I have invested a lot of time and emotion into a T.V. show called, “How I Met Your Mother.” In a recent episode Ted Mosby meets a beautiful but somewhat sketchy girl, and under the influence of much alcohol, Ted allows this women to talk him into getting what many people refer to as a “Tramp Stamp.” An episode later he invests in 10 sessions of laser tattoo removal, to clean up the mistake he shouldn’t have made.
The Bro Code (1) clearly states that no bro will allow another bro to get a tattoo. I do not want to go into the details of the Bro Code but it is important to know that measures have been placed by bros everywhere to prevent tattoos in the first place. However, in the event that a bro goes behind the back of all fellow bros and gets a tattoo (2), it is a required to correct your bro by way of excessive taunting. This action will force your bro realize how much he needs to keep his bro’s around in order to not make mistakes like this again (3). However the damage done by abandoning your bros has been done. Now what?
The answer lies in Laser Tattoo removal. This is a very painful process that can last several sessions (4). In order to support your bro to continue having weekly visits with his laser tattoo removalist, it is much encouraged to continue taunting said bro and his “Tramp Stamp” in order to induce more emotional pain than the physical pain that he experiences at the doctors office from the flesh eating lasers.
Not all mistakes can be cleaned up. However, this is a mistake that with a big enough investment of time, money, and pain, can be corrected.
(1) The Bro Code is a set of statutes set up by our founding fathers on how Bros should govern themselves amongst their fellow Bros.
(2) Incidentally, the overweight man with the Fu Manchu inking you up, is not your bro.
(3) The time he woke up wearing bunny ears and a tutu was bad enough.
(4) For more on Laser Tattoo removal please see: Tattoo Removal Guide.
11/09/2010
10/10/2010
Sporting Events
Yesterday was Saturday, the day of the BYU Sand Diego football game. When we got to the game we found our seats which were actually so good you could count the little dots on the field to confirm that there were truly eleven people per team, a luxury I am not used to. Soon our friends came over suggesting we move over towards the center of the field and sit near them. We liked this idea and moved over. We were having a good time folding up the advertisements that were taped to the bleachers (I think these are the same bleachers which are used for torturing afghan P.O.W.s). We made paper airplanes and tried to throw them onto the field. I think my best plane flew forward total of 6.3 rows before hitting someone in the back of the head well I ducked down giggling to myself. Soon a young woman wearing a yellow shirt came up to us, "We are random checks, can I see your tickets?" She asked. I knew this 'random checks'' crap was a lie. She was just being discriminative towards good looking white people. "Yeah, but I'm not going to lie, these aren't our seats. We just came over here because no one was sitting here." (John was really generous to call those washbooards 'seats'). The girl honestly begged us to go back to our seats asking "well what if the people show up? " I thought she was going to cry. So we went back to our original section of the washboard planks where people were packed in together like 15 year old Cambodians in the back of a factory truck. As we sat there we could hear the fans yelling, and Jake made a very good observation, "I love how every fan would be the team MVP. They just know and see everything in the game," he said. I took this message to heart when Sand Diego then scored a touchdown after faking a dive play and throwing an easy pass to an uncovered receiver. "I knew that was going to happen," some kid bragged to his friends. I turned to him, "Dude." I said "Did you really know that was going to happen?" "Yeah man," he said. "Why didn't you tell coach? You selfish homo."
9/19/2010
Factories
The other day I was shopping and I noticed a shirt that was made in Cambodia. I only noticed because of my personal affiliation with the country. Most American’s don’t care where their clothes come from any more than they care where hot dogs come from. However there are a small number of Americans who do care about where there clothes come from and where hot dogs come from (1). In Cambodia, many women between the ages of 14 and 40 wake up, day after day, to go to a factory and work long shifts for less than 100 dollars a month. Many people think that this is a huge tragedy. I however, see it as a huge success. Americans can purchase clothes for really cheap and Cambodians have money for food. I think the biggest offense is calling the facilities these girls work in “sweat shops.” O.K. These are large warehouses containing hundreds of girls sewing all day. But come-on, most of the warehouses have a fan.
(1) Personally, I think we should get rid of these people.
(1) Personally, I think we should get rid of these people.
8/26/2010
Asian Food
One of my favorite foods in Asia is Phở, which is Vietnamese for “noodle soup.” The only important letter is the "ở" signifying that it is in fact noodle soup, as opposed to fish eye soup --Phö. As I sat down to eat my Phở for breakfast one morning, I noticed a long black hair in my soup. This is not an unusual sight for me. I have spent a lot of time in Asia and know that a long black hair in my soup is about as common as an NBA approved seat. With my newly acquire chopstick skills, I was able to remove the long black hair in a record time of about seven and a half minutes*. However my little sister, not knowing anything about common Asian soup ingredients, instantly started to make a ruckus about the black hair in her own bowl of soup.
“Eww, there is a hair in my soup!”
“Mackenzie, it’s OK. There was one in mine too. It’s a standard ingredient over here. Stop complaining about their culture,” I responded, “It’s rude.”
“It’s disgusting!” She protested.
“Mackenzie,“ I said, “I’m sure they wash their hair.”
* Why the hell did I ever give up spoon and fork?
Asian Markets
When I am in Asia I often feel like everyone wants to show me how much English they know.
“Hello,” someone yells at me from the side of the road.
“Hello,” I respond.
“Xing xao ching choang di do chrah baiy.”
That’s about as far as I get with 98% of the people here.
Apart from wanting to use every English word they know, Asians want to extract every last dollar from you. In Asia, a lot of things are associated with America. For some people it’s relatives, others think of WWF wrestling, others think of the leading arms country of the world.
“You guys can bomb the shit out of anyone,” a man once said to me.
However, I think most people think of streets paved in gold and green on the trees, yes --pun intended. Because American’s are so famously wealthy, Asian’s have adopted a unique type of racism when it comes to prices. So while Asians are paying market price for a product, we have to beg and bargain to find the market price. For this purpose Asians have a secret formula for how much to charge you:
[Actual price * tourist dumbness level * (how many bags he/ she is currently holding+2) - 23] (converted to the local currency and adjusted for inflation) (1)
With a little math, this is a can be a great for figuring out how dumb you look. Once who have a ballpark idea of the actual price you can simply solve for your “Tourist Dumbness Level.”
I walked into the Bun Thang market in Ho Chi Minh with intent to do this. I found a fabric I liked that I knew market price had to be two dollars a meter. I was holding one water bottle which counts as a purchased item so we will count it as a bag.
“Thirty two dollars” she said.
I started to do the math, “Okay, so thirty two dollars plus twenty three that’s fifty five dollars minus two..wait… no that’s my water bottle plus two divided by twenty three?” I gave up with the math and decided that on the Tourist Dumbness Scale I have a TDS rating of, “Really Dumb.” Fortunately, I’m only dumb looking, and do pretty well at “The Price is Right.”
“I’ll give you 7 dollars.” I said.
“Deal!” She said without missing a beat. It’s one of those times I wonder if I should have gone lower, I mean how do you know? My attention is then drawn to the posted sign “silk $2.00/meter.” Oh, it’s all coming together now. That’s how I knew market price was $2.00 a meter.
(1) This is how Natural Selection insures that Asians are the best at math and not English.
“Hello,” someone yells at me from the side of the road.
“Hello,” I respond.
“Xing xao ching choang di do chrah baiy.”
That’s about as far as I get with 98% of the people here.
Apart from wanting to use every English word they know, Asians want to extract every last dollar from you. In Asia, a lot of things are associated with America. For some people it’s relatives, others think of WWF wrestling, others think of the leading arms country of the world.
“You guys can bomb the shit out of anyone,” a man once said to me.
However, I think most people think of streets paved in gold and green on the trees, yes --pun intended. Because American’s are so famously wealthy, Asian’s have adopted a unique type of racism when it comes to prices. So while Asians are paying market price for a product, we have to beg and bargain to find the market price. For this purpose Asians have a secret formula for how much to charge you:
[Actual price * tourist dumbness level * (how many bags he/ she is currently holding+2) - 23] (converted to the local currency and adjusted for inflation) (1)
With a little math, this is a can be a great for figuring out how dumb you look. Once who have a ballpark idea of the actual price you can simply solve for your “Tourist Dumbness Level.”
I walked into the Bun Thang market in Ho Chi Minh with intent to do this. I found a fabric I liked that I knew market price had to be two dollars a meter. I was holding one water bottle which counts as a purchased item so we will count it as a bag.
“Thirty two dollars” she said.
I started to do the math, “Okay, so thirty two dollars plus twenty three that’s fifty five dollars minus two..wait… no that’s my water bottle plus two divided by twenty three?” I gave up with the math and decided that on the Tourist Dumbness Scale I have a TDS rating of, “Really Dumb.” Fortunately, I’m only dumb looking, and do pretty well at “The Price is Right.”
“I’ll give you 7 dollars.” I said.
“Deal!” She said without missing a beat. It’s one of those times I wonder if I should have gone lower, I mean how do you know? My attention is then drawn to the posted sign “silk $2.00/meter.” Oh, it’s all coming together now. That’s how I knew market price was $2.00 a meter.
(1) This is how Natural Selection insures that Asians are the best at math and not English.
The Sand Dunes of Muy Ne
On my trip to Mu Ne, Vietnam, pronounced Moi Nea(with the Nea said with an rising tone, sounding similar to Fei Long delivering the uppercut in early versions of Street Fighter), Diane and I decided to rent a moto for the day to go see the sand dunes and whatever else Mu Ne had to offer.
When we got to the sand dunes we were ambushed by 12 year old Asian’s holding sleds that look like they were stolen from raging waters.
“Mister, you slide?”
“No I’m straight, thanks.”
“You slide? I give you real cheap.”
“No thanks, I have a girlfriend,” I lied.
“Just try it one time.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“It’s easy, we will find a small one for you.”
“How cheap are we talking?” I slowly started to entertain the idea.
“80,000 dong.”
“That’s so expensive!”
“How much you want?” The kids continued. I walked all the way to the top of the highest dune which took a whole seven minutes while these kids followed me threatening, “If you don’t slide we are going to leave you by yourself.”
“Oh, please do.”
Unfortunately, their threats were empty.
When we got to the sand dunes we were ambushed by 12 year old Asian’s holding sleds that look like they were stolen from raging waters.
“Mister, you slide?”
“No I’m straight, thanks.”
“You slide? I give you real cheap.”
“No thanks, I have a girlfriend,” I lied.
“Just try it one time.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“It’s easy, we will find a small one for you.”
“How cheap are we talking?” I slowly started to entertain the idea.
“80,000 dong.”
“That’s so expensive!”
“How much you want?” The kids continued. I walked all the way to the top of the highest dune which took a whole seven minutes while these kids followed me threatening, “If you don’t slide we are going to leave you by yourself.”
“Oh, please do.”
Unfortunately, their threats were empty.
Traffic in Asia
Asia has the craziest traffic you can imagine. There are only two rules, don’t crash, and avoid the police. There are no speed limit’s and no expectations to stop at stop lights, and if you do see police officers the worst thing to do is hesitate.
A note on hesitating -- No matter what you do, hesitating is not a good move. When was the last time you heard somebody say, “I hesitated -- and it saved my life.” No. Those words have never been spoken. However I just the other day I heard a man recall, “I hesitated -- and I died on the spot.” As you can see the evidence is clear --hesitating never brings about good results.
One Asian morning, as I passed by these honorable men of the Asian law on my moto on the way to my place of residence, I did not stutter but sped past the Asian Police as nonchalantly as an American in a country made for people under 4’7” can be. I then turned and saw a less fortunate youth stutter, yes, stutter, before deciding to dodge the officer. The officer wound up and ..“PANG” (Pang is Asian for bam.) Yes, if Asian police officers try to pull you over, for which reasons can include anything from not wearing a helmet, to having the wrong color of skin, to wearing actual clothes as apposed to pajamas, and you stutter to think maybe I should pull over you will be hit on the head with one of their plastic nightsticks that resemble those giant candy canes you buy at the dollar store for Christmas gifts that no one likes.
A note on hesitating -- No matter what you do, hesitating is not a good move. When was the last time you heard somebody say, “I hesitated -- and it saved my life.” No. Those words have never been spoken. However I just the other day I heard a man recall, “I hesitated -- and I died on the spot.” As you can see the evidence is clear --hesitating never brings about good results.
One Asian morning, as I passed by these honorable men of the Asian law on my moto on the way to my place of residence, I did not stutter but sped past the Asian Police as nonchalantly as an American in a country made for people under 4’7” can be. I then turned and saw a less fortunate youth stutter, yes, stutter, before deciding to dodge the officer. The officer wound up and ..“PANG” (Pang is Asian for bam.) Yes, if Asian police officers try to pull you over, for which reasons can include anything from not wearing a helmet, to having the wrong color of skin, to wearing actual clothes as apposed to pajamas, and you stutter to think maybe I should pull over you will be hit on the head with one of their plastic nightsticks that resemble those giant candy canes you buy at the dollar store for Christmas gifts that no one likes.
8/19/2010
Notes about Busses
When riding a bus, first you must realize no bus ride is shorter than 3 hours, with some bus rides approaching times long enough to compete with the times of special Olympics distance runners. These buses are also approved by the National Busing Association. Once a year the NBA (not to be confused with the basketball guys whom plagiarized its initials from the previous association)(1) checks to confirm that your seat and the seat directly in front of you is broken. This is standard procedure and when you get on a bus you can be sure that it is NBA approved. Of course you do not immediately know that your seat is broken because you hesitate to recline your seat out of courtesy for the man behind you. But as the short and beefy Asian sits down in front of you and reclines his seat so far back that he can now make eye contact with you, you soon realize that the seat in front of you is definitely NBA approved. About an hour into the trip, when you think the tall black man behind you (who may be employed by the other NBA) is dozing off thinking about whatever large black men think about, you slowly try to recline your seat as to not wake the large black man. Holding down the button, you proceed to push back on your seat --it doesn’t budge. You push harder -- still nothing. As a last resort you push your feet up against the back of the Asian’s seat for more leverage, but you are no match for the NBA’s standards.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)