Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Being Gay Causes Cancer
It’s a warm breezy Monday early evening, the suns up, out and about, traffics passable. A perfect day. Minus the Monday part. No rainbows, pink shirts or blue stars and out of the nowhere my mom asks me, “Hey Derp, I got a question... Do you think someone can turn gay from getting stuff done to them in university?”
“Eh... What do yo mean by turn gay and getting stuff done?” I reply.
“Like... Okay so don’t tell anyone, but amongst our family friends I heard one of their child is gay.” She continues, “do you think they turned that way from stuff happening in university or was he born with a DNA defect?”
Un-fucking-believable. “Mom, are that’s fucking retarded? People don’t turn gay and never ever talk to Gwai Los (non-Asians) like that. Do not call it a defect. It’s called different... okay?”
“Okay...” She forges on, “so do you think they would turn gay from bad experiences in university?”
“MOM, whoever told you that is utterly retarded.” I continue, “People are born gay not turned gay.” I hate when this happens, shes perked my curiosity. It gets the best of me and I fire away, “So who’s this gay person?”
Her mouth twists a bit and she winces, “I can’t tell you, no body knows, not even your father.”
In my head I’m running imaginary comics of me faceplaming myself. I crusade onwards in curiosity, “Ok lemme guess, you went to a BBQ with family friends, it can’t be Alex because I checked out girls with him, not Billy because he dresses like a fai jai (gangster-wannabe).” I pause to let her digest a bit. An imaginary Sarah Palin pops up in my head, “Got-cha!” I slip out the last name, “Ken. It’s Ken.”
Her eyes open oval, jaw drops and she starts squirming, “Huh? Ken who?”
Uh-huh, thats right mom, play dumb with me. I’m totally talking about Ken from the Barbie series. I play it cool, “You know, Ken as in dai (big) Ken, dad’s bestfriend’s son?”
At this point her gears are in full motion, alarm bells ringing, fire control in full effect, humor me conservative mom. I may not be the very good at reading people, but I’ve read enough signs to figure it out. Plus my logic.
“How did you know? You mustn’t tell anyone, Poon Uncle and Poon Auntie really want to save face, that’s why Ken moved out and staying in Guelph.
“Seriously? Mom, last Christmas, remember all those friends I had over from U of T? They’re all gay except for two. Two of the girls are lesbians, one of them is bisexual, and the other two are straight. The two guys, they’re both gay.Remember my ex Joey? Yah, she’s bisexual too.”
“Oh...” she replies. “So Joey turned gay?”
Ouch mom, just ouch. Too soon bro? I heave out a sigh and shake my head, “No mom, Joey is physically attracted to girls and emotionally attracted to guys.”
“Yah Derp, this stuff is all new to me, I grew up in a different age, back then, this stuff didn’t exist. You can’t tell anyone what you know Derp.” She drones on, “Your Aunt told me this, don’t tell anyone you know, even father doesn’t know.”
Well, glad to know that if I ever turn gay I can approach my mom and aunt. Useless. She continues, “You know Ken is causing a lot of stress on Poon Auntie, she got cancer from the stress because he’s gay. He’s their only son and only hope. It was so selfish of him to say no to another child earlier.”
What. The. Fuck. Where the fuck does she get her facts from? There are many causes of cancer and then there are factors of cancer. Having a gay son who causes stress is only a factor, not to mention that it is a self-inflicted factor. This is Canada, not Hong Kong China. Fuck, even Hong Kong is full of TBs (Tomboys) and lesbians. I fucking attended a gay pride party with Joey back a couple years. Jesus Christ, Ken caused his mom to have cancer because he is gay.That’s a good one. I’ll save it for the books.
I stare at her sincerely, “Mom, Ken is under a lot of stress, he’s virtually kicked out of his family. He probably didn’t want a sibling because his parents are getting old and can’t take care of it. Me and my brother didn’t care if you and dad had another child because we just don’t care. Without one, we’re okay, with another one... well the more the merrier.” After a brief pause I just had to throw it out there, “I was a little disappointed that I got a sister instead of a brother, but we’ll survive.”
She smirks, “Yah whatever, she looks like you.”
Har har-dy har har. Subtle. Good one mom. So does that make me a girl or my sister a boy?
As I get out of the purple Sienna to head to school, I take a look back through the driver window as my mom shifts to the driver seat, “Hey mom, you know Ken is going through a very very rough time right?”
“Haiii, just mind your own business and don’t worry about it.”
Uh-huh. Hmm maybe I should introduce Ken to my gay friend Matt. Matt loves Asian guys. Let the scheming begin. Ideas welcome, gays please apply.
“Eh... What do yo mean by turn gay and getting stuff done?” I reply.
“Like... Okay so don’t tell anyone, but amongst our family friends I heard one of their child is gay.” She continues, “do you think they turned that way from stuff happening in university or was he born with a DNA defect?”
Un-fucking-believable. “Mom, are that’s fucking retarded? People don’t turn gay and never ever talk to Gwai Los (non-Asians) like that. Do not call it a defect. It’s called different... okay?”
“Okay...” She forges on, “so do you think they would turn gay from bad experiences in university?”
“MOM, whoever told you that is utterly retarded.” I continue, “People are born gay not turned gay.” I hate when this happens, shes perked my curiosity. It gets the best of me and I fire away, “So who’s this gay person?”
Her mouth twists a bit and she winces, “I can’t tell you, no body knows, not even your father.”
In my head I’m running imaginary comics of me faceplaming myself. I crusade onwards in curiosity, “Ok lemme guess, you went to a BBQ with family friends, it can’t be Alex because I checked out girls with him, not Billy because he dresses like a fai jai (gangster-wannabe).” I pause to let her digest a bit. An imaginary Sarah Palin pops up in my head, “Got-cha!” I slip out the last name, “Ken. It’s Ken.”
Her eyes open oval, jaw drops and she starts squirming, “Huh? Ken who?”
Uh-huh, thats right mom, play dumb with me. I’m totally talking about Ken from the Barbie series. I play it cool, “You know, Ken as in dai (big) Ken, dad’s bestfriend’s son?”
At this point her gears are in full motion, alarm bells ringing, fire control in full effect, humor me conservative mom. I may not be the very good at reading people, but I’ve read enough signs to figure it out. Plus my logic.
“How did you know? You mustn’t tell anyone, Poon Uncle and Poon Auntie really want to save face, that’s why Ken moved out and staying in Guelph.
“Seriously? Mom, last Christmas, remember all those friends I had over from U of T? They’re all gay except for two. Two of the girls are lesbians, one of them is bisexual, and the other two are straight. The two guys, they’re both gay.Remember my ex Joey? Yah, she’s bisexual too.”
“Oh...” she replies. “So Joey turned gay?”
Ouch mom, just ouch. Too soon bro? I heave out a sigh and shake my head, “No mom, Joey is physically attracted to girls and emotionally attracted to guys.”
“Yah Derp, this stuff is all new to me, I grew up in a different age, back then, this stuff didn’t exist. You can’t tell anyone what you know Derp.” She drones on, “Your Aunt told me this, don’t tell anyone you know, even father doesn’t know.”
Well, glad to know that if I ever turn gay I can approach my mom and aunt. Useless. She continues, “You know Ken is causing a lot of stress on Poon Auntie, she got cancer from the stress because he’s gay. He’s their only son and only hope. It was so selfish of him to say no to another child earlier.”
What. The. Fuck. Where the fuck does she get her facts from? There are many causes of cancer and then there are factors of cancer. Having a gay son who causes stress is only a factor, not to mention that it is a self-inflicted factor. This is Canada, not Hong Kong China. Fuck, even Hong Kong is full of TBs (Tomboys) and lesbians. I fucking attended a gay pride party with Joey back a couple years. Jesus Christ, Ken caused his mom to have cancer because he is gay.That’s a good one. I’ll save it for the books.
I stare at her sincerely, “Mom, Ken is under a lot of stress, he’s virtually kicked out of his family. He probably didn’t want a sibling because his parents are getting old and can’t take care of it. Me and my brother didn’t care if you and dad had another child because we just don’t care. Without one, we’re okay, with another one... well the more the merrier.” After a brief pause I just had to throw it out there, “I was a little disappointed that I got a sister instead of a brother, but we’ll survive.”
She smirks, “Yah whatever, she looks like you.”
Har har-dy har har. Subtle. Good one mom. So does that make me a girl or my sister a boy?
As I get out of the purple Sienna to head to school, I take a look back through the driver window as my mom shifts to the driver seat, “Hey mom, you know Ken is going through a very very rough time right?”
“Haiii, just mind your own business and don’t worry about it.”
Uh-huh. Hmm maybe I should introduce Ken to my gay friend Matt. Matt loves Asian guys. Let the scheming begin. Ideas welcome, gays please apply.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Toyota Sienna - Its gotta go
Mom’s been bugging me the whole week to install the backseat back into the van. We drive a dark purple Toyota Sienna. I try really hard to be a better son now-a-days. Help where I can, contribute when I can, pay if I could.
“Will, when are you going to put back the chairs? The fish tank’s gonna get it wet and you’ll end up with even more work!”
Okay, I know I have to put it back in regardless logic, but hear me out on this one. We have five people living with us, me, my sister, my brother, my dad and my mom. A Toyota Sienna at full capacity can hold seven people, we only have five. Why the hell do we need the last chair in? Without the chair there is less weight, more room in the back, less gas consumption, greater overall benefit. On top of all this, my brother is in Windsor. Do we really need all seven seats installed for our five member family--four due to technicality? Whatever, I’ll do it.
I head out, type in the garage code--the ‘4’ and the ‘3’ is starting to fade out on the keypad--3 3 4 3 3 3 4 3. I don’t understand, why do we even bother with the code, we should just have a button that opens the garage door. Any Joe Blow can open it just by looking at the faded keypad.
I open the trunk the pneumatic arms sucks in the air, tssssssssssss. Would’ve been a lot cooler if it wasn’t such a crappy car. The chair sits in the middle of the garage walkway, to either side of this makeshift walkway is an enormous assortment of random crap. Green, blue and gray bins line the right, a dozen boxes of pots and plant holders to the left, and this is just the front portion of the garage. No sane man would venture deeper into the garage unless absolutely necessary. I can’t wait until the day I have to clean out the garage. I venture into the depths of my garage, careful not to knock over anything, keeping a weary eye out for bugs, taking cautious steps towards the location of the backseat. So far so good, no hick-ups, no trouble, no problems. Kinda like the DVP at 3am in the morning. I arrive alive, the backseats resting there, folded up, waiting to be reunited with its buddy, the right backseat. I bend my knees hauling it up, trying hard to avoid using my back to lift. This things bulky. I waddle like a duck through the makeshift walkway, bumping into random widgets and trinkets. Its like navigating through landmines, one wrong step and I’ll have the wraith of mom lighting my ass on fire. Its cool, I made it. I have the backseat from the trunk into the car right beside the right backseat. A slight push, drop and cling, the seat drops into place.
Fuck.
Only the right hook caught the support bar at the bottom. I pull on the red lever at the back in combination with the middle black one. Its empty and non-resistant. Shit. This things stuck and not coming out. Fucking A. I shift it to the left, stuck, forward, stuck, backwards, stuck, right, stuck. This piece of shit is stuck. I pull on the right lever, the chair slides forwards and backwards making absolutely no positive contribution to the problem at hand. FUCK. I shove it forwards and yank it backwards. Nothing useful, just seat movement but it’s still not clicking into place. I jar it left and right, again, nothing happens, but I feel the metal weaken. The seat’s being bent in ways it was not suppose to. I vigorously yank the chair back and forth, left to right, and still nothing is working.
“THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT WON’T FUCKING FIT. FUUUCCCK.” Its okay, no one’s around, I can vent to myself. I stomp on the back side of the seat. Boom-boom-boom. I keep stomping on the back. Boom-boom-CRACK. Shit, oh shit. The fucking plastic at the back cracked. Who the fuck designed this shit? Why the fuck would you design such a glitched up piece of shit? Fuck me!
“FUCK! Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit.”
The seat responds in smirking silence. Sweat is condensing on my nose or maybe its a tear. I don’t know if it was a tear or a droplet of sweat, whatever it is, I felt it slowly rolling down the side of my nose. It hung on for a second before falling to the matted car floor. I was hoping for blood. It wasn’t. I want to beat the living shit out of every engineer who designed this piece of shit. Similarly, I want to shoot every panda who wouldn’t fuck to save its species. PETA can kiss my ass for all I care. What the fuck were the designers thinking? Did they expect the car to only last five years? I’m running this 2001 Sienna onto its 10th year and now you decide to fuck with me? My arms heat up, my jeans start sticking to my thighs, my shirt’s plastered onto my back. No, I won’t let you off this easy. I grab the levers again and violently shove, tug, push, pull, rock and bash the seat. It’s either make it or break it.
“Arrrrrrrrgh!”
I sit back on the trunk facing into the car interior. My jaw is clenched tight, and my fist is tightened white. I wanted to punch the window, the sides, the outsides, I wanted to ruin this car with my bare hands. I wanted to blame my mom for this. But its not her fault. I wanted to blame the designers. Yes, the designers were fucked when they designed this piece of shit. Fuck this shit.
“Will, when are you going to put back the chairs? The fish tank’s gonna get it wet and you’ll end up with even more work!”
Okay, I know I have to put it back in regardless logic, but hear me out on this one. We have five people living with us, me, my sister, my brother, my dad and my mom. A Toyota Sienna at full capacity can hold seven people, we only have five. Why the hell do we need the last chair in? Without the chair there is less weight, more room in the back, less gas consumption, greater overall benefit. On top of all this, my brother is in Windsor. Do we really need all seven seats installed for our five member family--four due to technicality? Whatever, I’ll do it.
I head out, type in the garage code--the ‘4’ and the ‘3’ is starting to fade out on the keypad--3 3 4 3 3 3 4 3. I don’t understand, why do we even bother with the code, we should just have a button that opens the garage door. Any Joe Blow can open it just by looking at the faded keypad.
I open the trunk the pneumatic arms sucks in the air, tssssssssssss. Would’ve been a lot cooler if it wasn’t such a crappy car. The chair sits in the middle of the garage walkway, to either side of this makeshift walkway is an enormous assortment of random crap. Green, blue and gray bins line the right, a dozen boxes of pots and plant holders to the left, and this is just the front portion of the garage. No sane man would venture deeper into the garage unless absolutely necessary. I can’t wait until the day I have to clean out the garage. I venture into the depths of my garage, careful not to knock over anything, keeping a weary eye out for bugs, taking cautious steps towards the location of the backseat. So far so good, no hick-ups, no trouble, no problems. Kinda like the DVP at 3am in the morning. I arrive alive, the backseats resting there, folded up, waiting to be reunited with its buddy, the right backseat. I bend my knees hauling it up, trying hard to avoid using my back to lift. This things bulky. I waddle like a duck through the makeshift walkway, bumping into random widgets and trinkets. Its like navigating through landmines, one wrong step and I’ll have the wraith of mom lighting my ass on fire. Its cool, I made it. I have the backseat from the trunk into the car right beside the right backseat. A slight push, drop and cling, the seat drops into place.
Fuck.
Only the right hook caught the support bar at the bottom. I pull on the red lever at the back in combination with the middle black one. Its empty and non-resistant. Shit. This things stuck and not coming out. Fucking A. I shift it to the left, stuck, forward, stuck, backwards, stuck, right, stuck. This piece of shit is stuck. I pull on the right lever, the chair slides forwards and backwards making absolutely no positive contribution to the problem at hand. FUCK. I shove it forwards and yank it backwards. Nothing useful, just seat movement but it’s still not clicking into place. I jar it left and right, again, nothing happens, but I feel the metal weaken. The seat’s being bent in ways it was not suppose to. I vigorously yank the chair back and forth, left to right, and still nothing is working.
“THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT WON’T FUCKING FIT. FUUUCCCK.” Its okay, no one’s around, I can vent to myself. I stomp on the back side of the seat. Boom-boom-boom. I keep stomping on the back. Boom-boom-CRACK. Shit, oh shit. The fucking plastic at the back cracked. Who the fuck designed this shit? Why the fuck would you design such a glitched up piece of shit? Fuck me!
“FUCK! Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit.”
The seat responds in smirking silence. Sweat is condensing on my nose or maybe its a tear. I don’t know if it was a tear or a droplet of sweat, whatever it is, I felt it slowly rolling down the side of my nose. It hung on for a second before falling to the matted car floor. I was hoping for blood. It wasn’t. I want to beat the living shit out of every engineer who designed this piece of shit. Similarly, I want to shoot every panda who wouldn’t fuck to save its species. PETA can kiss my ass for all I care. What the fuck were the designers thinking? Did they expect the car to only last five years? I’m running this 2001 Sienna onto its 10th year and now you decide to fuck with me? My arms heat up, my jeans start sticking to my thighs, my shirt’s plastered onto my back. No, I won’t let you off this easy. I grab the levers again and violently shove, tug, push, pull, rock and bash the seat. It’s either make it or break it.
“Arrrrrrrrgh!”
I sit back on the trunk facing into the car interior. My jaw is clenched tight, and my fist is tightened white. I wanted to punch the window, the sides, the outsides, I wanted to ruin this car with my bare hands. I wanted to blame my mom for this. But its not her fault. I wanted to blame the designers. Yes, the designers were fucked when they designed this piece of shit. Fuck this shit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)