Posts Tagged 'Humor'

People, Dinners & Photographs

I slowly looked around this dimly lit room. What am I doing here? I thought. Who are these people sitting on tables all around me? They all look the same; with their matching black suits, and faces buried six-feet under an assorted combo of beauty products they saw somewhere on the pages of a fashion magazine, right next to an airbrushed picture of some skinny anorexic model named… whoever.

model

For a moment, my mind slipped back to an earlier time, two weeks ago to be exact; a dinner party not very much unlike this one. It had a lot less people, yet they didn’t all look the same. “Diversity” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

The hall is divided into four quadrants, each of which has thirteen or so tables. I am on a table somewhere in the middle of this grand hall, seated with arguably the most normal, or closest-to normal people in a 5-mile radius.

I’m all for people changing and experimenting with fashion; doesn’t matter how outrageous or ridiculous. I’m fine with you wearing anything from Black overalls, to Larry-King suspenders, to tight ridiculous fuck-me pants, as long as you do it for you, and not just because a thousand fucking idiots are wearing it too. I believe your dressing should reflect more who you are, as a person, than where you are at that moment in time.

Maybe it’s because of this Facebook frenzy we’re currently all in. Everyone wants to get the best possible shots of themselves in those over-priced suits and dresses they blew all their pocket-monies on. Because they know that they might never get another chance to wear these expensive pieces of fabric ever again. Well, at least not until one of these events come back around, which, if they’re lucky, might take quite a while.

I remember one particular picture from that other dinner, two weeks ago. There I was, smiling, wearing a red graphic-tee, blue straight-cut jeans and red Converse All Stars. Just your stereotypical average anybody, from wherever. Beside me, on my left, was this guy in a brown business suit, looking very corporate down to his spotless brown leather shoes. He reminded me of that Enron dude from TV a couple of years ago. Next to him, was this other guy, dressed in what I’d like to call the over-sized white-trifecta: Shirt, Pants, and Sneakers, all 2 sizes too big. He was also rocking a huge shiny chain half the size of his head around his neck. All he seemed to be missing was a shiny pistol to match, and he’d be that rapper that got killed in that late night drive-by shoot-out you didn’t see in your local channel’s nine o’clock news. He had his arms around a girl, who was wearing a long pink tube-type dress covered in a multi-colored, mind-bending, hallucination-inducing flower print. Going strictly by our clothes, you would be crazy to think that we would even so much as hang-out together, let alone be these semi-strangers sitting on the same table at the same fucking dinner party.

There is a touch on my shoulder, and when I turn, it is this girl, wearing a little black dress, who might have been beautiful, and who I might have known from somewhere. Jamais Vu. Or maybe it’s just all these layers of make-up on her face that are preventing me from recognizing her. She says something, but I didn’t hear because I am looking at her shoes. They are bright yellow, bordering on gold. I guess that is her idea of standing out, being bold.
She wants us to take a picture together. I look at the camera, and for a split second, I zone out. I wonder what happens when this girl puts her legs together and clicks these shoes three times. Definitely not Kansas!

What breaks my heart is the fact that the jackass who shot us doesn’t know the first thing about taking decent photographs. I have all these things in my head that I want to say to the asshole. I know photography isn’t exactly rocket science dude, I’m thinking. But it’s still got rules asshole. Sure, they are not the gospel, but they’re fucking guidelines, at the very least. So for the love of God, just because it’s called a point-and-shoot camera doesn’t mean you can just point to wherever your dick is facing and fucking shoot! This is not the Wild West, and this, most definitely, is not your goddamn bedroom!

The picture from the dinner of two weeks ago was really good though. I was smiling, and everyone, in their own little way, looked great. The girl standing on my right added even more diversity to an already over-diversified line-up. She was wearing a black micro-mini skirt with a slightly smaller strapless top to match her knee high, black leather high-heel boots. Her face looked like something that broke out of a testing lab at a big cosmetic & beauty products company, one you might know from the cover of some fashion magazine you were never cool enough to come across. She was also spotting thick black eye-liner and heavy mascara. She looked like the stereotypical Goth-chick from all the Hollywood movies, if the said Goth-chick was also a hooker in Amsterdam’s Red Light District.

Red Light District

Back at this event, I wonder why some of the people wear these suits and dresses, when they are so very clearly uncomfortable in them. Maybe it’s the delusion that they’ll look stupid or silly if they wore something a little more comfortable and different, which is very ironic, considering that’s exactly how they end up looking: Clueless fucking conformist-sheep! Maybe it’s in their blood. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe whichever way they went, they would have still ended up looking fucking stupid.

See also: Fate.

See also: Predestination paradox.

It wasn’t until the end of the night when I saw this one guy wearing a white muscle-tee under a sleeveless green hoodie that I started seriously doubting myself. He shattered my belief on fashion, diversity and everything I knew about standing out in social situations. It was the equivalent of being four all over again, and finding out that the whole tooth-fairy thing was all a big fat lie.

He was also wearing faded black baggy jeans to go with his huge grey military-style boots. A thick grey scarf around his neck and a single black gym-glove on his left hand to complete, what I assume was “the look” he was going for. I wasn’t exactly sure what look that was, but if it was the “Uber-Douche” look he was trying for, he totally nailed it!

Maybe standing-out isn’t such a great idea. After all, it was the quest to be different that made the Goth-Hooker chick from two weeks ago wear a crystal white diamond-encrusted wedding gown to this dinner party. Maybe it’s wise to heed the old proverb, When in Rome…

Thoughts in the Men’s Room

There was no one in the men’s room when I walked in. At the sink, I looked at my reflection in the mirror; my face was dripping wet with sweat. The slightest dementia would have caused me to believe that I had poured a bucket of water on my head.

I left home in a hurry, tying my shoelace inside the elevator. I ran, the minute the elevator door opened, and then ran some more till I got to the school entrance. From there, I walked in a hurry, pushing past people as I made my way to the bank.

By the time I reached the ATM 10 minutes later, I was sweating like crazy. I couldn’t see properly because my sunglasses were covered in sweat. I wiped over them with kleenex from my back pocket. The neck and back regions of my T-shirt were soaked wet, and inside, I felt like an overheated engine furiously expelling hot steam. It was the equivalent of stepping out of a hot shower and immediately putting on cotton without toweling dry.

See also: Getting soaked in the rain.

See also: Taking a dip in the swimming pool fully clothed.

The tap at the sink is the kind you press at the top to get working. I pressed with one hand and collected the water in the other. Almost immediately, I splash the water on my face with both hands washing in a clockwise motion. Washing your face with this kind of press-stop tap requires skill.

The ATM makes that sound it makes when it’s counting your money. I always welcome this sound, especially when I use the ATM machine of another bank. It’s like music to my ears, because I know I’m going to get my money.

See also: Pavlov’s dog experiment.

See also: Classical Conditioning.

The machine opens up, and I take my money.

Almost immediately, I turned and started walking. Next stop, the men’s room.

“Freshen up” isn’t the right phrase, but it was the first that came to mind.

It was in that sorry state that I saw her. She was with some random guy that I neither knew, nor had any intentions of knowing. She was wearing a tee and skinny jeans, like she always does, with both eyes glued to her phone screen – texting.

I call her Ceey, because that’s short for her real name. We went out a few months back, and to say it ended really badly, will be a gross understatement.

She hasn’t seen you yet. Turn, take another route. I told myself.

“Al, are you balding?”, she said with a mischievous smile on her lips, “But it wasn’t that long since I last saw you”.

You just know this girl is evil from looking at her face.

“Oh no it was long alright”, I said. “Because I clearly remember the last time I saw you, you weren’t this pregnant”

Stop this stupid dialogue in your head, I told myself. Turn, run, she hasn’t seen you yet.

And I was just about to turn when I heard her voice. Hey Al, How have you been doing.

I looked at her. She was smiling. You could tell the smile was insincere because only her lips smiled.

See also: The clown from Stephen King’s It.

See also: The serial killer from Scary Movie.

I told her I was great.

“You’re sweating a lot”, she said.

Looking at the mirror over the sink in the men’s room, I say, Am I? Gee, thanks captain obvious.

I then poured more water in my face.

I told her I ran, hence the sweat.

I poured water on my face one last time before walking over to the drier. It was broken. There was a box of brown toilet paper by the side. I took one, hoping it was brown only because it’s recycled paper.

The guy that was with Ceey handed me a can of ice-cold grape juice. What’s this guy’s deal. No thank you, I told him. The ass insisted. I told him no, I’m cool. He said I wasn’t cool because I was sweating. Nobody likes a smart-ass. What would Jesus not do? I told him to bugger off because I don’t like him and I think he smells like poo.

For some reason, he took that personal.

Cool air hit my fresh moist face as I stepped out of the men’s room. I smiled, and wondered if all that I thought might have happened, would have actually happened, had I not cowardly snuck past them without saying a word.

I know there’s a 50% chance she would have been nice. But if she’s not, there’s a 100% chance she would have been much worse.

I was never good at statistics.

mensroom

ATM People

An ATM run is a ritual everyone of us does at least once a week.

Everyone has their favorite time to visit the ATM. Personally, I prefer going just before midnight to withdraw the cash I’ll use the next day. This is because at that time, my chances of finding other people there are extremely low. I can make my withdrawal in peace, and I especially love the walk back home with the cool night breeze in my face and the beautiful night sky to admire.

But of course in life, we can’t always have things go our way. Maybe you forgot to make the run at your favorite time, or something really important came up and the cash on you just wasn’t enough. There’s always that one day that you’ll get stuck in a long frustrating queue that seems to take forever to move.

I’ve had those days one too many, and I’ve come to study the different kind of people you meet at the ATM.

The first that comes to mind is The Whistler. This is the guy standing right behind you and for whatever reason, he’s having such a good time. No problemo. But then he starts whistling in your ears. You feel like a caveman is engraving the picture of the elephant he just caught right into your skull.

You’re thinking, What the hell is this guy’s problem?!

The Whistler’s retarded adopted-cousin is even more annoying. He is The Rapper. This guy can be standing anywhere on the line and he’d still be annoying. He is the guy with the iPod listening to a rap song and every now and then shouting a word or or two from the song very loudly. Every time he says something, you turn to look, and then you feel like a dumb ass for turning.

You’re thinking, Dude, please save that awful voice for karaoke night!

Then there are The Gossip Girls. These girls are right in front of you. One is telling the other what ugly dress so-and-so wore, at the same time the other is telling her who hooked up with who. You just stand there admiring how these girls can share so much information at such supersonic speed. But at the same time, you have that sudden urge to gag them. And…

You’re just thinking, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

And then there’s The Wiseguy. This guy thinks he’s so smooth. He approaches the queue like he’s just a passerby, and the next thing you know, he’s in front of the line trying to withdraw from the machine. You just stay there with your mouth open and wonder why no one said anything. Maybe he was there all along, you tell yourself.

But deep down, you know he’s just a lucky son of a bitch!

It’s not until you approach the front of the line that you meet The Wiseguy’s long distance half-sister, The C-Pusher, who is similar him. But unlike him, she approaches you with big sad pretty eyes like Puss in Boots. She shows a little cleavage and pushes her chest forward, regardless of what’s there, and tells you some bullshit story about why she’s in a hurry. You know she’s lying, and she knows that you know. But you don’t want to appear like an unsympathetic asshole, so you give her a pass.

You’re just thinking… Bitches Be Crazy!

And just when you though it’s all over, you meet The Accountant. The Accountant is the guy that uses the ATM right before you. This guy takes forever to withdraw money. He checks his account balance, tallies it to his expenses and then balances everything to see his returns.

You’re standing there ten minutes waiting, and you’re thinking, Somebody needs to get this guy a fuckin’ job!

After everything is said and done, you walk in confidently to the machine and insert your card into the ATM. But you see a message that says the ATM is out of small notes and can only dispense 50s and 100s. Your account balance is just short of 50.

You just stand there not knowing what the hell you’re going to do. The guy behind you thinks you’re The Accountant type and curses you several times under his breath. It’s at that moment that you start thinking maybe it’s karma from all the bad things you said about those people.

But then you don’t believe in Karma, so you say, Fuck the ATM people, and you blame them for taking all the small notes.

Hard-to-Explain Situation

Have you ever found yourself in a hard-to-explain situation?

What is that?

Lucky for you, this isn’t one of such situations, so let me explain:

It was a long frustrating day; especially frustrating because I had the flu. I retired back home early, took a hot relaxing shower, put on my boxer shorts and got into bed.

I didn’t sleep immediately; partly because every few minutes I had to stretch to the other side of my queen sized bed to get tissue paper from the other bedside cabinet (to clear my ever flowing nasal cavity) and then got out of bed to dispose the used tissue in the bathroom waste bin. But mainly, I couldn’t sleep immediately because there just wasn’t any sleep in me!

So after a few of my toilet-waste-bin “errands”, I moved the waste bin (which was already half full with tissue) to my bedside and the tissue box to the cabinet beside me for easier access.

Since I wasn’t sleeping, I put on my favorite indie feel-good movie (The Boys and Girls guide to getting down) to pass time. I don’t know why, but I fuckin’ love that movie!

Halfway through the movie, I got a call from my classmate who wanted help with a paper; I told her to come over, and not wanting to get interrupted, I unlocked the front door to the apartment before going back to watching my movie.

Few minutes later, I heard someone twist the knob on my bedroom door. Startled, because I didn’t hear anyone come into the apartment, I quickly hit the space-bar on my wireless keyboard (which I brought into bed with me as a remote control) and turned to see who was at the door. Three girls were standing there staring at me, and then the one who called earlier said,

“Is this a wrong time? We can come back later if you want”

At first I didn’t understand what she meant by that, but then fate had me take a look at my huge dressing mirror which was at an angle adjacent to the bed, and what I saw:

A guy in his underwear with a box of tissue and a waste bin half filled with white, watching an extreme close-up of a guy and a girl frozen in a deep passionate kiss on the screen…

Ah… I see… Hmmm… What should I say?”, I thought. What could I possibly say???

So… Let me ask you again…

Have you ever found yourself in a hard-to-explain situation?

Internet Anonymous

As you may have guessed from the not so subtle title of this post, I’m an internet addict!

You know how they say ignorance is bliss? Well whoever came up with that line was a fuckin’ genius!

All this time, I had no idea how addicted I was, then all of a sudden – BOOM! I came to the frightening realization that I’m actually a crackhead. Of course by “crackhead”, I mean a metaphorical crackhead; My crack being the internet.

So how did I come to this sad and scary realization?

Good question, but unfortunately I don’t have a good interesting answer to complement it. So here goes –

Some few weeks ago, I came across this website called Rescue Time. It installs a bot (or something) on your system that calculates the amount of time you spend on your computer, then sends you weekly updates of your Computer-habits. What’s awesome about this thing is that it not only tells you how much time you spend on the computer, but what you spend that time on.

It was all good and fun – until I received this email…

IN THE LAST 7 DAYS:

I’ve been on my computer –

8 Hrs 48 Mins on Sunday.

10 Hrs 11 Mins on Monday.

7 Hrs 16 Mins on Tuesday.

11 Hrs 38 Mins on Wednesday.

8 Hrs 25 Mins on Thursday.

8 Hrs 45 Mins on Friday.

Today is Saturday, and so far I’ve had 4 Hrs 56 Mins (And the day only started 6 hours ago).

That’s roughly 60 Hours of me being on my computer in the 168 Hours in a week. After a rough mathematical calculation, It came to my attention that: I only have about 110 Hours to myself. Take the 8 – 10 Hours I have for sleep everyday out of the equation, and I’m left with roughly 50 hours. Take those 50 hours and divide them by 7; And I’m left with a shocking 7 hours in a day.

What’s even more scary is not the time I spend on the computer, but what I spend it on:

Top 3 categories: Fun, Arts and IM.

In Fun you’ll see VLC, Media Player Classic & iTunes, which I use to watch Movies, TV Series and listen to music respectively.

In Arts, you’ll find Celtx and GIMP (About the only two semi-productive things I do). Celtx is this really awesome script-writing software, and GIMP is the best adobe photoshop substitute out there.

I’m a whore for IM. I have Google Talk, Yahoo Messenger, MSN, AIM, and I even use Spaz to update my Twitter.

In between the top 3 and the bottom, you’ll find e-mail, facebook, twitter, Spill, IMDB, wikipedia, several blogs and a lot of other things, but down there…

Bottom 3: News, Search and Personal Productivity.

I don’t really listen or read news, maybe I’ll tell you why some other day.

I google everything. In fact I google so much that if I want to go out, I google which of my three colognes goes best with the look I’m going for. OK, that’s a lie, but I GOOGLE A LOT! Search is down there because it only takes a few seconds. 

I don’t even know what personal productivity means, but when I checked, it’s all this Calender, Planner and Schedule Manager. Who even makes use these things?

So…

Even though this past week was my one week mid-semester break, I still think what I have is pretty much addiction. Now that that’s out there, I want to start my 12-step Process, and what’s even cool is that number one is already out of the way… so who can help me?

Please… I don’t want to end up with a bluetooth and wireless antennas sticking out of my hair…

Where is this relationship going?

 

Sitting in front of my computer screen, I couldn’t help but notice something – My Blog, UC, was giving me a weird look.

As any decent, straight-thinking human being would do, I asked – What?

“Where is this relationship going?”, was the response I got.

I was caught off-guard, partly because I didn’t know that what we had was a relationship but mostly because I wasn’t expecting the blog to actually give me a reply.

So, thinking I was hallucinating, as I haven’t had any sleep in the last 30+ hours, I asked again – What?

“We either take this to the next level, or breakup”, she said.

I was definitely crazy, and speaking to my computer screen in the privacy of my own room wasn’t going to make me any crazier, so I continued – What exactly is the problem?

“You’ll see me, and then leave for several days, or weeks – no calls, no contact, and then suddenly, you’ll come back… no apologies… no nothing… like nothing ever happened!”

There was truth in that, I usually am not consistent with updating, so I chose my words carefully when I spoke –

You see, UC, I dedicate a lot of time into crafting entries for you, and when I do, it takes a while for me to find other entries worth going on to your fabulous pages. But I promise you now that everything is going to change. I’m going to make you more personal, tell you every little detail of my life, and we’ll take the journey to awesomeness together. So what do you say?

And I flashed my big teeth at the screen, knowing that I’m a sweet-talker, and I’d be damed if she didn’t accept the apology. 

“Really, that’s what you’re going to say?”

I was damed… I was dumbfounded… I was clearly not cut out to be a sweet-talker.

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking for a good line, a comeback, something to save me from this conversation that I didn’t want to keep going for a second longer than I have to.

“You know what? FUCK YOU!!! YOU CAN -“

Wait a minute… this wasn’t my computer screen talking. I was not crazy. This was coming from somewhere behind my Computer – The Window.

So I walked up to it slowly and peaked.

Sure enough, a few inches away from my window was a very pissed girl on my neighbors balcony yelling at the top of her voice on the phone .

Goodness gracious… I’m not crazy! I probably still need that sleep though…

Revolver: Story Of A Dream.

OK, this crazy dream I had last night, and No, it’s not what you’re thinking.

I was back home for the holidays. My cousin, lets call him Idris, picked me up from the airport. On the was home, he was telling me all the crazy things he did while I was gone, from waiting tables, to being a lecturer, and for some weird reason, running arms. And  yes, by running arms, I mean selling weapons.

Cut to a movie theater. I was seated at the back with Idris when he drew something from his pocket. It was a huge, shiny, silver revolver, and according to him, worth $36,000. It was a gift, for me.

It’ isn’t my birthday, but what the hell, who’ll say no to a free $36,000 revolver right?

So I took it. It was heavier than I thought.

Cut to the road. I, and a guy, call him Ibrahim driving were driving, and a little ahead were Cops doing a search. For some reason, this douchebag Ibrahim forgot to tell me that all this time, I was a wanted man, till when I was just a few cars away from the cops. The story was that while in the theater, his brother, let’s just call him Yaro, saw me with the revolver, and the thing was, the gun was used to kill some important feller somewhere. So Yaro told me to the cops for the reward, which he won’t get till they confirmed that I actually had the gun.

So what do you do when you learn that you’re a wanted man and the cops are on your ass???

Exactly, cut to Somalia. I don’t know why Somalia, how I got there, or who I went there with, but whoever it was, he had connections.

Quite frankly, I don’t know if there are really any warlords in present day Somalia, but while there, I was at the palace of one, no two actually. I don’t know why there were two equally powerful rebel leaders living in the same palace… wait…. OMG! Was I having a gay dream?

Anyways, I was chilling smoking whatever with whoever I went to Somalia with and the two rebel leaders when I had the greatest idea ever:

Why don’t I just give these rebels the revolver? No one is gonna come to Somalia looking for the gun. But then this thing’s worth a lot, I should just sell it to them for a couple of diamonds? Are there diamonds in Somalia? But what if they don’t want to buy? I’d rather not get diamonds than go to Jail.

So I took the revolver, which was still in my pocket, and gave it to one of the Gaylords, I mean, Warlords. He looked at me suspicously, and asked why I’d give him such a prized possession. I told him I was a film Maker, and wanted to shoot on-location in Somalia  in six months and I wanted protection. The revolver was my thank you gift in advance.

Even then, I knew It was a lie. I wasn’t shooting any movie. Hell I didn’t even have a script ready.

What if they don’t see me in six months after they’ve set all the protection for me? Will they find me and kill me?

But he already bought the film story bullshit, so Bye Bye revolver… or is it?

I don’t know exactly how long it was after I left the palace that I got a call from someone who claimed to be the warlords’ secretary, telling me that the warlords were pissed cause I took away the gun I gave them.

What? The revolver is gone?

PUFF! And I’m back to Somalia again. I started asking questions, from which I learned that the asshole that threw me to the Cops in the first place, Yaro, snuck into the palace and took the revolver.

I guess this guy is really serious about getting his reward. How much was it again?

How he knew I was in Somalia, or how he got there himself, I didn’t know. But I didn’t care, cause the revolver was gone, and both the cops and the warlords were on my ass.

And better the cops than the warlords, if you know what I mean.

I was terrified!

Yaro, you sneaky son of a bitch, I’m gonna find you, and I’m gonna shoot you with my revolver…

To be continued…