decided not to get.

As it had been snowing all day and night of New Year's Eve, as well as through the entire New Year's Day, it didn't occur to me that flights might be affected. By the time I got to Midway International, I discovered that my flight's departure time was delayed from 20:00 to 21:20. Ugh!

And of course, I wasn't prepared for the massive crowd that awaited me at the security lines. Aside from the fact that I was tired and hung over from New Year's Eve celebration, I also had not been traveling for about a month, which made me rather rusty. And on top of that, I didn't think people would be traveling on New Year's Day. I only had to fly on that day because I had business to tend to for work.

Through all the madness, I finally got to the security checkpoint. If there is one thing I have to complain about having Boeing as my client, it would have to be the fact that I had to carry a Boeing issued laptop with me. That typically meant that in addition to my laptop bag and a carry-on roller bag, I also needed three baskets: one for my shoes and coat, one for my IBM issued laptop, and another one for my Boeing laptop. It certainly slowed me down when it comes to effortless and smooth transition in the security checkpoint.

After all that hassle, I finally collected my personal artifacts at the other side of the security checkpoint, while laughing at the woman still in line who was ahead of me, because she had way too many things. I thought she had bottomless pockets in her coat and jeans! As I walked away, I quickly realized that I had accidentally left the dinner Maria had prepared for me on the unsecured side of the checkpoint!

DAMN!!!

As there were still plenty of time left before I would have to board my flight, I thought I could make a last ditch effort to see if any of the fine TSA security agents had my dinner in custody. As luck would have it, a very courteous and nice TSA agent (shocker!) on the secured side of the checkpoint was carrying the bag of dinner, and was about to inspect to make sure it wasn't a "suspicious" package left by some terrorists. I recognized the bag immediately, and begged if I could have my dinner. I was hoping he wouldn't have to use his dirty little paws to go through my dinner. I mean, who knew where his hands had been. For all I know, he could have been using them all day to perform full body cavity search on suspicious passengers!!!

After finishing my sandwich, which I had requested Maria to pack, I was shocked to see that she had included a second plate. I thought it was more of the pepperoni pockets that Amy R had made for the party, so I tore at it. But when I peeled back the aluminum foil, I saw a whole personal size strawberry tart pie! Damn! Maria is the best!

So far, my final business trip started out badly with the horrible delay, but it was quickly overshadowed by Maria's little nice surprise. That is until I got on the plane after it had finally left Baltimore and landed in Chicago.

After we had all boarded our flight, we had to wait longer because the ground crews were overworked and could not load our bags into our plane well after our plane was deiced. And on top of that, as a rusty road warrior, I had totally forgotten to look for the right seats. As soon as I saw an open middle seat in the exit aisle, I quickly jumped at it. I totally forgot to notice that A) the man and woman on either sides were quite large, and B) they were a husband and a wife who were so big that they couldn't sit next to each other!

Unfortunately, it was all too late by the time I realized that I had picked the absolutely worst seat in the house. Or plane. And right after the plane took off, I realized that their teenage son was sitting across the center aisle on the other side of the plane!

So what is wrong with sitting next to two large people, you might ask? Well, normally, it's not all that bad. But in this particular situation, it was extremely horrible, because the husband to my right was top heavy. His left shoulder and arm went past the imaginary personal space border by about three inches, causing me to lean to my left. And his wife to my left was bottom heavy. I could not put my left armrest all the way down, because her right hip and thigh extended past the armrest by three inches into my seat!

So here I was, sitting crookedly, with my hip to the right, and my upper torso to my left. And the flight was a cool four hours long! In my seven year experience as a road warrior, I have never been subjected to such uncomfortable contortion of my body! I was leaning to my left side, but I couldn't support myself because if I use my left arm to lean on my left armrest, then it would be pushing down on the woman's leg fat. The last thing I needed was being barked at with: "Can't you see that you're pinching my leg when you lean on the armrest?"

By the time our flight landed in Seattle, my lower back was in pain, and I could feel a kink when I slung my laptop bag over my shoulders. As I stumbled out of the terminal, I thought to myself, What a way to take my final outbound business flight! How memorable!

Oopsy Daisies!

Well, I thought my spurt of clumsiness at Whistler was short-lived, but unfortunately, that isn't the case.

Yesterday, one of my coworkers asked why I was wearing a temporary badge instead of my Boeing-issued badge at work while I was standing up. I looked at my badge while he pointed at it, and proceeded to explain that I had somehow lost my badge. Just then, I noticed that the badge holder had a cracked corner. Presumably from my fat ass bending over to sit down which caught the badge in between my two body parts.

Anyway, after I had explained myself, I went to fix the badge holder. Just like a hang nail you can't seem to ignore but to pull and yank at it, I similarly did so with the corner of my rather hard plastic badge holder. When I couldn't tear it off, I applied more pressure.

A few seconds later, the entire floor heard a loud ouch! following a rather distinctive snap. I had successfully broken off the corner piece, but totally failed to realize that the hard plastic would make for a rather sharp edge, thus slicing open a portion of my thumb.

At first I thought it was minor, just a little scratch. While my coworker sat there in his cubicle with a grin the size of the Grand Canyon and laughed his ass off, I jokingly accused him of being an insensitive ass for not worrying about my "injury." He challenged the severity of my scratch, so I went further with the joke and showed him my thumb.

He immediately stopped laughing after he took a look at my thumb. Noticing that it wasn't funny for him anymore, I decided that I should take a look at the thumb myself, and holy shit! I really did slice open my thumb!!!

Damn! When the hell is this clumsiness ever gonna stop?

Return of the Klutz

In my formidable years of high school, I had the reputation of being a klutz. Involuntarily, of course. Whether I was in a basketball championship game as a varsity starter, or playing the lead role in school plays, or just plain walking through the halls of school, something would inevitably happen to me. It could be varied, like tripping over my own foot, walking into doors, or accidentally hitting myself in the face while trying to open some silly thing.

Well, as an adult, I have outgrown my clumsiness. In fact, the last time I had a klutzy moment was probably in 1999, when during Thanksgiving break while stuck in the residence halls of Southwest Missouri State University, I sliced my thumb open with a super-sharp kitchen knife while cutting the packaging of an assemble-it-yourself furniture from Wal-Mart. That little stint had me visiting the Emergency Department of a local hospital.

Now, fast forward to this week. On Tuesday, I decided on a whim to fly out to Seattle and join my friends on a ski trip to Whistler-Blackcomb. The plan was to fly out on Wednesday and stay in Seattle that evening, then drive up to Whistler on Thursday, and ski Friday and Saturday before spending Saturday night and Sunday in Vancouver.

Well... As we were loading up my friend's car on the crisp, Thursday morning, I somehow jammed my toe on the post of the fence lining his front "yard." Boy, did it hurt like hell. So much so that I screamed bloody murder.

Then the next day (Friday), after a full day of skiing on Whistler mountain, we returned to the hotel room to chillax. While walking around in the living room, I somehow walked into the armoire holding the television. The corner of it jabbed so deep into my arm that I let out a rather loud yelp.

On the Saturday morning of our final day of skiing at Whistler, we headed down to the lobby to get our daily free breakfast consisting of "scrambled" eggs made out of instant, powdered eggs, children coughed-on cereal, and toasts touched by other guests who obviously thought the thongs were merely for display. Before we even got to the elevators on our floor, I somehow did not pay attention to where I was going and heard a big whack and my lights went out momentarily. Within seconds, I found myself staring at the ceiling, head throbbing in multiple pulses of pain, and my hand clenching onto my balls on the floor.

All I heard was, "What the..." followed by the uncontrolled laughter of my friend and his girlfriend. I had no idea what had happened, but my initial thought was maybe my friend played a cruel trick on me. But when I looked around to see what had happened, I realized that I had walked into a metal pole in the middle of a fire-controlling doorway. Apparently, I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking, and arranged myself a private meeting with said doorframe.

Ouch!

Then today, after lunch at Vancouver, we walked around downtown in the hopes of finding a route back to the parking garage which was separated by a closed off Santa Clause Parade route. While walking in the lower level of the side street next to the Royal Provincial Court's pavilion, I almost fell on my face when I didn't see a step in the courtyard. Apparently, unlike the United States, the Canadians don't bother with painting the edges of unexpected steps with bright yellow tape indicating a drop-off.

Just as I almost fell and screamed a wobbly whoa, my friend looked at me before quipping to his girlfriend, "You know, this guy is so clumsy that he has at least a major incident each day." And they giggled at my expense.

Now, while writing this in the car en route back to Seattle, I realized that indeed my old clumsy self has paid a visit in the last few days! It sucks, but at least it didn't result in serious injuries other than a big shiner on my forehead with a bump the size of Mount Rainier. As I slowly rub my bump soothingly, I slowly mutter to myself, "This shit's gotta stop soon."

A Cheerleading Injury You Rarely See...

Alternate Title: How To Bang A Cheerleader!

Sangria Flavored Skewered Shrimp Wrapped in Bacon

Alternate Alternate Title: I'll Never Drink Again

BLOG MA: This blog entry has been rated BLOG MA. It is intended for mature audiences. Or anyone who can withstand a little graphic discussion.

A sudden blurred image came to view. It was bright. A blink. Still bright, but clearer. The Royal White-painted ceiling lit up by the strong rays of sunshine was all I could see on this bright Saturday morning. Then suddenly, I gasped for air, and shot straight up into a sitting position. I was in pain. I felt like someone had knocked me unconscious.

As I slowly stirred out of my sleep on my couch, I tried to piece back together what had happened. A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was 10:50. I tried to return to sleep, but it was useless as the sun wouldn't have any of it. Or it could be very well possible that I was at one time a cheapskate who bought blinds that aren't good at blocking out light.

On Friday evening, I took the subway after work and headed over to my friend Matt's place. The plan? A bunch of guys were going out to celebrate his last weekend as a bachelor. Because I didn't have enough time to go home and drop off my laptops, Matt said I could first meet up at his place so I can drop off my bags before heading out to the first resto-bar. (That's Toronto-speak for any bar that also serves food.) My plan was simple: Hang out with the guys for a little bit like a couple hours tops, celebrate, then head home at a decent time. I wanted to return to playing football with this really good group I had met before beginning my marathon training in the summer. Somehow, judging by the situation I found myself in this Saturday morning, I realized that my game plan went by the wayside. Like way the f**k in Egypt kind of side.

You see, I kind of had a really shitty two weeks. Don't get me wrong, as my weekend in San Francisco was mostly fun peppered in, but without going into details, fate seemed to designate for the most part of the last couple weeks as hell week for me. Instead of moping around in my own sorrow, I decided that the wife of Dog the Bounty Hunter may be right when she said, "When going through hell, don't stop." So I decided to ride on through hell. With the aid of liquid poison which we shall name Miller Lite. And to-kill-ya. And whatever the hell shots the guys bought throughout the night.

Anyway, it all started simply enough. Spanish tapas dinner and drinks at Moe's Cantina. Along with their fabled sangria. The food was delicious. The drinks even sweeter and palatable. It became quite obvious that the bacon-wrapped shrimp skewers were the group favorite, because we ordered six skewers of it, two at a time. Not so favorite? Vegetable skewer. Apparently we were all members of PETA; people eating tasty animals.

As the night was still young, the bar wasn't exactly hopping, but with the eight of us, we managed to be the loudest bunch drawing attention from the many other patrons. Of course, the fact that Matt was wearing all kinds of colorful beads helped a lot. But not as much as the good looking fellas that we were. =)

As we bar-hopped around Wrigleyville, things started becoming a blur. Instead of pacing myself slowly, I managed to consume two drinks at each bar, along with shots people bought. And at each bar we stopped at, we had a rule to this game. We had to, uhm, smoke a fag (that's British talk for a cigarette) before hitting the next bar.

Well, all I can say is that after several bar-hopping and smoking fags, the group of eight slowly dwindled down to four. In the end, I found myself hitting on girls waiting in line at the famed Taco Hell (which always happens every time I go to that Taco Hell across from Wrigley Field), while Matt and the crew enjoyed (albeit briefly) my drunken stupor. I don't remember how we got there, or which bar we had left prior to getting there, but here we were, at Taco Hell. As usual, I ordered a Southwestern Bowl. Not quite sure which kind, or how I paid for it, but after all the flirting at the line, I managed to take pictures with seven hot girls. (I later had to delete pictures of four of them, because I later discovered that they weren't exactly hot when I was sober, if you know what I mean. Thankfully, the other three turned out exceptional, with one standing out like a girl in bikini in a corporate boardroom full of suited chicks.)

After remembering that much, I decided to get off the couch. I had to pee real bad. But I also had a mouth of parched leather, so I took a detour into my kitchen. I downed a big bottle of Strawberry-Kiwi flavored Propel as if I had just been rescued from the Sahara Desert. Feeling partially satiated, I walked through the hallway towards the bathroom. What laid before me was trail of artifacts. The hallway starting from the front door turning right into the bathroom was first my belt. Then my jeans. Then my underwear. What?!? I quickly looked down at my crotch to make sure I had not been sleeping commando. Strangely enough, I had on a pair. Where I had gotten it, I wasn't sure.

Right through the doorway into my bathroom, my work bag was sitting down there, next to my Chicago Marathon jacket that I had worn on Friday evening. This trail from belt to jacket led from the front door to the edge of the toilet. Then I suddenly remembered partially what happened when I got home. I had this nagging urge to take a huge dump, and couldn't wait to get out of the cab! I must have started undressing before even dropping off my heavy bag while rushing into the bathroom. I chuckled at this sudden remembrance.

When I lifted the toilet seat, the sight before my very eyes made me gag before muttering, "What the... NAA...ASTY!!!" Then I looked around the bathroom floor, and the tornadic arrangement on the floor jogged my memory even more. I don't remember the cab ride from Matt's place to my home, but I remembered falling down the final flight of stairs at Matt's apartment complex and thinking subsequently that my ankles better not be jacked up because I was going to run a few miles of the Chicago Ultra Marathon later that day, and hit the Trick or Treat Trot 5K on Sunday. I certainly don't remember flagging down a cab, but I do remember paying the cabbie when I got home.

Because I had not taken a dump all Friday long, and with having had a huge lunch and a relatively large and festive dinner with the guys, I couldn't hold it in much longer. But as I sat there on the toilet and squeezed my abdominal muscles, I remembered feeling relieved. I also remembered that after I wiped myself, I suddenly had to puke because I had squeezed my tummy too hard. Being bent over on the toilet certainly didn't help, and I felt the food coming upwards. It came out so fast and sudden like Mount Santorini when it devastated the Minoan civilization. It was so sudden that I had to jump off the toilet (thank God I wiped!) and stick my head in the toilet! I thought my response was lightning quick, but apparently not, because on Saturday morning, I could see that I had missed my aim on one of my hurls.

To make matters worse, I definitely did not remember the toilet clogging up after I had done puking when I flushed. So here I was, on Saturday morning, with my head hurting in pain, I was staring at the nastiest thing I had ever done in my own home. A mix of fecal matter and pieces of shrimp, bacon and cilantro caked into the toilet bowl. Great! I don't have much time before I had to go run Elaine in on her final two miles of the Chicago Ultra Marathon, and I have to pee! As a germaphobe that I have always been, I couldn't possibly leave this mess alone. I had to clean it, as much as I didn't want to.

Thinking that maybe after all night of sitting there, my crap might have softened up enough for it to be flushable. I pulled on the flush lever, and hoped for the best. Unfortunately for me, all that nastiness filled up nearly to the brim. Luckily, nothing overflowed. Damn!!! Because I have never clogged up my toilet before, I never had the need to own a plunger. So I went down to the building engineer's office and borrowed his industrial plunger.

As I sat there and plunged away as carefully as I could without splashing all that e-coli tainted water, I got tired pretty soon. After all, I had to pee, and I was hungry too. What I needed to do right then was to eat a hot, soupy noodle meal and pee, not wasting my time plunging. But I just had to clean this mess before starting out the day, because I was sure that once my sinuses had cleared out after the Zyrtec pills were popped, I would really know how bad my condo smelled. Bathroom cleaning became priority number one.

After plunging for almost half an hour to no avail, I began panicking. I washed my hands, got onto the computer, and looked up Elaine's time at the 2006 Chicago Marathon to see what her long distance pace was, so that I could calculate and see how long it would take her to complete the 31 mile ultra marathon. A quick calculation revealed that I had to be on the course by 14:00 or else she would have finished since the race started 08:30. I looked at the clock, and it was already 12:45. Not good.

Then I suddenly realized that I had never used a plunger before, so it could be possible that I was doing it all wrong, considering that I had been plunging away for over half an hour. I Googled for "toilet plunging tips", and was pleased at the few professional advice available on the interwebs. I was even more pleased that all recommended several do-it-yourself procedures before calling in the professional, as I thought I was nearing that point.

After watching diagrams of basic toilet designs, and how plungers work, I suddenly realize that the word plunger was very misleading. I thought as a device to plunge things, you're forcing the culprit of the clog to be forced through the toilet by the air pocket trapped in the cup of the plunger. It turned out that the cup at the end of the plunger was designed to create suction, because you're pulling the questionable debris back into the toilet bowl so that said debris (or shit, as I call it) can begin flowing in pieces instead of one large clump. Aha! That explains why a bowlful of shit along with puke certainly was the right recipe to create a clog! I also learned that the number top culprits for clogged toilets are usually: 1) toys or missing makeup, 2) humongous hard turd, and 3) cat litter. Really, people dump cat litter in the toilet?!?

But before I could begin practicing my newly acquired housekeeping skills, I had to do something else as explained by the online advisors. Find a plastic cup and a bucket, and empty out the toilet bowl to just an inch or so above the normal resting waterline after a normal flush. And thankfully, the whole procedure was accompanied by a video instruction! As much as I hated this, I had to do what it said. I know this is kind of gross, but I decided to mention the whole process in my blog because I found this newly discovered skill extremely helpful. And it will be helpful to you too, because like me, you will one day be a homeowner.

As I began plunging away with a bucket full of shit, puke, and food particles beside me, I started to get disheartened. Because after fifteen minutes of plunging, I got nowhere. And it was already 13:00. And why was I holding onto the bucket of shit water? Apparently, modern house plumbing designs have separated the line from the toilet from the line in our sink. The online instructor mentioned that dumping fecal matter down the kitchen sink will make it all the harder to process into drinking water. And since I'm a big fan of tap water, the bucket of shit remained next to me. Oh, how I wished I lived next to a farm...

By now, I had gotten desperate. I looked online again to see what other professional tips could help. And this final one held the magic key. You're supposed to plunge the toilet with fast up and down strokes, with no more than three seconds apart between each stroke. Damn! Is this guy for real? Toilet plunging somehow managed to turn from a simple household activity into a procedure as complicated as giving CPR! I was just glad that mouth-to-toilet resuscitation was not a prerequisite. And after another 15 minutes of plunging to no avail, I decided that I should feed my starving tummy and find a way to pee.

While the Korean noodles cooked, I couldn't hold my pee in any longer. A light bulb suddenly came on. I looked at the empty half liter Propel bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, and thought that maybe I could just pee into the bottle. After all, I doubt my bladder could hold onto half a liter of pee. So there I went. Now, if you were wondering why I didn't just pee in the sink, I actually had thought of that. My rationale went like this: I didn't want pee splashing anywhere onto my kitchen counter. End of story with that one. But as the waterline (really, peeline to be exact) neared the top of the bottle, I began to panic. Shit! What if I can't stop midstream?!? With about two inches to go, I squeezed as hard as I possibly could. My first pee of the day after a long night of sleep; could I possibly do this?

Even to my own amazement, I stopped just in time!!! Hallelujah!!! With just a quarter of an inch to go! After carefully pouring it down the sink right into the hole so as to have zero splash, I peed the rest into the now empty warm bottle. Holy shit! I filled half the bottle before completely emptying out my bladder. Can human bladders really hold 750 ml of pee?!? And if you're wondering about pee being recycled back into drinking water, take heart that pee is sterile. Mine just might taste like Miller Lite or tequila.

Glad as I was that I solved my pee problem, I washed my hands and sat down to eat my Korean noodles. Then suddenly, I began to whimper. Like a stupid girl who suddenly got really emotional over nothing, like eating a bowl of spicy noodles. My thoughts? Here I am, a young man of great talent, who has always been nice and good to his friends, who was successful with a flowering career, and suddenly fate gave him two weeks of pure hell! And I was reduced to scooping shit and puke out of a toilet into my nice bucket reserved only for mopping my floors, and peeing into a bottle like an uncivilized caveman with absolutely no manners. And worst of all? In my drunken stupor, my Nokia N95 was stolen the night before by the time when I returned home.

As if fate didn't have enough of this mockery, I was also given the pleasure to be stuck with the whole toilet plunging business. Such a simple household chore, and a man with a degree who works for a great technology company such as IBM couldn't freaking figure out how to plunge his own shit through the toilet! Then I cried just a little harder, like a poor helpless girl who suddenly realized later the consequence of sugarless nights after the initial outcry when discovering somebody had stolen her bucket of candy the morning after Halloween.

Yeah, it was that depressing. As I wiped away my tears and began forcing food down my throat as I no longer was hungry while feeling all sad for myself, I then decided that it would be best that I just stay home and not go run Elaine in on her final two miles of the Ultra Marathon. But after a couple bites of the Korean noodle, I suddenly realized that I might just had hit rock bottom. I know, so cliché, isn't it? And things suddenly got clearer, after I thought things through with my hungover mind and put things in perspective. Elaine's grandfather's health had suddenly deteriorated at a greater pace, and she had been a mess since Friday. She couldn't finish the Chicago Marathon, especially when she was running for charity for her grandparents who suffered Alzheimer's. This Ultra Marathon was to make up for the botched Chicago Marathon. The sudden news that her grandfather may pass any minute soon really made me realize that what I was going through was pee-nuts compared to what Elaine was going through.

So I wiped up my tears, and finished my Korean noodles as fast I could. I began laughing like a 14 year old girl, because I realized that however horrible my life had briefly been, and however terrible my current situation was, it was all funny in retrospect. I won't laugh now, but I sure will next week. And of course, this could be very blog-worthy. For me, at least.

After putting my empty bowl in the sink, I attacked the clogged toilet again, but with determination this time. Come hell or high water, I was going to be out there cheering and running Elaine in. I sat on the brim of the bathtub, next to the bucket full of liquefied shit, and plunged away. Twenty minutes went by, but I pressed on. Then suddenly, the little bit of mess started going down. I lifted the plunger to make sure. And it did, slowly. I waited, and then cautiously flushed. The water swirled around and rose up. But it continued to swirl. Then voila! The whole thing swirled down the toilet!

Hallelujah!!! Allah be praised! Baby lord Jesus be praised! My combo number 9 (shit and puke) went down! Then I poured the bucket of shit down the toilet, and flushed. It all went down too!!! Then I began cleaning my toilet and bucket. I looked at the clock, and it was 13:50. I guess I had no time to shower, and no point to do so when I'd be sweating again when I run Elaine in later on.

I made it down to the race course on time, and she was very appreciative of my support. I just didn't tell her the hellish morning that I had to go through that morning. At that point in time, I reprioritized things. The Halloween Pub Crawl on Saturday afternoon will have to wait, or skipped altogether, even though I had spent $50 working on my dorky costume. I had to go to the Nokia store and see if they had a registry for stolen phones just in case if the new owner decided to take it in for warranty support. And I also had to go to the AT&T store to get a new SIM card so I could at least reconnect to the outside world with my older Nokia N91 phone. I also wanted to see if they have a registry of stolen devices, and if they can block stolen devices from connecting to the network. The guy said it was possible, but that I had to call Customer Service for that and provide the IMEI code. This looked promising.

While I sat there plunging my toilet, a thought did occur to me, because in the middle of it all, I felt a bump in my forehead and tried to figure out why I had a particular sharp pain over my left eyebrow. I suddenly remembered why I missed my first hurl at the toilet after I shat. With my Chicago Marathon jacket on the bathroom floor, the fleece on tiled floor just made for a slippery condition. And when I jumped up, I had slipped and fell. And on the way down, I slammed my forehead on the corner of my bathroom sink. I guess in retrospect, I should be thankful that that was all it was. I mean, I could've cracked a tooth on the toilet bowl! Or worse, stuck my whole arm into a toilet full of shit as I came crashing down. And then I thought, oh my goodness, what if I had the cell phone in my jacket all along, but because I was tearing off my clothes so fast that it dropped out of my coat pocket and fell into the toilet, thus the clog?!?

Now that would be an interesting turn of events if that had been the case. But in the meantime, I've left voicemails with the Yellow Cab of Chicago after reviewing the security video of my condo to determine that it was in fact a Chicago Yellow Cab. But no cab number, unfortunately, due to poor video quality... But that's a good start. And I'll been monitoring eBay for any new posting of a used Nokia N95 without the charger within 100 miles of Chicago starting October 27.

Apple Commercial Spoof!

So yeah, I was searching for the Apple iPhone adverts on the Internet when I came across some totally awesome mock adverts.

Remember how Apple has this longstanding campaign on television where two guys representing a Mac and PC talk, and the Mac avatar kept on dissing the PC avatar for its "superiority?" Well, the mock adverts I found took the exact same concept, but turned the tables around on Apple!

Basically, it's the Apple iPhone versus the Nokia N95, which I proudly own. Anyway, below are the videos. They are hilarious! Enjoy!

Picture Viewing Capabilities



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Camera functionality



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Not the watered down Internet, nor the mobile version of the Internet, nor the kinda sorta looks like Internet Internet (double mock)


The above commercial mocks the Apple iPhone's "Watered Down" commercial shown below:


The above commercial also stretchingly mocks Apple iMac's "Networking" commercial shown below:



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How to get to Seafood Calamari


The above commercial mocks the Apple iPhone's "Calamari" commercial:



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Battery Trip to China



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Cool Ringtone



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All the spoofed commercials can be downloaded in MP4 video format here:
Picture Viewing Capabilities
Camera functionality
Not he watered down Internet, nor the mobile version of the Internet, nor the kinda sorta looks like Internet Internet too!
How to get to Seafood Calamari
Battery Trip to China
Cool Ringtone

Swamp Ass

Since it is the start of the fall season premieres, I spent some time watching television. [More on the fall season in a later blog.] I wasn't too excited about the Titans/Saints game on Monday Night Football, especially after watching the first half at Gold's Gym while running my six miles on the treadmill. C'mon! The Saints were embarrassing!

Anyway, the show I really wanted to watch was The Big Bang Theory, or at least the only one I could catch after getting dinner. I made it a point to avoid the television while How I Met Your Mother was showing, because I got back to the hotel 15 minutes after the show had started. Besides, I have that scheduled on my DVR.

Just wanting to kill some time, I decided to watch Two and a Half Men. I have seen a few episodes in the past, but although it was kind of funny at times, it never captured my desire, thus never earning a spot in my precious DVR space. But tonight's season premiere episode was really clever and funny. Not to mention corny at times, but that is how it is with most situation comedies.

Somewhere in the middle, there was a reference to "swamp ass." Of course, being the foreigner-turned-citizen that I am, I had no idea what the hell the joke was all about. I quickly looked up my trusty Urban Dictionary, and oh my goodness! My precious virgin eyes and mind!!!

It didn't take much for me to realize what it meant, and despite being utterly disgusted, I was immediately put to rolling on the floor laughing out loud (a.k.a. rotf lol) when I read the third entry in the definition of swamp ass:
A common condition in which the ass crack and crotch becomes overly moist, sweaty, and stinky from one or all of the following:
- sweating on a hot day
- not bathing enough
- long day of work, sports, play
- incomplete wipe due to rush or laziness
The crack will often feel squishy, wet, unpleasant, and itchy. It is recommended to take a bath with soap to sanitize the condition.

Man, what was really funny to me was the last reason: "incomplete wipe due to rush or laziness! Holy smokes!!!

As a person who is germaphobe, I have never been rushed nor lazy in my ass wiping activity. If anything, I am quite guilty for killing trees when wiping after taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. I just cannot imagine anybody would feel like they are rushed to avoid completely cleaning him/herself up!

Unimaginable!!!

Thank goodness that I rarely had any swamp ass... And I'd like to keep it that way.

Hot Steamy Shower Sex

Sometimes when I stay in a hotel with thin walls, it can be extremely disturbing when I have an eight o'clock meeting in the morning while my neighbors next door knock the uglies shortly after midnight. As if the banging of the headboard wasn't enough, sometimes I get the loud moaners. Or rarely, I'll get the businesswoman who doesn't realize exactly how loud her "partner" can be. Because of that, I've always been cognizant about the noise I produce within my own walls.

This morning, after waking up, I stumbled my way to the window with all my morning glory and opened the curtains. I stared out at the I-5 traffic, sighed at the fog that still lingered around Seattle. Then I started making my way towards the bathroom. Along the way, I stripped down my boxers without breaking a stride. And in one swift motion in mid-stride, I kicked off my boxers into the laundry bag in the closet nearby.

I looked in the mirror, as always, and let out a sigh in slight disgust at the little belly (okay, maybe not so little) staring back at me. Somehow, I always think that all my hotel rooms have defective mirrors, because in my mind, I always sport six-packs for my abs.

I turned on the shower and let it run for a few seconds till the frigid water started steaming up into a nice warm steady stream. I ran my hand through the streams, and felt ready.

I lifted my right leg into the bathtub and planted it solidly. The last thing I wanted was to slip while getting into the bathtub and cracking my head open while fully nude. Housekeeping wouldn't be pleased. When I felt I was good to go, I picked up my left foot to step completely into the shower.

But in the middle of the swing, the big toe on my left foot caught the edge of the bath tub rim, essentially tripping me. As my body lunged forward, my right knee slammed into the ceramic soap holder thingy. As pain shot up, I reached down to rub it, whereby I slammed my forehead into the marble wall of the shower. All this in a lightning-fast two seconds!

First came the loud Oh! from the toe stub. Next came the loud thump! (knee meets soap holder). Followed by another loud Ooooo!, before another bump and rattle on the wall (from the head smashing the wall). Before long, I was moaning in pain loudly.

As adrenaline rushed all over my body, I started grunting "Ugh" loudly and moaning, "Oooh God, oh God, ooooooh God!" while I leaned on my left arm while rubbing my right knee. Then the toilet in my neighbor's bathroom flushed, and I heard some giggling come across from the common air vent in the bathroom.

Damn! My neighbor probably thought I was having a hot steamy sex in the shower!!!

Funny Only to a Road Warrior

A benefit to being a road warrior for years is the multitude of privileges I get at airlines and hotels. With airlines, my frequent patronizing of Southwest Airlines have netted me several free round trip tickets, as well as earning a Companion Pass for continuous years. As with hotels, I have earned enough points with Hilton that I can stay at the Hawaii Hilton resort for over a week! And as a single person, it is just plain sad that I have no one to share the free travels with.

Anyway, having reached the Diamond VIP status with Hilton has allowed me to access the Executive Floors, free happy hour and hors d'oeuvres at the Executive Lounge, and free breakfasts at their upper tier properties. And today, like any other day, I enjoyed my complimentary breakfast at the Top of the Hilton restaurant with freshly brewed cup of Joe and crispy copy of the USA Today newspaper. In the middle of my meal, I overheard the following from the patron in the next booth:

Server: How was breakfast? Everything okay?
Patron: Everything was fine, thank you very much.
Server: Do you need anything else?
Patron: I'm done, thanks!
Server: Okay. Do you have a breakfast coupon?
Patron: No, but how do I get the coupon?
Server: Well, if you have Diamond VIP status, you automatically get the breakfast coupons.
Patron: That's strange! The front desk folks didn't give me any!
Server: So you're a Diamond VIP guest?
Patron: Yes, I have diamond status with Delta Airlines.

At this point, I smacked my left palm against my forehead and almost lost my coffee through my nostrils! Another patron sitting at another table facing me saw that, but was amused and curious as to why I did that. Obviously, she didn't overhear the conversation that took place within her vicinity.

You see, this is only funny to those who are road warriors, because we keep track of our status on many different airlines and hotels. The funny part was why would the unsuspecting neighbor in the other booth ever think that he is entitled to free breakfast at a hotel if he had "diamond" status with Delta Airlines? Better yet, as a road warrior, I instantly recognized another problem, because with Delta Airlines, the statuses you have are Silver, Gold and Platinum! There isn't a "Diamond" level with Delta Airlines. In fact, the Diamond status is not even used in any other airline or hotel chain, except for Hilton!

Of course, I laugh my ass off while I write this, but I'm sure as a reader, you're scratching your head wondering why this is funny or even blogworthy. Trust me. Until you have earned your stripes as a road warrior, you'll probably not see the humor in it. =)

Germaphobe And Prairie Dogs

Being a runner is no easy task. Running is not exactly an easy sport, unless you run for just a couple blocks. For me, when my weekly mileage can easy hit 30 miles or more, running becomes somewhat difficult. Unless, of course, you're a crazy marathoner who during non-training cycles simply enjoy running over 50 miles a week.

One may venture to think that running is a piece of cake; just lace up your trainers and go. But it's not all that simple. A smart runner will have to warm-up first, stretch properly before a run, run the grueling miles, be cognizant to remain hydrated, cool down, and stretch one last time. And on top of that, avoid bumps on the path or getting run over by unruly cyclists and automobiles. Sounds pretty hard, right?

And if you're like Danny Tanner* or me, then you will have at least one factor simply making a typical run harder.

You see, yours truly is a germaphobe. As a germaphobe, I do a lot of things differently. Whenever I need to wipe off the sweat from my face, especially around the eyes, nose or mouth, I get wary, because I know that I had touched the soles of my shoes during stretching. I can just imagine what other interesting things my soles have touched along the path. Remnants of dog poo is the least of my worries, especially when I have a very active and imaginative mind.

To this day, I have never, ever taken a dump in one of those porta-pots. The only way I have ever used one of them plastic porta-pots is when I have to pee. For some odd reason, fecal matter simply gives me the shivers. [Side note: This is why I am behooved to wonder why the practice of scat in the bedroom is even pleasurable at all.] And with almost 30 years of my life passed, I don't intend on ever dropping the kids off at the porta-pot pool in the next 30 years. Or the 30 years after that. The only exception, of course, is if the porta-pot was just delivered freshly cleaned, and I am graced as the first person to soil it. Then yes, I wouldn't mind one bit.

Sometimes, no matter how much preparation you have ensured to take, it is quite possible that shit just happens. Literally. It is my common practice that before each and every run lasting more than five miles, I will spend a lot of time on the porcelain throne to empty myself, all in the hopes of never having to sit in the porta-pots. And I've always sympathized with the girls, because big or small, or number one or two, they have to sit when using the porta-pot.

It's a vicious cycle, you see, because some girl afflicted with the same phobia as me will hover and pee all over the seat, causing the next girl to feel compelled to do the same, and before long, some girl needing to take a dump will be forced to hover and carpet bomb the entire seat. Now, I'm not saying girls are to blame here, but it is quite possible that boys may accidentally pee on the seat instead of using the wall urinal to the side, thus causing a very similar snowball effect.

Because of this very disturbing fact, I will at all cost not use the porta-pot for taking a dump. I have vowed since adopting my OCD complex at a young age that my smooth-skinned butt will never touch such nastiness. And to hell if I have to hover, because unlike girls, I have two little boys hanging out there, and the last thing I want to do is to soil my boys.

Unfortunately for me, no matter how much preparation I had spent before my past Monday 10 mile run, my large colon began complaining at mile 7.4. I knew there were at least several porta-pots around the 2.4 mile Green Lake loop, but I was so stubborn that I thought I could tough it out.

I thought things were going well, until of course my final mile. Instead of expending all my energy in maintaining a 10:30 minute mile pace, I was struggling to keep my shit in. Instead of motivating myself in the mind, One more mile; just one more mile, I was suddenly forced into motivating myself differently: Only another half hour before returning to the hotel; just another half hour! Surprisingly, I ran a faster pace during that final mile despite the fact that I was getting sore.

Maybe I should look into carrying several packets of alcohol swabs whenever I go run in public, because as an adamant germaphobe, there is absolutely nothing worse in the world than prairie dogging it while running.

* Tell me why I named Danny Tanner along with me, and I'll give you a nickel. =)

Sucks to be an Asian

I'm an Asian American, and proud to be one. But there is something that bothers me once in a while for being an Asian. You see, one of my sister's former boyfriends is a semi-psychotic typical Midwestern white boy who has this fetish for Asians. He would dress like Asians as often as he can, carry an accent like Asian Americans, never mind the fact that he sounds perfectly fine with his Midwestern English, and collect anything Asian related. It is one thing to appreciate a different culture, and totally another thing when emulating it.

Or take for example one of my former R.A.s (college dormitory resident assistant) at Southwest Missouri State University. He is this short, white guy with receding hairline, from the heart of the Ozarks. Yet, he talks like an African American, acts like one, and raps on the side. Normally, this isn't all that strange or uncommon, except for the fact that he was proud to have been on the Jerry Springer show titled Blacks Trapped in a White Body. Yeah, extreme, huh?

In any case, people who have an Asian fetish kind of freaks me out. But for the most part, they don't bother me a whole lot, because it is always the white guys who are totally nuts about Asian girls. It is hardly ever white girls totally crushing on Asian guys. But living here in a city as diverse as Chicago, there is a certain twist that just bothers me a little.

I have nothing against gays, and even have gay friends. What I take issue with are guys who have an Asian fetish who happen to be gay. And typically gay guys are quite flamboyant and bold, and as such, I often get whistled at or checked out while walking to my friend Maria or Matt's place in Boystown. I definitely don't feel comfortable, and I wonder how my girl friends handle being whistled at.

I mean, should I feel proud and walk with a sway whenever a gay guy with a ripped bod check me out with a wink? After all, they typically sport the kind of body that I very much envy, yet I sport this sweet little tiny spare tire and the beginnings of boobage like a 12-year old girl starting puberty. Or should I secretly enjoy it, but keep cool? And what is it about Asian guys that attract gay guys? Is it a fetish, or simply the fact that they like tiny little, uh, cavities?

Whatever the case may be, this is the only kind of situation where I always feel a little bit uncomfortable being Asian. You would think that someone as confident and extroverted like me would still feel manly and secure about his heritage in situations like this, but I always feel a little dirty and violated whenever I get whistled at by a gay guy. And of course with the whole thing with Senator Craig, I have mysteriously developed a new fear of going into public restrooms. Thanks to him, now I have the frame of mind to freak out when the guy sitting next to me tries to cruise with me while on the crapper, or when some dude follows me into a restroom and tries to look into my stall through the crack between the partitions.

Shivers!

Ploper Engrish from SFBs

We're all immigrants, be it Americans who have lived here for a few generations, or like me, first generation American. But there is a dividing line, which its distinction is kind of hard to tell. You'll never see a stronger shade of gray in this regard.

If you recall from one of my previous writings, there is this term called FOB, which stands for Fresh Off the Boat. For starters, you can say anybody who just immigrated to this country within six months qualify as being fresh off the boat. But then, the term is typically equally applied to anyone who have been an immigrant to America for years yet somehow managed to still have no command of the English language, much less any kind of a grasp on the American culture. So yeah, simply using the number of years one have been an immigrant is not exactly a clear, definitive distinction between one who is fresh off the boat and one who has been an SFB.

The whole point of this writing is not to rant about FOBs, much less delve much into those who fall into the FOB category. I want to pay attention to those who belong to the SFB camp. What is SFB, you ask? Well, it is definitely not a term you'd find on Urban Dictionary, as it is something I just made up impromptu on this long flight to Seattle. It simply is an acronym standing for Stale Former Boaters. =)

You see, although people like some of my friends and me have been Americans for quite some time, we do at one point or another hit the roadblock while commanding the English language. Cases in point...

While having a happy hour after work earlier in the summer, a few friends of mine and I were all catching up on each others' lives. Cesar (American Mexican) was teasing his wife Sabine (French American) relentlessly, which caused her to cry out, "Take a pill chill!" Needless to say, she opened the gates allowing us to forever tease her with that saying whenever the occasion arises.

And then my other friend Erin (Japanese American) would at times accidentally say "cheap steak" instead of "cheap skate." Although it wasn't her mistake to begin with, she caught the bug when her friend from back home would always misuse that phrase.

Finally, we have Rosa (Salvadorian American, as best as I could tell, because for all we know, she could be an entirely new breed). Whenever she gets excited, her English will decline exponentially, especially when she starts talking real fast. And the best part of it all? I can totally wind her up easily, as she has so many buttons at my disposal to push on. Just last night, when we were talking about her nasty, stinkin' foot injury, she theorized about how "hair dog" got into the crack of her heel. And best of all, she said that twice!

At first glance, any stranger who overhears us will recognize instantly (at least I hope) that we have a pretty strong command of the English language. But hang out with us Stale Former Boaters long enough and you will slowly catch us saying silly things here and there.

Since I ratted out a little bit on my friends, I suppose it is only fair that I reveal at least a common slip up I frequently say. I tend to mix up the word "sheet" and "shit" frequently when conversing verbally. And you can thank my upbringing for that, as I learned "shit" from friends way before someone taught me what a "sheet" is. And it has stuck ever since. Of course, this is not counting the frequent "yet" incident I often have with my good friend Shannon. =)

C'mon! Where's the Modesty?!?

It is simply human nature that at least once a day, we just have to go to the grounded lavatory and relieve ourselves. And it is much more so especially after a hefty lunch. Well, today is no different than what's normal, other than the fact that I am actually in downtown at my office instead of working from home.

I knew the time would come after having a huge Patty Melt for lunch at Poag Mahone's, famous for its burgers and anything beef. So much so that they even have a Poag Mahone's Burger Eater's Bill of Rights!

Anyway, as I'm the germaphobe type of a guy, I generally avoid using restrooms outside of the comforts of my home. But it didn't bother me today, because I knew the restroom at the I B M office is very nice and, dare I say, kind of upscale. I mean, it's even got a nice little couch, which I have only seen in women's restrooms at fancy restaurants! Not only do they provide nice cowboy hats (those silly protective paper you use to cover the toilet seats), but they also provide real toilet paper instead of thin sandpaper that is just as absorbent as a plastic sheet. I know it is definitely not Quilted Northern (my favorite!), but I think it is definitely Charmin. Two-ply, no less!

I view my number two breaks at the I B M office as something of a R&R moment. I would go in there, all nice, quiet and comfortable, pull my trousers down, and relax. While others may go on a couple cigarette breaks lasting 10 minutes each a day, the number two break is my equivalent. This is where I would take my time, no rush, and simultaneously get on the Internet with my cell phone and catch up on news on current events and popular blogs.

So earlier I went for my number two break. Although I had already gotten snug and comfortable, I had yet to begin my business before some guy who sounded larger than life waltzed into the decently-sized restroom. I was occupying the last stall, yet this guy chose to go into the stall next to me, of all the other possible choices! And we all know that men's dress shoes have this slight clicking sound to them, right? Well, this guy's strides were so heavy that I swear a woman in high heels was in the men's restroom!

I'm not a mean person, so I was not quick to judge. At least not on the mere loud clicking noises he produced with his suave, shiny shoes. But what happened next irritated the shit out of me. Literally!

I don't know about common etiquettes typically exercised in women's restrooms, but I believe what happened next was definitely beyond the boundaries of what I consider normal. First, he simply had to push so hard that his fart echoed throughout the walls of the restroom. I swear I thought the partition walls between our stalls shook. Next, he felt the need to high drop his things that you may have mistaken the restroom in an office high rise for the restroom in a swimming pool with a dive board, where a fat kid just jumped in.

Grr! What is this guy trying to prove?!? The toughest man on earth?!? Despite what he did, I tried to enjoy reading a blog. But he quickly interrupted me by yanking on the toilet paper so hard that the toilet paper holder rattled like a poor kid shaking a steel piggy bank violently. Without missing a beat, he blew his nose as if he was practicing for a tuba solo. What the hell is up with this guy?!? A competition to see who is the loudest?!?

And of course, it is simply natural, and biological, that once in a while a fart would come along when you go drop the kids off at the pool, so I let out a gentle fart. Sorry to say this, but I like modesty. Not to mention that I don't like pushing my fart out so hard that your ass cheeks hurt from the ripple effects of the sonic boom. But immediately after I let out a whimper of a fart, the guy next to me had the audacity to chuckle! Oh, this guy thinks I'm an import, eh?!? [Import cars typically have a joke of a horn, compared to American made cars that have authority sounding horns.] Then he proved my theory correct: He let loose a loud fart, again, as to assert his authority. Not to mention the misguided idea of being on top of the societal hierarchy.

I was so turned off by this jack ass that I simply wiped up and got the hell out of there. But while I was washing my hands, I heard him clean up and get out of his stall. As I looked at him through the mirror, this short guy just looked at me and smiled.

WTF?!? Obviously this crazy guy has got some issues! I can't believe some guy suffering from the Napoleon Syndrome was competing with me on shitting!

Worse? On the grand scheme of things, he was technically a coworker of mine, even though I don't know him. I might venture to guess that he probably was in sales.

The Bakery Story

In this one neighborhood, there are two bakeries. They both make gorgeous wedding cakes and other similar items. And they are both fierce competitors, constantly one-upping each other. Furthermore, their salespeople (let's just assume that the bakeries have traveling salespeople) are always undercutting each other, touting their products better and cheaper than the other.

Well, as I work for one of the bakeries, I can't even imagine the shock I received when the other bakery called in desperation for our assistance. What the... I tried to contain my laughter and control myself from spouting out puns here and there, and remained as professional as possible throughout.

Isn't that embarrassing? I wonder how much pride they have to swallow to make that desperate call? I'll definitely not look at their cake the same way ever again... =)

I Screwed a Fat Chick!

Earlier today, my friend called and asked if I could go help her out. Of course, being the nice guy that I am, I gladly offered my assistance. So she came and picked me up, and we drove around.

Finally, we got to this one place, and we waited in the heat for a little bit. After a while, money was exchanged for the services requested. Then I asked her, "Do you have protection?" Her response was resoundingly instantaneous with conviction: "Of course!"

Unfortunately, it was a little small and too tight for my head. But seeing that it was all she had, I simply had to make do. Not knowing what she was like, I was quite surprised that she purred up like a little kitten just getting out of a peaceful nap. Her engine got started right away, all nice and warm without the "warming up."

Then I began to ride her. At first, I went gently. I wanted to break into her slowly, you know. But I soon realized that she didn't need any breaking in at all. Every time I turned up the heat, she reacted right away with equal amounts of exhilaration. It felt as if I had wind blowing in my hair, but my hair was just there, simply stationary.

I rode her for a while... Going fast at times, as well as going slow. I had to stop and let her catch her breath a couple times too. But when I made a fast go at it, her response was instantaneous with all the eagerness a guy could ask for. I couldn't even let anything slip by her!

Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end one way or another. After about a half hour, she slightly complained about running out of gas. But it didn't bother me, because I myself have reached my intended destination. With no serious accidents, if you know what I mean.

Then I began feeling a little down, because I had such a great time during the last half hour. My friend finally asked as she was getting up, "What did you think?"

I gave her a resounding approval. "Your moped rode just fine! They did a good job replacing the carburetor! But my hair is all messed up though, cos your helmet was way too small."

Oh, did you think I was talking about sex? No... The entire time I was riding my friend's moped back from the shop; I was hoping nobody I knew saw me riding a tiny 50 cc moped through town. But it sure was fun as all hell though!

In case you didn't get the blog title, I was making fun of the popular American joke that went like this: Screwing a fat chick is like riding a moped; it's fun to ride one until your buddies see you doing it. Of course, I don't mean to make fun of bigger girls, because I myself was way bigger a couple times in my life. I'm simply making fun of an American joke by turning things around. That's all. =)

Oh, and my friend isn't fat. In case if you're wondering.

"No Engrish!"

Alternate Title: Compel me, dammit!

Since I've been working from home lately after the conclusion of my project out in the suburbs, I have finally understood why my answering machine gets so much action each day. For a while now, I've been pretty good with identifying telemarketing calls. A telltale sign would be the silence lasting about a second or two after you make a sound before someone picks up the phone and say, "Hello!"

Well, I've been bored lately. So I decided to see who these people are. On Tuesday, Sprint was the lucky recipient of my curiosity. Instead of saying the usual lame things like, "Maybe I'm John, maybe I'm not," or speaking in tongues (a mix between pig Latin and stuff I made up, or "Please help me, I killed the lady but she's too big for me to carry!" I decided to actually respond nicely.

And this Indian guy with a motor mouth who can probably speak a sentence in half the time I would take was telling me about how he can give me a free Sprint phone that was better than what I have, as well as a rate plan better than what I'm paying for. Of course, I got curious, because how did he know what kind of a phone I had? The conversation went something like this, and it would really help if you imagine an accent similar to Apu's:

Sprint: May I ask what kind of phone you have?

John: Sure! It's a Nokia N91.

Sprint: Uh-huh. John sir, I can give you a better phone! And best of all, it's free!

John: Okay, do you know what the N91 is?

Sprint: No, sir. But I can give you a better phone! You'll be amazed!

John: Okay, but why will I be amazed? What features does the phone have?

Sprint: It gives you early night calling, sir! It starts at 19:00 instead of 21:00!

John: Wait. That has nothing to do with the phone. Why would I want a free phone? Compel me!

Sprint: It has a color screen, and it can play music, sir!

John: Did you know that my N91 is an advanced smart phone, with a 4 GB drive for music, PDA functionality, WiFi and Bluetooth connectivity?

Sprint: I see. But this phone is better. And it's free!

John: Okay, but you haven't really described the phone to me, and I'm not convinced it is better than my Nokia.

Sprint: [feeling frustrated, so began to raise voice.] John sir, I'm giving you free phone! Why don't you want it?!?

[A crackle came on immediately, and a woman's authoritative voice chimed in.]

Sprint 2: Stay focused on the call.

John: Hello? What was that?

Sprint: Who do you have for your service?

John: AT&T.

Sprint: What kind of a rate plan do you have, and how much do you pay?

John: I have 900 rollover minutes, early night and weekend calls at 19:00, and unlimited data access for the Internet. And I pay $60 for it. [A lie.]

Sprint: John sir, Sprint can offer you a better plan!

John: Really? Please tell me more about it.

Sprint: Just for today, I can offer you a plan that you can't get anywhere else. For $49, you can get 450 minutes with early night and weekend calls!

John: Wait a minute. How is that better than my plan?

Sprint: John sir, it's easy. You are paying $60, and with Sprint, you'll be paying less!

John: Sure, I'm paying less, but it's not the same number of minutes.

Sprint: But you pay less!

John: Does it have data access?

Sprint: Yes sir.

John: So how much data allowance do I have a month?

Sprint: I don't know, sir. So you would like to sign up with Sprint?

John: No, I'm not ready yet. I'm still confused. You didn't answer me. Does the $49 plan include data access?

Sprint: No, but you can get it for a very nominal fee, sir. So where should I send you the free phone?

John: Okay, what is nominal? How much is nominal? Do I pay as I go? How much is it for 1 MB of data transfer? Or what kind of additional packages can I get? I want to know how much it would be for unlimited data access.

Sprint: John sir, don't worry, the data fee is very nominal, sir.

John: You keep on saying nominal, but I need to know the exact figure. Don't you have that in your pricing sheet?

Sprint: John sir, I don't know what a pricing sheet is.

John: But you're a salesperson!

Sprint: So do you want to sign up with Sprint? Clearly we can offer better phone and plan for you.

John: Wait. I am not yet convinced that you can offer a better rate, much less a better phone!

Sprint: But you don't have to pay for the phone!

John: Okay, if I do sign up for the service, you would have to record your statements and questions along with my responses with all the details regarding the verbal contract. So obviously for that reason you cannot use arbitrary terms like nominal. So what is the data fee?

Sprint: Great! So you want to sign up with Sprint! Is this your correct address...?

John: Wait, did you not listen to what I said?

So this goes on and on and on, with him going around in circles and not providing me with any real, concrete information. After seeing that I had been on the phone with this poor guy for over 20 minutes, I finally said, "Look, you're doing a poor job convincing me why you have a better phone and better rate plan, and you won't provide real details. I wouldn't hire you as my salesperson if I needed to sell something. You could have spent the last 20 minutes making at least 10 other calls."

The poor guy finally responded, "Have a good day, sir," before hanging up hastily.

Seriously, what the hell, right? So I forgot about the whole thing, until my friend and I were chatting about the iPhone and cellular phone service yesterday. He then brought to my attention about how Sprint cancelled over 1,000 contracts for customers who called customer service too much. I didn't hear about it, so I did a little research. Surely enough, Sprint did cancel subscribers who either called customer service too much, or roamed too much (although those serving in the Armed Forces will have their cancellations rescinded after catching hell). I spent over an hour reading everything I could about the whole thing.

Then the strangest thing happened. Another Sprint salesperson called right after I was done talking with my friend about Sprint, as if she felt her ears ringing and had the urge to call me up. With the news of Sprint's unreasonable contract cancellation still fresh in my mind, I promptly asked her, "Before I consider joining Sprint, may I ask will my contract be cancelled if I call the customer service too often?"

Her response was, "If you want."

I was actually speechless at her reply. Obviously, these Sprint salespeople were not trained to listen! If she had understood my question, she wouldn't have given such a ridiculous answer. So I just hung up on her, and forgot about it.

Then today, Sprint called me yet again! Damn! Sprint is sure persistent. And I don't blame them; especially they have the highest churn rate in the cellular service industry as well as the only cellular service company to lose money this year. After I picked up the phone, the following happened:

Sprint: Good morning, sir! How are you?

John: [thinking that the voice sounded familiar…] I'm fine. And how about yourself?

Sprint: I'm calling from Sprint, and I have a good deal for you!

John: Uhm, I just asked how you're doing. How are you?

Sprint: John sir, Sprint has... [A pause...]

John: Yes?

Sprint: No Engrish! [Click!]

The same bastard from Tuesday just called and hung up on me!!! I can't believe he actually told me he couldn't speak English! Oh my gosh! That was way too funny...