The BrownBerry - My New Cell Phone

           I'm really on the fence when it comes to two main issues: technology and laser hair removal in my nether regions. In both cases, I feel that the ideas are far too new and under-researched, therefore it is impossible to understand the long term effects of either. In the case of technology, I have been generally resistant in all areas possible. I am yet to buy a computer amidst my constant blogging. I, for some reason, take joy in writing my lovely rants in the business center in my apartment building available to all residents. It gives me separation between my relaxation and my time to get down to business. In the case of cell phones, I have unfortunately made an exception. Up until the age of 21, I completely resisted the idea of even being caught dead with one of those awful things. Truly, there's nothing wrong with cell phones but the way in which people use (or abuse) them is absolutely unsightly. It disgusts me to no end to see someone in the middle of a shopping mall yelling at the top of their lungs into their mobile device whilst unintentionally giving anyone in ear shot the full breadth of the conversation he or she is having. How ignorant! What's even worse is being on a date with someone who appears to be on a date with their cell phone instead of you. OY! Can you not wait until you go to the bathroom to check your text messages? Is that not the polite thing to do? I refused to turn into one of those people but alas I was finally sucked in. I had moved to Toronto, I was 21, and I was looking for a job. With no place to call my true home it only made sense to invest in a cell phone in order to be reached by potential employers. I, of course, opted for the free phone when signing up for the service. I stuck with the standard edition flip phone for nearly 3 years until last week when I unfortunately dropped the little bitch on the floor and it broke into a thousand pieces.

         Up until last week, I had enjoyed the simplicity of the flip phone. You know, that's the one where you have to press a number 7 times to get the correct letter for a text message. I know it's a hassel, but I was so proud of myself for being economically sound. In fact, I only paid $25 per month (pay as you go)  for 200 minutes per month and unlimited texting. Considering how briefly I ever speak on the phone, this idea seemed perfect 3 years ago and quite suiting still today. However, with the misfortune of watching my phone shatter into seventy thousand pieces last week told me that I ultimately would have to leave that reality in the past and move on to the future. It was time to purchase a new phone (one that was perhaps of a model created AFTER President Obama's inauguration).

          I went to this very strange place called Verizon. It's a place that tries to sell you pieces of plastic and metal that light up for the bargain price of $500. I wanted to kill myself within 5 minutes of being in that wretched place. I, like a complete idiot, walked into the store with my phone in pieces and said to the consultant, "Can I get my contacts back?". You see, I really didn't (and still don't) care about the gevity of my phone, I just wanted to get all of the phone numbers I had saved back so I wouldn't have to awkwardly Facebook everybody in the entire universe in order to send them a text message. I figured that because the battery of my phone was left in tact (despite the exterior of the phone shattering) that it would be of no or little problem to retrieve my previously saved phone numbers. The gentlemen, whom worked for Verizon, very gingerly explained to me that all phone information is not saved in the battery. In fact, he said that the information "is saved into the phone itself.". I felt very confused by this statement. What do you mean it's IN the phone? How is it IN the phone? This tiny little piece of plastic? All my information is in there? My God! What has happened to the world? The clerk began showing me several versions of different models they offered but it was all too much for me to handle emotionally. The IPhone 4. What is that sack of bullshit? The IPad 2? When did this come out. How does anybody keep up with this nonsense? I couldn't deal with it! I ran as quickly as I could to the nearest Best Buy to purchase the most trusted product that I had used previously and tirelessly, a Virgin Mobile cell phone!

          The reason why I have always been with Virgin Mobile is two fold. First of all, they offer fabulous Pay as You Go plans which for a person of few spoken words like myself is perfect. Secondly, Virgin Mobile is only offered in large department stores who do not specialize in selling their own brand (such as Verizon or AT&T) which basically means that I can enter the store hassel free and browse without feeling like I'm being gangbanged by customer service representatives. I arrived at Best Buy and immediately found the very tiny Virgin Mobile section and began to look for, of course, the cheapest phone possible. I figured that it would be practical to simply replace the one that I had previously which only cost me $10 when I first purchased it. As I scanned down the shelves, I was unable to find my phone. Where are you my cheap ass phone? Are you hiding with Osama Bin Laden? (Oh Wait! He's been found)! My God, where are you? After several minutes pacing back and forth I was completely in failure in retrieving and/or replacing my mobile device. What is a girl to do?

         At this point I realized that this was simply a message from Jesus explaining to me that it was high time that I replace my cellular piece of shit with an upgraded variety mobile device. I had to accept the fact that I was both emotionally and physically prepared to take on the responsibility of a phone that didn't require a 30 minute time span set aside to send a simple text message. I accepted my challenge with vigor, curiosity, and courage. As I scanned the possibilities, I found myself coming back to a particular beacon of glittery technology in the form of the LG Rumor Touch! The name itself was just so enticing and deliciously scandalous! The Rumor Touch! Sounds like the title of a pornographic film of the lesbian variety! How fantastic! This phone was truly amazing as I analyzed the tester on display. Apparently with this phone you don't even need a keypad you just simply touch (or lick) the screen and it responds accordingly. This was absolutely insane! You can even talk to the little bitch and it listens to you! It's this very bizarre invention called "Voice Dialing". Who knew? You can even connect to MySpace, YourSpace, MyBook, and YourFace, all within the click of a button (actually not a button just a press of your own finger on the screen). After all of this information I could barely hold in my excitement. I had to buy this delicious piece of cyberspace. There was no choice!

            One hundred dollars! Are you kidding me? Are you telling me that previously with my bullshit do-for-nothing phone that costs a mere $10 that you are now requiring me to upgrade with ten times the price in order to appreciate a little Facebook? What a ripoff! I was so pissed. I was ready to punch myself in the taint until I realized that there truly was no other option. Lest I forget that the $10 phone for some reason is completely unavailable and thus I would have to upgrade no matter what. Sure I could've purchased something a little less expensive but the fact is I wouldn't have enjoyed it. No matter what, I was going to have to fork out more money than I wanted to if I was going to have a working phone again, period! So it made sense to might as well go with a device that actually gave me a little excitement in my tuckus. You know what I'm saying? So ultimately I bought the little LG Rumor Touch the L Word Sequel 2 3G Videphone bullshit drama for one hundred dollars. I truly cringed as I swiped my card. (I cried a little...)

              Ultimately, what is a bi-racial Canadian to do when he or she unintentionally breaks his perfectly good 3 year old phone on the sidewalk after a night of drunken behaviour. Supposedly, all that is left to his or her decision making is whether to splurge a little or a  lot. I chose the latter. And I am as happy as shit about it. Although it took me what felt like decades to actually fully understand the concept of touching my screen to get results, what I ultimately have ended up with is an incredibly convenient, deliciously efficient, and undeniably sleek piece of electronic plastic that services my every need (except for my need to have several Asian babies around me at one time, screw you Angelina!). Since getting my new phone I have become obsessed, confused, and completely drunk with power. Every minute of my day is taken up with fidgeting with my new phone trying to discover every idiosyncrasy possible! I have come to find that I have turned into the technological whore that I have always despised. I have turned to the dark side. I must say it is totally worth it only for the fact that I have just figured out how to change the coloring on my phone so that pictures I take of my naked body will appear more golden. Thank Jesus for technology!
                       

A Rude Awakening!

         Apparently there are no more need for alarm clocks. Just simply have a Black roommate move out of your apartment and you will be sure to be up at all hours unnecessarily. So here's the deal. I (at 9:30am) SHOULD be asleep on this Saturday morning. However, clearly I am not. I have left my apartment to go down to the community computer room to angrily strike away at these keys ad nauseum. Here's why! I was rudely awoken this morning to a sound so startling that I nearly had to throw my sheets in the laundry machine immediately afterward. Before I go into detail, I will personally admit that I am an INCREDIBLY light sleeper. If I am asleep and my roommate comes home, I will wake up at the sound of the door being unlocked. To make matters worse, we live in a loft together where the sound travels faster than news of a Britney Spears pregnancy. On this disasterly morning, my roommate whom we will refer to as Banana Pudding, was moving out the last of his things out of our loft. We have lived together wonderfully since we first met in November but he is moving on with his life to bigger and better things in Las Vegas. This is all lovely and dandy. But the matter of which he decided to retrieve his belongings in the wee hours of this morning was some of the most disturbing, annoying, and confusing variety I could possibly ever imagine.

         The sound I was awoken with was similar to that of being inside of a movie theatre in Compton during a Tyler Perry movie. Banana Pudding, and a sidekick of his whom I do not really know, decided to burst through the door like a herd of ghetto elephants and proceeded to, at a volume that I am still perplexed by, strut their ignorant selves into his room, grab the suitcases and roll them out the front door. This all happened in about 30 seconds so it couldn't have been that bad right? WRONG! In 30 seconds these two belligerent hoodlums created more of a ruckus than the police breaking up an R.Kelly underage sex party. And all for only one simple reason that could have been  so easily avoided. Banana Pudding when he barged through the door said "Oh Brown and Thin......." I'm assuming to see if I was at home. Here's the thing. My bed is in the corner NEXT TO THE FRONT DOOR! Why are you asking if I'm home when first of all, you can clearly see that I'm lying in my bed next to you and second of all (and more importantly) I'M FUCKING ASLEEP! If you're concerned that you're interrupting my slumber then simply look to see if I'm there and then accommodate that by being respectful and tell your ghetto friend to keep quiet. This friend, might I add, was not talking but SCREAMING on his cell phone. I have seriously never heard anybody in my entire life scream so loud in my life. At first I thought he was yelling at Banana Pudding but by the time they had both grabbed the suitcases and back to the door I saw that he was actually on his phone (which seriously needs to be confiscated). At this point as the friend was leaving I was sitting up on my bed. "Excuse me...." I said in a respectful tone. Looking back, clearly I needed to speak at his volume in order for him to hear me over his catastrophically loud conversation he was heaving on his phone. However, I would not have changed my tone. I refuse to let someone get my blood pressure so high that it turns into a screaming match. Unlike him, I am NOT ghetto and refuse to let his foolish actions turn me into a disrespectful ignorant person like he so clearly displayed.

         I am especially glad that I did not go off on this mystery friend because truly the person I need to be mad at is Banana Pudding! You see, when I'm up, I'm up! There was no going back to sleep after I woke up to the sound of terrorists invading my apartment. As mystery friend left I walked toward the kitchen at an incredibly slow yet angry pace to get some cranberry juice to bring some joy back to my life. On my way, I passed by Banana Pudding. "Oh. I didn't even know you were home" he said to me. I was LITERALLY beside myself. I could not believe his ignorance. What do you mean you didn't know I was home. I SLEEP NEXT TO THE FRONT DOOR! You didn't think to look to your left to see if your bi-racial Canadian roommate was home before parading in with the cast of Boyz in the Hood? Yes you called my name but I was SLEEPING! My gosh! What is wrong with people? Instead of explaining all of this to Banana Pudding, I simply kept on walking to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of delicious cranberry cocktail. I sat down and sipped on my red beverage. Banana Pudding was gone at this point. I simply sat by myself in complete disbelief of what had happened. It was truly unbelievable to me. Then something extraordinary happened. I unexpectedly started to laugh uncontrollably. They say that laughter can often be a byproduct of confusion and utter disbelief. No kidding!

         There truly was no point in getting cross with either Banana Pudding or his comrade. Mr. Pudding moves out officially tomorrow. I will no longer have to deal with that kind of foolishness, or at least from him. If I ever pulled a stunt like that my Grandmother would punch me in the face with a waffle iron if she ever got wind of my being so ignorant and disrespectful. But that really is the thing. The fact is, I was taught to be respectful of other people and their time and their space and their privacy. The ghetto dynamic duo clearly did not learn any of these lessons from their family which actually makes me sad. They obviously didn't purposely awake me from my beauty rest but they for some inexplicable reason had no thought or awareness to be considerate of the fact that they were entering a dwelling where TWO people inhabit the space at an hour that most likely one of which would be asleep. So in these moments of frustration I have to give thanks to Jesus and Moses that I have been so blessed to experience and upbringing that taught me to never act like a hot ghetto mess. This rationalization helps me deal with my anger and frustration and therefore I must also be thankful for the world of blogging. Without which I may have busted a cap in some one's ass this beautiful Saturday morning.
       

Gone With The Wind!

       When I first found out I was moving to Texas, my mind was flooded with stereotypical of images of toothless cowboy hat wearing rednecks basking in the blazing sun 12 months of the year. The first half of that stereotype turned out to be only partially true and apparently so has the second half of my statement. Not only was I slightly disappointed that the city of Dallas wasn't completely filled with rednecks but in fact the state of Texas is not bestowed upon a year round sun glow. I assumed that there would be a slightly mild winter so I was slightly surprised to find myself sporting, on a few occasions, my full length wool trench coat with matching hat and baby seal gloves (I do not own gloves made from baby seals but it just worked rhythmically with the sentence). I came to Texas in September when the weather Gods were feeling quite generous with their giving of heat in a very consistent way. After only a few days on my roof sporting a red speedo, I found myself looking quite golden instantaneously. However, as the months have gone by I have become increasingly disappointed with Texas and its undecided weather. Since October, one day it's raining, the next it's unbearably hot, and the next there's ice on the ground all within the span of one week. I keep telling myself that summer is coming but as we move closer to the month of June I have been growing rather impatient. The culmination of my frustration was established Tuesday evening. During that day it had been lovely and warm, I was finally ready for the first time in 2011 to sport my flip flops and shorts which signaled (for me at least) the starting of this overdue summer season. I had to be at work in the evening so around 4 o'clock I sported myself in my delicious summer outfit and pranced on over for work for a 5 o'clock start. And then came the wind......

         I noticed as I got off the train and was walking to work that I seemed to be moving at a speed equivalent to the bionic man. I felt like I was on one of those bizarre walking escalators that act as a hyper speed runway in the middle of the airport for no reason. I began to wonder what gave my muscles the impetus to move so quickly, only to find out that there were ENORMOUS gusts of wind propelling me forward in the direction of the building I was heading to. "I'm not THAT late for work!" I said to Jesus. I figured the Lord was just trying to help a brother get to work on time by summoning the weather Gods. I appreciated the help but it was more important to me in that moment that I arrived at my job alive. I had seriously never seen or felt wind like this in my life. I was just waiting for entire trees to start bouncing down the road. But alas, I made it inside the building safely and on time by the way. Praise the Lord. Now all the madness was over, or so I thought.

          I, and all the rest of my fellow employees, were set to finish work at 10pm. Around 9pm we got word that there was a violent storm occurring outside. In fact, the entire city was on tornado watch (which I understand is worse than tornado warning)! I had foolishly consumed a large cup of coffee some hours previous. This, in combination with the news I had just heard, caused me to run quickly to the nearest toilet. This was NOT going to be pretty (I mean the weather of course)!  Once I returned from the loo, we were informed that should the conditions get worse that we would have to commune in the basement until the storm passed. Really? Is that seriously a good idea? Do I really want to be stuck under a million pound building made of brick and mortar that could potentially be collapsed by the big bad wolf outside? I quickly dismissed these thoughts and realized I was panicking too soon! This was not good for my large intestine. I calmed myself down and just focused on the fact that we had not yet been sent down to the dungeon of doom just yet. However, a few minutes later, we were in fact told that the storm was headed in our very direction and we would have to head down to the precipice of death (the basement) for an indeterminable amount of time. Does anybody have a clean pair of underpants I could borrow?

         I have never smoked marijuana in my life, nor have I ever had any interest in doing so. However, I for the first time, felt like I was in some serious need of ganja at that very moment. As we all  huddled in the basement on some couches and chairs in front of the television all I kept thinking was "I have absolutely no alcohol at my disposal". Over Christmas time, I had considered buying myself a flask to commemorate the holiday season but then realized that doing so may be slightly inappropriate considering Jesus's birthday was right around the corner. Now it's May and I have had PLENTY of time to invest in a flask but I have so stupidly not taken the opportunity to do so. And now I TRULY was in need. As the newscast came on, I was reminded yet again of how AWFUL the newscasters are when reporting detrimental weather. It was a repeat of the exact kind of language I had heard during the reports this past December when I was stuck in front of a television at the Greyhound Station during an awful storm that prevented our bus going to New York City. These newscasters are SO DRAMATIC; it's totally unnecessary. Whenever these news bitches start using words like "catastrophic", "abominable", "the worst weather conditions since the beginning of time", all while showing footage of dogs being blown away by Hurricane Betsy, I am always in such disbelief as to why they are putting we poor innocent civilians under even more stress! This is why the sale of Pepto Bismol has sky rocketed since this economic disaster. The newscasters have been putting all of us through so much stress that we are forced to purchase copious amounts of Pepto Bismol to cope with our diarrhea. Clearly there's an underhanded deal going on between Fox News and Pepto Bismol. Once the gigantic blood red block sized letters began flashing violently on the screen reading SEVERE WEATHER WARNING paired with loud alarm sounds blaring in conjunction with each flash, I thought that things were at their worst. I was right! I began sweating profusely and running back and forth from the bathroom uncontrollably. I was an absolute wreck all the while trying to stay calm amongst the 20 other people stuck in the small room glued to the television. This bi-racial Canadian was about to crack (like a Brown egg).

          There was only one thing that would save my sanity in that moment (and it wasn't Jesus because that little bitch had bailed on me hours ago when he pulled that wind push stunt!). In fact, my only saving grace that evening during "the worst storm the city had seen in years" was a dirty little gem named Kirstie Alley! That's right, the severe weather warning bullshit was brutally interrupted by the season finale of Dancing With The Stars! My "woe is me" attitude became completely wayward when I found out I was going to watch a beached humpback whale perform in heels! My excitement over such ridiculous antics is amplified by the fact that I do not own a television or computer (I write my blogs in a public business center which has no access to YouTube or anything of the sort) and therefore I seldomly get wind of such deliciously embarrassing performances!  I was more than thrilled. My eyes grew double the size (somewhat to accommodate Kirstie Alley's image on the screen) in complete anticipation of what I was about to see. It was the top three finalists! Kirstie was competing against a football player named Hines Ward and some skinny bitch whom I didn't care about for the fact that there was nothing particularly awkward or ridiculous about her (What's the fun in that?). The channel cut into the program just in time for me to see the "Look Who's Talking" star deliver the most bizarre performance of her lifetime. I can't explain to you how much I love that show. It's just so delightful to me to watch people look awkward. It brings me joy to no end. I have to say, Kirstie Alley actually looked pretty good. She had clearly lost a lot of weight (again), her face work looked like it had settled in nicely, and her weave stayed in! Listen, that's what I call a winner in Hollywood! I paid little attention to the gargantuan-sized football player and even less to the skinny Atkins bitch with a dream. I was completely mesmerized by watching Kirstie Alley! Her weave had a mind of its own! Seeing her blond hair swish this way and that was enough to make my want to eat a corn dog (and that takes a lot for me to say that)! After several re-caps and video montages later it was finally time to reveal the winner. Of course they cut to commercial break to allow for the tension to build. This was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves! The show in fact did give me stress but it was the good kind of stress! You know, the kind that does not include volleyball sized hail wrecking your Toyota Prius (I do not own any kind of vehicle but the name Toyota Prius just rolls of your tongue and just jumps off the page of my blog, doesn't it?). After what felt like an eternity, Tom Burgeron (an over-sized Ryan Seacrest with talent) held his microphone to his thin Caucasian lips and said "And the winner is". I understand that you want to build up the anticipation of the audience by having a slight pause before you actually say the name of who wins, I really do! I get it. This all started with Regis Philbin after the contestant locked in the final answer, remember? Although I think in his case, Mr. Philbin just naturally has that 10 second delay built into his brain, I think it just takes him a little extra time for his elderly mind to process the information. But at this point, they seem to take inordinate amount of time panning to the face of every contestant, their dancing partner, each member of the audience, back to Tom Burgeron, cutting back to every clip they've ever danced, back to Kirstie Alley, back to Tom Burgeron, and this all between the time he says "And the winner is" and the actual announcement. It's enough to make me want to through a tampon at the screen! Finally Mr. Burgeron took an inhalation and said "Hines Ward!". As the confetti slowly swayed two and fro towards the floor and as the lights were flashing on the Hercules football player's little bald shiny head I was truly ready to throw in the towel (and my tampon) on reality television. How could this asshole win this damn show? I mean, his dancing was fine, but he's no Kirstie Alley?!?! I couldn't understand this. The audience actually voted for him! Dreadful. I was completely in shock. My boss whom was seated next to me amongst the huddled group hiding from the storm turned to me and explained something to me. She gave me a little piece of information that I had not previously known. This would truly explain why the football player won. Listen closely, it's amazing! THE BITCH IS HALF KOREAN!

        Now it all made sense! Hines Ward, American football star, is half Black, half Korean or as I call it, the best of both worlds! If you have ever seen a half Black, half Asian baby you will completely understand why the world is absolutely fascinated with these half bred creatures. These babies are not just regular little nuggets, they are SUPERBABIES! Just think about it! They have the muscularity, golden hue, and swagger of the African American and the slanted eyes, hairlessness, and adorable inability to drive like the Asians! It is the perfect combination for adorabilty! You can't help but dote and obsess over a Blasian! Immediately, my despair was lifted off my shoulders in light of this new Asian persuasion. Shortly thereafter we were cleared to leave the building around 11pm. With a smile on my bi-racial face I left with a half Black half Asian flutter in my heart over Hines Ward. I was truly at peace. The storm had calmed both outside and inside my soul.

        Because of the rain I asked Evangeline if she would give me a lift home. She and I walked up the stairs to the main level and opened the door. Screams insued. We both were blown away like Tiger Wood's wife when she saw the first picture of her husband with trailer trash on her IPhone4. The wind had grown from a violent push to work previously to now a full blown huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down and take your weave off too! Thank God Evangeline had already taken her detachable hairpiece out otherwise it too would have been gone with he wind. We immediately shut the door and calmed our screams. We were both wet from the rain literally being blown into the building during the all of 5 seconds the door was opened. We gathered ourselves and took deep breath. Without either of us having an umbrella, weave protection, or appropriate footwear we both courageously adventured out into the storm. Thank God for Patriva whom had driven by to pick us up in her car to take us to the parking lot. However, in those very brief moments being only 10 feet to the car, by the time Evangeline made it to her car we were soaking wet and howling like wolves. As we started slowly making our way back home, the thunder and lightning had made quite a resurgence like a Cher Farwell Tour. The windshield wipers couldn't even swipe fast enough to be able to see properly out the front window. In complete stress and fear for our lives, all we had in that moment was eachother. Screaming for an indeterminable amount of time we somehow managed to make it home alive and sopping wet.

          It was 11:30pm by the time I finally walked into my front door. I needed a drink! I poured myself a deilcious glass of Shiraz (one of my favorite red wines) and plopped myself into bed. Before I quickly dozed off into my slumber I took, as I often do, just a few moments of reflection. It's during these times that I am able to realize what I have learned in that day. They say you always learn something new. As I replayed the images and memories throughout that unbelieveable evening I had realized that I had been through a lot emotionally in the past few hours. Throughout all of the turmoil, craziness, and fear for my life I came to the conclusion that I had learned a very important lesson. I had true appreciation, from those moments of fear, for what it is most important in my lifie. No matter what storms may come our way, no matter what trials and tribulations I must face, I must remember......God will always make Asian and partially Black babies. Amen!

The Faux Hawk

        Hair is one of the most prominent aspects of African-American culture. On the one hand, Black hair is incredibly distinct and often considered "difficult to manage". On the other hand, it truly is one of the most unique and versatile textures of hair that a person can possibly have. I, in my bi-racial Canadian life, have experienced aspects of both. I have seen processed hair, braids, waves, curls, weaves, sew-ins, and the occasional Black-girl bun. However, I personally have not experienced the kind of variety in the Chia pet that has been growing on the top of my head like many of my Black or partially Black counterparts. For the past 24 years I have simply watched my hair grow for a period of a few months and then I would simply go get the head bush trimmed to a more manageable size; rinse and repeat for decades on end.

            Recently, I have been doing my own hair. I've realized that it's more than slightly ridiculous to pay someone to simply run an electric razor a few times over my scalp for a period of 15 minutes and then charge me 20 dollars plus tip for their time. I find it more economically productive to invest in some Bic disposable razors and do it myself every 10 days. Today just happened to be day 10. So this morning I planned to grab my electric razor to trim the head bush then I attack the leftover debree with the Bic razor to leave a flawless Mr. Clean look as always. As I began my first stroke with my electric razor, it dawned on me that I have been cutting my hair the exact same way for over 5 years. In fact, I have had the exact same hairstyle for my entire life! Who does that? That's no fun! I have been blessed with a kind of hair which yes in the beginning freaked me out but I live in America now, a land where I can actually learn how to deal with my hair. No more excuses! It was time for a change!

            I always start shaving the sides of my head first and work my way to the crown of my head. I had made it approximately three strokes up before the epiphany had dawned on me that I was in desperate need of a change. I paused for a moment, stared in the mirror, and saw the possibility. It was clearly time for me to take my hair choice into my own hands and embrace a very popular Black hairstyle that has come and gone throughout the decades; THE FAUX HAWK! Yes, you know it well. This is when, for no particular reason, a person of color (or otherwise) has his head shaven with a random strip of hair that starts from the top of the forehead that goes all the way to the back of the neck. Naturally, most of us are familiar with the Caucasian version of this style entitled the mowhawk. But that would be far too much work for me to pull out the White half of my genetics, so I decided to stick with the faux-hawk. I had never tried or even considered doing this to my own head but I figured it couldn't be particularly complicated. I did one side of my head at a time just shaving toward what seemed like the center of my head until it was even on both sides. It's amazing how if you stare at something long enough, your perception of balance and symmetry can completely shift. I would shave off a little of the left to balance it out and then realize that there was now too much bush left on the right. I went back and forth for several minutes and then finally forcing myself to stop fussing and just settle with the imperfection lest I end up with only a dental floss width of hair left in the center of my egg shaped head. As I finally was feeling accepting of my hair cutting performance I realized that I was perhaps celebrating too soon. There was a challenge that I had completely forgotten about: the back of my head!

            Even when I am doing my regular bald coif it is always a bit of a production to make sure that I get every last strand on the back of my head. In the beginning, I mastered the two-mirror technique using a hand held mirror in addition to a large mirror on my vanity to double check that I got every nook and cranny around both ears and at the bottom of my neck. This is where the White half comes in! You see, even though my hair is of the Black variety, the copious amount of it that is beginning to run down my neck into my back is definitely the French Canadian heritage kicking in! In any event, most recently I have mastered the touch technique of just simply feeling my scalp in the back to make sure it is even without the help of even one mirror. However, with trying to create a symmetrical singular railroad track of hair running down the back of my head I figured it would be best to use a mirror this time. Unfortunately I had broken my hand held mirror years ago in a freak vodka cranberry incident in my bathroom. I learned then that drinking alcoholic beverages while doing one's hair is not the best idea. In any case, I had the task of finding a mirror to use. My neighbours were of no help but I quickly remembered that my roommate has several in his room. I grabbed one which was about as tall as I. I gingerly propped it up in my bathtub. I'm not sure what kind of depth perception problem I inherited but for some reason I could not figure out the angle of which to situate the mirror so that I could actually see the reflection of the back of my head in the vanity mirror. After several minutes of playing around I finally gave up. There was going to have to be another way.

           I decided that I needed to go for a new look. It seemed impossible to estimate the exact path of my faux-hawk down the back of my neck. I decided to consider a different option. What if I simply shaved all of the hair of the back of my head and just left a little garden patch on the top; like a golf course! It would be my way of paying homage to fellow bi-racial Tiger Woods! It would bring me such honor and grace to be able to provide a place on my own head for which Tiger could T off from! I had made up my mind! The only thing then was to figure out an appropriate place in which to end the faux-hawk. My head is an oval shape so it was somewhat difficult to determine the exact spot where the the top of my head ended and the back of my head began. After going back and forth in my mind for an inordinate period of time I decided to simply stick my index finger horizontally in a place that felt somewhat logical and simply shave off everything underneath. After several strokes and several minutes of watching my dry Canadian naps gracefully dance towards the floor I was finally done. I had created a lovely Canadian faux-hawk!

        It's very interesting to me how much pride we take in our hair; both men and women. Regardless of your race, religion, color, or gender, hair plays a huge role in one's self confidence. Unfortunately, I have the "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone" syndrome in the fact that I am only appreciative of my naps now that my hair line is receding. But alas, it is never too late to appreciate your head bush. And the time is now for me! I am so excited to have ventured into a new realm of headdress in my twenties. If not for my epiphany this morning I may have been stuck looking like Samuel L. Jackson for another 24 years! I am so thankful and proud of the miniature Canadian golf course that I have sculptured onto my own bi-racial head!
   
                                               

Miss Black America

          If you've ever seen the reality television series "Toddlers and Tiaras" then you truly understand the nightmare that ensues when human beings whom only have a single digit in their age are forced to do log rolls on a runway wearing strands of dental floss. It's always slightly frightening to me when parents force their children to do anything, especially when it's usually used as a tool to boost the ego of the parent. I watch "Toddlers and Tiaras" in complete fascination feeling completely bewildered as to why any sane person would glue false eyelashes to a 4 year old's face. I am not sure if sending out kids in diapers on a fashion crusade is a new venture but certainly as you look at the world of adult pageants things seem less ridiculous and insane; but not by much. I used to watch Ms. America on television in complete disbelief that some one's face could physically freeze itself into a smile for hours on end. It was like watching Barbie come to life yet in a slightly zombie-like state. Listening to the statuesque and busty ladies preach about Christianity and world peace was enough for me to take a sick day at school. However, in my state of bewilderment I have come to find that the world of pageantry is much more what you see on YouTube and Fox News. Recently, I have met a wonderful lady who comes up from this world. Her name is Patriva.

        Patriva is a co-worker of mine, here in Texas, whom I met back in September. From the very beginning I was struck by her radiant smile and incredible confidence. Yet, I always got this sense from her that if she wanted to that she could punch me in the face with a waffle iron. Patriva is from the wonderful land of Virginia conveniently located on the Atlantic side of the United States. She graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University. Patriva is a tall, lean yet muscular, and statuesque woman with ever-changing hair like my good friend Evangeline. Patriva's hair will sometimes be in a lovely circular concoction of fluff which is my favorite. Sometimes it will be braided into neat little rolls or pulled back into a Black girl bun. Patriva's hair makes me miss my own quite frankly. If I had known I had this many options growing up, I would have had my own Black girl bun in high school. I should point out that Patriva has this very odd sense of time. It's like her internal clock is set in one time zone behind. I'm not saying she's always late but I will say that I would imagine that she has never seen the previews at the moves in her life. Patriva has been in Dallas for 3 years after spending some time in California in this wonderful quaint little area called Compton. From the outside looking in, it was clear that Patriva was a lovely and educated person. However, only with further investigation can you truly find out why people become who they are.

         One of the first interesting tidbits about Patriva is that she is a personal trainer. This was no big shocker for me. She truly can kick your ass into next week. However, it also gave me further insight as to why she is so confident. Working out, building muscles, and inspiring others to stay in shape can only help make you feel good about yourself. "I walk like this 'cause I can back it up!". You know what I'm saying? Especially after spending time in Compton you must really know how to handle your own shit! However, it didn't stop there. There was more history yet to be revealed which really educated me as to why I was bestowed with this confident presence each morning I saw Patriva. Frankly, I was a little shocked when I found this out. Patriva is in fact a pageant queen! It all finally made sense! I understood why she struts with her hips two and fro. No wonder she stood with a permanent bevel. (See image below)

         Patriva had performed as a dancer in many pageants in Virginia growing up but had never taken apart in the competition. In college, however, she decided to delve into the world of pageantry as a contestant. She explained that pageants serve as a scholarship fund for the students. They are an opportunity to earn money to go toward your education. Ms. America is actually a scholarship pageant as well! These competitions are no joke! The edited versions that we see on reality television programs compare not to the actual endeavour these young ladies must endure. The competition can last up to a week long with different categories being competed in each day. Of the several tasks each lady must perform they include but are not limited to: talent, swimwear, and interview. Patriva explained that not only did she pass with flying colors but she in fact WON her very first pageant! She then went on to win Miss Black Los Angeles at 23 years old!

          Patriva is obviously an amazing woman. Not only is she beautiful, smart, and talented but she can also cut a ho if necessary. I love the contradictions of the human self. Never would I have guessed that Patriva would have come from the world of pageantry but looking back it all makes sense. Patriva explained that going through the process of rehearsing and competing in pageants really helped shape her as a human being. It is a wonderful confidence booster and helps further affirm yourself as a person. With a strong personality like hers I begin to wonder if I need to enter. I know it will take a lot of diligence and perseverance but ladies and gentlemen you may be looking at Miss Brown Canada 2012! I'm gonna win that ho!

                         

Afro Romance

         Lately, I've been feeling like I have the sex appeal of Rosie O'Donnell after a large meal. I don't know what it is about Dallas but I have been failing miserably at any attempt to get any action. I suppose the problem is that I have not been pursuing any romantic endeavours. My friends Shoniqua and Evangeline have recently found a fantastic website to alleviate this Texan problem entitled Match.com! Between the two of them, I'm pretty sure every single man in the state has paid for either one of their drinks at some point within the last few months. In fact, Evangeline has found a true life partner on the website; we'll call him. The two of them have been nothing but peas in a pod since the moment they met over cyberspace nearly 6 months ago. I'm very happy for the two of them but it's only making me feel worse about the never-ending dry season in my underpants. So, I decided after being frustrated with my lack of sexual endeavours that it was high time to pursue my own online dating adventure. However, I did not want to take a trip down the Match.com lane, but rather find another website that would accommodate my specific needs. After a long time searching, I have found the Mecca of online dating websites. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you: AFROROMANCE!

        I actually came to first find out about Afroromance.com through this very blog. You see, I've signed up for a program called AdSense which displays a series of advertisements on the right column of the screen next to my blog, as you can see. I have no control over the nature of the ads that are put up. However, the subject of the advertisements are not done at random. Apparently with AdSense, it picks up keywords from each blog entry that I write which determines the appropriate type of ad to correlate next to it. This allows the reader to be more likely to be interested in the ad and actually click on it because it will have something to do with the subject of the blog in which he or she is reading. This is normally an incredibly effective tool to get people to purchase the products attached to such links, however the one thing AdSense did not take into consideration was sarcasm. People, such as myself, whom write blogs constantly with a facetious tone can end up striking up keywords that bring up advertisements such as Afroromance.com. When I found this out, of course it tickled me to NO end! So here's the deal.....

       Afroromance is an interracial dating website where people of all ethnicities post a profile clearly displaying their own ethnicity and the race of the person of whom they would like to do the horizontal mambo with. When you first click on the link it brings you to a homepage with a BROWN background! The slogan is "Afro Romance - Where love is more than skin deep?". Bullshit! Right below that line it says "Interracial Dating Only!" Are you kidding me? How can love only be skin deep when you specifically offer a service that hooks up White people with the nearest chocolate sensation within 100 yards? Within my complete disbelief of such a horrific yet hideously entertaining website, I had no choice but to set up my free profile. Here's what I came up with....

                                                       
A Great Catch Seeks Mildly Attractive Women
Nickname: Brown and Thin
Location: Dallas, Texas
Age: 24
I am a: Man/Woman
Looking for a: Woman Aged 18 - 99
Relationship Seeking: Long-Term
Eye Color: Depends on the Lighting
Hair Color: The carpet does not match the rug
Height: Taller than Jesus
Body Type: Disabled
My ethnicity is: Asian, Black (African descent), Black (Non African Descent), Pacific Islander, Caucasian (European Descent), Indian, Hispanic, Native American, Other
Religion: Jewish
Education: Hooked on Phonics
Drinking behavior: Regularly
Relationship Status: Undecided
Have Children: Unsure
Want Children: Depends if I have any already
Languages: Japanese and Hebrew
Occupation: Unemployed
Starsign: Scorpio (I'm Jewish so technically I don't believe in that shit)
My Personality
Ideally I would live in a: Tent in the woods
My fashion sense is: Homosexual
My sense of humor is: Obscure and Offensive
When I go to parties I: Drink myself and others into a stupor
On a day off, I enjoy: Napping
I attend religious services: Involuntarily
When it comes to work: I'm drunk

How Would You Describe Yourself?
I am an incredibly thin person with a glowing tan. I am a very charismatic and dynamic individual and completely Herpes free. Ladies, send me a message if you want to get with this.

What Am I Looking For?
I'm looking for someone who is attractive yet does not outshine my own personal radiance. My personal preference for skin tone is Taupe or Eggshell, as this compliments the Gingerbread hue of my tan the best at this moment.




           For some strange reason, I am yet to receive any responses from my profile! This is absurd. Clearly, I am an AMAZING catch! However, I was slightly disturbed as I was creating my profile. It was obvious from the title of the website that it would be required of me to disclose my ethnicity. However, I did not realize that AfroRomance had very specific definitions for the different races. If you describe yourself as "Black" you are required to indicate whether you are of "African" or "non-African" descent. First of all, last time I checked ALL Black people are of African descent one way or the other. Secondly, are people's vaginas actually off limits to certain ethnicities. I understand that we all have our preferences but to be so blatant about it is rather disturbing to me. Ultimately, you can date whomever who choose but if you're the kind of person that requires a geneology test be performed before we do the naked hokey pokey than I would rather not see what's underneath your Yamaka.

                                                           

Urban Transportation

        I'm 23 years old and I don't have a driver's license. I'm not exactly sure what is truly wrong with me. However, when I take a look back on my childhood, I can further understand why this may have come to be. My family did not have much money growing up. We spent most of our time walking in the local park and eating Shake 'N Bake. When we went anywhere, it was by walking. If it was an adventure that took a significant amount of distance, then we would take a cab when we could afford it. My Mother, Princess Toadstool, NEVER drove. Naturally, I became quite accustomed to using my own two feet to get me to where I needed to be. However, as I've gotten older I've realized that in some instances, it is quite necessary to have your own wheels, particularly when running from the police or a drunken Mexican. After I graduated from High School, I lived in Vancouver for 2 years, Toronto for 1 year, and New York City for 3 years. During these times in my life as I slowly blossom into a bi-racial Canadian adult, I have come to have an understanding of a very strange world known as public transportation.

          It's been a love-hate relationship I have had with the bus and subway situation locally and internationally. The "subway" system in Vancouver is known as the SkyTrain! Doesn't it sound amazing? Just hearing the term "SkyTrain" makes me immediately want to ride it. Many people feel similarly about LL Cool J. In Vancouver, the SkyTrain is run on what can be best described as an "honor system". This means that there are no patrolling officers in the station, no cards to swipe, and truly no way to ensure that each and every person actually pays for their patronage. There are electronic booths at each station to purchase your ticket and then an open walkway to the train itself. The train, by the way, not only has no police officers or electronic system to enter, but in fact there is not even a driver for the train! Everything is run electronically requiring no personnel to be present in order for it to function. Leave it to Canada to be trusting enough to let people voluntarily pay to hop on public transportation. Things are certainly not that lackadaisical in New York City. If you so much as put your foot up on a seat on a subway car you will be looking at a $75 fine! Not to mention, that you cannot entire the Subway track until you have entered the turnstile with an eligible previously purchased ticket! They are not playing games in America. They will find anyway to screw you over, punch you in the face, and then slap you in the vagina on your way out the back door!

        The subway in New York City is 24 hours! No matter how late I decided to continue my drink fest, I could always have a reliable trip home! I may have had to wait a half an hour for the train to come, but that's what I deserve after deciding to irresponsibly down seven shots of Patrón! I also have to make note of the crazies that I would often run into on the wrong (or right) Subway car! First off in the morning, you have your Caribbean Christians. These people speak at a volume that a deaf mute could make out quite clearly. These Black people roam subway car to subway car preaching the word of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ! They usually take time, as people are still trying to awaken themselves on their journey to work, to make specific mention of homosexuality. They preach very strongly that you will burn in Hell for an eternity if you shall choose to lay with a person of the same gender. I can't tell you how many times I sat on that New York City subway early in the morning on my way to school trying to catch a little extra shut eye in my sleep and I 've been rudely awoken by a hideously loud Jamaican partnered with his or her Bible. I'm not sure if Jesus really intended for you to YELL at me. For Christ's sake!

          But alas, the grass is always greener on the other side. At this point in my life, I live in Texas. This is a place that has a transit system equivalent of the efficiency of Mariah Carey's dietitian. I discovered very quickly after moving into a lovely loft downtown, that I could in fact simply walk to work in 45 minutes! It keeps me thin, full of vitamin D, and stops me from murdering myself or others waiting 20 minutes for a train during rush hour. However, I have found recently that there are certain circumstances that require that I must take this horrendous transit system to save time that has been lost on some unfortunate situation (like waking up late because I had been drinking more alcoholic beverages than a toddler at a Michael Jackson sleepover the night previous). So I have forced myself, only on occasion, to jump on a little system that is referred to as the DART! The DART which stands for Dallas Assholes Ride the Train, is one of the most hideous adventures you will ever experience. I'm not exactly sure what is wrong with people here but for some reason they believe that the train car is equivalent to the atrocious ghetto dwelling in which they live. Here's how this past Tuesday went down.

        I had a trip to make to the leasing office in my building which does not open until 9am and I had to be at work by 10am. After a brief trip in to see my landlord, I found myself in need of a little help from public transportation to get to work on time. I normally walk, but I was pressed for time. I ventured to the train station across from my home and went to the electronic vendor which functions only on occasion. I was very relieved when I discovered that the temperamental machine was willing to cooperate on that Tuesday morning. As the train pulled up, I gingerly stepped up onto the car holding my breath to avoid the inevitable stench of mediocrity. I looked both to my right and left to most effectively make a decision as to where I should seat myself. Upon my glance to the left, I realized that I had no choice but to sit behind what was a sight for sore eyes. There was an African-American woman who had seemingly fallen asleep on her boyfriend (or perhaps random guy) with both of her feet stretched out into the aisle. I noticed a pair of empty seats behind them; this opportunity was too good to miss. I placed my tukkus in the row behind them and began to take more closer notice to the monstrosity that had been bestowed upon me. Upon further investigation, I came to realize that his woman, who was wearing a nursing uniform by the way, had some issues in the prosthetic hair department. Like many Black women, this young lady had a weave in. I take no issue with this. However, when I can clearly see the Krazy Glue debree slowly crusting onto where the tracks are attached, I feel the need to desperately yell out to said unfortunate person to let them know that natural is coming back into style. How embarrassing to have your tracks showing! It's unprofessional is what is, even if you're riding the train! Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, I turned my head to the right to take a gander at the homeless person she had fallen asleep on (presumably this was her boyfriend or manpanion). This heffer had hair nappier than the 1981 version of the Chia pet. From my view, I could see he was donning a white wife beater, a necklace complete with golden cross, and a Bluetooth in his ear; the ultimate Black accessory! At least he had the respect to remain awake unlike her. It must have been a long nursing shift at the hospital. What a mess! I guess these two deserved each other. I was baffled that two people as unkept, messy, and "urban" as they were would wind up finding each other attractive enough to sleep on in public. To each his own....

            On the one hand, I have come to find that I am perhaps a little too uptight for public transportation. However, my bank account takes a very different opinion. Still, I feel that I have been benefiting greatly from walking. It's been keeping me thinner than Nicole Richie with the stomach flu. However, these unavoidable situations that have left me with little time or options, have led me to rely on squishing myself amongst a plethora of smelly unsanitary persons who occupy a very cramped box on wheels; otherwise known as the train! This is absolute craziness. I don't understand why the clientele is of such an "urban" variety on public transportation. Don't normal people ride the train? Apparently not in Dallas. Here, there is a limit for the amount of teeth you are allowed to have in your mouth to ride public transportation in Dallas (which I'm pretty sure is a number comprised of one digit).


               

A Real Canadian Pimp Daddy

         Since moving to Texas I have turned into a fully fledged Betty Crocker. I stay home every night and cook to my heart's content which usually resolves itself around midnight. I'm not sure how or why this has happened but I've found a way some how to cope with it. When I lived in New York, Toronto, and Vancouver it was a whole different ballgame. I was partying all the time and living it up. Now, I'm a celibate version of Martha Stewart. My, how things change!

        Last week I received a text message from a friend of mine inviting me to some event downtown hosted by Devin Harris who is a former Dallas Maverick's player who currently is employed by the Utah Jazz. I pay NO attention to basketball or any sport thereof (thank you Wikipedia). However, I was feeling that it was high time that I do something that did not require me baking my own pie crust from scratch. My lovely friend whom invited me we will call Johnnie-cakes! She is a lovely person whom I met when I moved to Dallas. She is a professor at a university here and a wonderful artist! I was very happy when Johnnie-cakes invited me to experience some true Dallas lifestyle. Let me explain to you what this eventually would entail.

        Johnnie-cakes came and picked me up at my apartment and them drove to me this wonderful place called the W Hotel. This is a wonderful and snazzy franchise that exists all over this wonderful country even including Texas. At this particular location in Dallas, there is a quaint little establishment inside the W Hotel called the Ghost Bar. I had heard of this place but had never been on account of me not having a drivers license or the need to escape making quiche in my own kitchen. However, on this particular evening I was game on account of being accompanied by someone with some sanity. Johnnie-cakes picked me up looking fabulous. She had on a green ensemble which I understand is often referred to as a "jumper" as it is a one-piece outfit that is cut into shorts nice and high on the leg. Upon arrival, Johnnie-cakes informed me that we would be meeting a friend of hers whom also works at the same university as she. I didn't know anything about this mystery woman and was very excited to finally meet a new person who didn't appear as an image on the cover of a cookbook. As we walked towards the hotel Johnnie-cakes said "I only met her a little while ago but I know she's VERY tall.". I began to scan the very large crowd that had accumulated in a line-up outside. Very quickly she and I discovered this lovely tall abundance. We ran over quickly. This new found friend whom we will call Rapunzel, is an incredibly tall statuesque woman with very long blond hair that was tied up neatly on the back of her head just under a snazzy Cabaret-type hat. She had on blue jeans, high heels, a white wife-beater with a grey vest over it paired with some very decorative brassy jewelry. I felt I had been silenced for a moment. I need to vent for a second and let you know how much I LOVE tall people! They fascinate me to no end just like the telly-tubbies and Bisquick. After I pulled my jaw up to my lower lip I finally introduced myself. After some time speaking with her I discovered a wonderful fact. SHE'S CANADIAN! Can you believe it? If I couldn't think at that point it could get any better but in fact she was from the wonderful province of Alberta! The only thing more exciting that meeting a fellow Canadian is finding one whom is not embarrassed about admitting it! HALLELUJAH!

      After a relatively lengthy conversion, the three of us (myself, Rapunzel, and Johnnie-cakes) realized that the incredibly long line we were in, for some reason, was not moving. You see, we had pre-registered online for this "prestigious" party which guaranteed us free entry before 11pm. We had arrived slightly after 10 knowing that surely we would have free entry. Supposedly we were mistaken. After an hour had passed by, the three of us were a little pissed to say the least! It's one thing for an event to take its time but this was a complete rip-off! The line was literally at a stand still for over 45 minutes! What could possibly be the problem?  Did Yoko Ono die? Did the bouncer forget to shave his cho-cha?! I mean really! And of course with the curfew for free entry ending at 11pm, we were conveniently not allowed into the building until 11:15 where we were each asked to contribute a $20 cover! Are you kidding me? These bitches at some snotty club are making $60 on the three of us entering an establishment that purposely slowed down their entry service to hype up their own event and profit off of 3 unsuspecting victims (2 of which were Canadian!). Chris Brown will see you in a Hell! Fo shizzel!

        After the shenanigans at the front door came to a standstill, we finally made our way to the Ghost Bar. This particular bar, by the way, is only accessible by elevator. I don't think this was by necessity. I have a theory that they purposely designed the bar to have an exclusive access from the hotel to give the feeling to patrons that the money that had been swindled from them was well worth it! Screw you corporate America! So we hopped in on the over-sized elevator with concierge who struck a very similar resemblance to Suge Knight. After all this hype, money, and time wasted, the three of us were more than ready to be overwhelmed with high expectations. We walked in and I must say it was pretty beautiful. Everything had a blue or purple sort of hue EVERYWHERE! The lights behind the bar illuminated the copious amounts of Patron bottles. The flourescent green seats lit up the African-American bums perched so gingerly atop. The purple lights seered up through the floor and shon upon the scuffling feet of the crowds drinking above. It was all very lovely and hideously pretentious! Noone was dancing! This is very strange to me. How can you pay $20 to get into an "exclusive event" held at an "exclusive club" and not even dance! This is the problem with Black people! Give them too much money and high standards and they begin to get all bougeois on your ass and start ignoring their African heritage filled with dancing and drumming! Come on people, shake your money maker!

       At the point where I thought things would not get any more annoying, I ventured to the restroom. I should make a point of referencing the fact that whenever I am going out on the town, pretentiously over-priced or not, I always make a point of having SEVERAL cocktails at my own home beforehand. The reasons for doing so are both economical and enjoyable. First of all, when you look at the prices we hoes have to pay at clubs and bars these days, you might as well get yourself drunk enough before you leave your house as to not feel the need to drink yourself away foolishly to forget about the $20 cover you paid to get in the stinky place! However, it must be said that just like watching others slip on a banana peel, I always leave myself wanting more. By this I mean that I always am sure to serve myself just enough drinks at home that I will be fully prepared to be tipsy once I arrive at the public establishment yet also in the perfect mood to enjoy one more evening cocktail at full price. Here's why! I cannot walk around a place completely drunk with no adult beverage in my hand, that's just tacky! You have to buy at least ONE drink when you're out! Do you hear that kids?! In any event, I had gotten my brain to the perfect point of inhebration after 4 delicious cosmopolitans prior to being picked up by Johnnie-cakes. That combined with waiting in line for over an hour led me to feeling the urgent need to urinate in copious amounts. I ran to the restroom! After relieving myself I found to be quite startled once I arrived at the sink realizing that someone had been watching me do my business the whole time. After a second or two of reflection as I stood there in the disco-ball themed restrooom, I realized that this person was not a pedophile but in actuality, a bathroom attendant! May I just point out that the job of a bathroom attendant is one of the most bizarre, inappropriate, and impossibly explained carreer choices of the millenium. Truly, you must have to have smoked an entire ganja tree in order to even consider such a hideous trade. I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. So I go pee and then I need a paid human being to squirt soap in my hands for me. Really? Even having consumed 4 cosmpolitans in a 1 hour span, do I seriously need assistance in being lubricated manually in an anti-bacterial fashion? I figured out how to operate the elevator well enough didn't I? This was completely absurd. What disturbs me further is that with a bathroom attendant you are not offerred the service but rather impeeded on with their gesture without being asked. This random guy just attacks you with Purell! It's absolute craziness. As I washed my hands in complete disbelief, the young man grabbed some paper towel and held it out for me to dry my hands. As I grabbed a towlette, I noticed from the corner of my eye that he had a stack of cash next to him that was presumably his tip accumulation. I decided to have my first Black moment of the evening. I chose to NOT leave a tip which is incredibly non-Canadian of me by the way. I just feel like if someone forces on their services on you it's really not my duty to tip that person. I had been soap raped! Can you at least ask first? Not to mention this was the first White person I had seen the ENTIRE night besides Rapunzel. Go figure!

        Once I returned back to the bar, Johnnie-cakes had a Vodka-cranberry waiting for me! The love of my life! Rapunzel, her tall self, was drinking a bottle of beer of some American variety. However, she explained to me that drinking beer was truly what makes her Canadian. It's like how Russians drink Vodka like it's water; it's part of their heritage. Interesting fact: The word "Vodka" comes from "Voda" which means "water" in Russian! White people are brilliant! In any event I grabbed my beverage and headed outside with my two fellow musketeers. I was immediately floored by the absolutely gorgeous view we had! From the top of the Ghost Bar, we could see the entire downtown in all of its glory! It looked like our family Christmas tree from 1989! I remember it well; it looked like the Public Relations committee from New Kids on the Block had thrown up on a spruce! It was one Hell of a tree! After some time, and several drinks later, we decided, Rapunzel, Johnnie-cakes and I, that we were tired of watching pretentions Black people stand around like a reverse auction and get out on the dance floor and make some use of it! This was going to get good!

       For some reason, if you are bold enough to be the first one to bust a move in a public situation, you are either revered or heavily made fun of. In our situation, I think it ended up being a bit of column A and a little from columb B. However, the point is, after only one hideously pretentious and degrating hip hop song, we managed to have the whole club dancing! That's what happens when attractive people start gyrating. What made the feat even more impressive was the capabality of the three of us to maintain a 0% consistency of drink spillage. In my case, I value alcohol to much to spill it, even if I've had 4 cosmopolitans. A little time, and a little more drinking went by, and all of a sudden something very exciting happened. The DJ played THE WOBBLE! This is one of my favorite Black line dances! It really gets all of the coloreds moving, even the really thick down South ones! It's like it was made for them! And what thrilled me to no end was that the only White person in the entire place, Rapunzel, knew that dance like the back of her Vanilla colored hand! She had this shit on lockdown! After a few rounds of this line dance I noticed something very strange come over me. At this point I had in my hand, some Crown Royal and coke, the Blackest drink since Colt 45 and bubbly. Something about this African-American alcoholic concoction spoke to me in the most Negro way possible. Out of nowhere, I grabbed Rapunzel and started dancing and gyrating with her! I suppose this wasn't completely scandalous but it is very seldom that I am so forceful in my dance choices! Normally, I'm happy just to "lonely hump" on my own in my purple jeans but on this evening I must have been feeling especially frisky. A few minutes later I was even more surprised finding that somehow I had grabbed Johnnie-cakes and was dancing with her like a maniac! She would drop it low like she had lost a quarter on the floor and I would immediately follow along and end up right on the floor behind her. Between the Rapunzel-groove and the Johnnie-cakes gyration, I was beside myself! There I was, the polite Canadian, pimping TWO women on the same dance floor. I was an absolute disgrace to my people and to my country!

         I was jiggling it back! I was shaking it to the front! I was circling my pelvis in any direction the music or the Crown Royal would take me! I was throwing my bald head around like it was caught on fire like Michael Jackson in the 80s! I was not playing! Yet at some point, this lead to me somehow not feeling so fresh. I was feeling quite sweaty and in desparate need of Summer's Eve. As I entered the restroom for the second time that evening I realized that my little White friend was in fact my savior. As I swung the doors open I stared at the bathroom attendant briefly. "Hey do you have any scent that could make me smell a little more like a Black man with a porsche and less like a lonely African in a bush?". This guy had me covered! He went right to a secret Batman-like closet and grabbed some lovely Divenchy and sprayed it gingerly on both of my armpits, TWICE OVER! This was absolute brilliance! It was without reservation when I placed two dollar bills on top of his stash. I was paying hommage to finally learning why someone would actually work in a men's restroom voluntarily (With the exception of Larry Craig).

         Once the three of came to the point of being past inhebriation, we all decided it was time to leave. The fact that each of us, separately, had to work at 10am the next morning further encouraged this decision (It was 1:30 in the morning at this point). Rapunzel and I had paid for our drinks in cash but Johnnie-cakes needed to head to the bar to take care of her tab. Her bill came to 45 dollars! She couldn't believe it! Neither could we! How could it be so damn expensive for one person to get slightly tipsy on a Thursday evening? This was atrocious. Johnnie-cakes couldn't believe it herself! After what felt like an eternity of silence, she finally begrudgingly paid the bill and we all piled into the elevator with the "elevator escort". Inside, I was delighted that I got to see some of the most pretentious bullshit of my life. It took everything in me not to burst ouf laughing and cry uncontrollably when I saw this mess. It was a Black woman wearing more make-up than Wendy Williams under harsh lighting. The poor little prostitute was draped over this man who looked like an over-grown Lil' Bow Wow. The hooker could not stop laughing! I do not know what was wrong with this woman. I guess some ladies think that if they dote over a man and act like they have just received a labatomy that the man that they are with will, without skipping a beat, buy them a Lexus. I was appauled. Although I shouldn't be; Nicki Minaj has a carreer.

        Ultimately I was appauled at myself on how I had acted that evening. I was a true ghetto Canadian (a complete oxymoron). I had disrespected Jesus by gyrating with two lovely women at the same time who had been drinking completely separate flavors of alcoholic beverages. Clearly, I had had too many myself. As I pulled my heavy Crown Royal-filled head off of my pillow the next morning I took a moment of reflection to think about what I had done. I had taken a step down urban lane and found myself to be a true pimp daddy. However, this was truly a Cinderella case in the fact that this behaviour had only lasted a short period of time. By the time I had woken up I immediately wanted to begin praying to ask Jesus for forgiveness on account of me behaving like R.Kelly the previous evening. What was I thinking? I never thought that I would ever do anything in my life that would make Flava Flav proud. OY!

                    

Absolut Brown and Thin

         My relationship with vodka started many years ago. I first met her when I was merely a teenager. I have Canada to thank for my early indoctrination into the realm of liquor. In my home country, the legal age to drink is only 19. I was so thin back then! It was only appropriate to celebrate my skeletal thin-ness with drinking heavily. And what better spirit to drink than a clear one with tasteless flavor. I love vodka because since I began my serious relationship with her so many years ago, she has truly never let me down. As I gingerly sit my Brown tukkus on this chair to write my blog, who do you suppose is sitting right next to me. That's right! A highball glass filled with ice cubes, a splash of 7up, two lime wedges, and a copious amount of Ketel One.

          I remember very clearly the first time I came into contact with alcohol of any kind. I was 7 years old. My Stepfather Luigi (he looks like the video game character) thought it would be funny to respond to my question "What is that?" with the answer "Apple juice" when clearly what was inside of that glass I was inquiring about was ultimately something atrocious, Molson Canadian. Molson is a hideous brand of beer that only toothless Canadian hockey players drink. The taste is so abhorred, it would probably turn Amy Winehouse sober. I, thinking it was apple juice, took a brisk swig and immediately spat it out all over the floor as though I had found out it was made with same poison that killed Romeo. It was awful! I couldn't believed I had been tricked so easily! I would never fall for that joke again! Or at least so I thought.....

      I think very fondly back to New Years Eve 1996. The moon was in full force as were the Spice Girls. It was such a tremendous year to think back on. I had lost over five teeth and my skin had never looked better. I was triumphant in all of my studies. I was on the honor roll and was the Blackest kid in the school. I clearly had accomplished some incredible achievements. I'm not sure where the rest of my family was (much of my childhood memory has been blocked out on account of my alcoholism) but for some reason it was just Princess Toadstool (my Mother) and I, alone in our large house in the Lower Mainland of British  Columbia. She poured herself a very humble glass of Chardonnay to get ready for the countdown. To make it clear, this was not a regular past time for Princess Toadstool. My Mother drank wine less often than I had regular bowel movements. I noticed there was a second glass on our living room table. "Would you like to try some?" she asked. "Sure!" I responded, clearly not remembering my first foul experience with an alcoholic beverage. Perhaps subconsciously I considered the fact that I was dealing with a different variety of alcohol. At least this time I was prepared for it. Without even a sniff, I took a deep breath and took a very large gulp of the white wine. I felt my face wince immediately after the swallow. Apparently being aware of the alcohol in the glass was no help in the consumption of such. I still was not sold. Happy New Year!

         Fast forward to six year later. As I approached the end of my eleventh grade, I found myself starting to become somewhat restless. I had many friends who were drinking, dating, smoking, stealing, destroying property, performing Bill Clinton-esque sexual favors and all sorts of other teenage foolishness. I knew I would have none of this. For some reason I was quite high on my pedestal of purity. I championed the idea of preserving my soul and body. I wasn't even religious! Clearly there was something wrong with me and time would only tell for when I would inevitably break away from my own rigidness. This rebellion came on an evening soon after I had broken up with the first person I had ever dated. It was on date number two that I was informed that this person was no longer interested in me. I was devastated. It just so happens that on that very night I was invited over to my friend's house for a little get together. This friend was wildly expressive and always a bold shining light in my life. For the purposes of this blog we'll call her Moulin Rouge. There were maybe five of us at her apartment. After some time venting, I really found myself falling into a deeper and deeper slump of depression. I clearly did not know how to handle this abrupt break-up probably on account of my never having to deal with something like that before coupled with my raging 16 year old hormones. Moulin quickly informed me that she had a delicious bottle of unopened red wine which she offered to me. Moulin would eventually regret this decision later. I poured myself my first glass. Similar to my first experiences with alcohol, I was mildly disgusted with my first few sips of the Merlot. But in my depressive state I continued to drown in my sorrows. After my second glass was finished, I believe this was the precise moment that my brain became detached from the rest of my body. I began violently running around the house mimicking noises that of a vaccuum cleaner and performing copious amounts of log rolls on the carpet floor. I must have been channeling Courtney Love at the time. After some prolonged continuation of reckless shenanigans I made my way back to the half empty/half full bottle of Merlot. At this point I felt no need to bother myself with a glass. I sucked right on that bottle like it was a damn pacifier.

           The rest of a night was a slight blur to me. I can't imagine why. The only thing worse than performing unmentionable and hideously disgusting activities is not much remembering said activities and having them instead retold to you by your friend the next morning.  What I do remember of the evening was making a few dizzy trips to the porch swaying back and forth like a willow tree only to fall asleep in a drunken stupor a few hours later. I blacked out at some point. I woke up this next morning passed out on Moulin's couch. Previously, I had heard of this very strange phenomena called the "hangover". Because this was my first experience drinking I could only imagine such an endeavour. Ultimately, this was in fact NOT my time to experience a hangover. It turns out that I had continued partying at Moulin's apartment until 4 in the morning when I ultimately crashed only to wake up as per my supposed instructions I had given to be woken up with alarm at 8am as to have ample time to sneak back into my bedroom and not be caught by Princess Toadstool. I found out that morning that when an inexperienced drinker consumes an entire bottle of wine and then sleeps only 4 hours that he will find himself awoken not hungover but rather STILL DRUNK. This was slightly bizarre to me. I felt I had self-inflicted paranoia. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. I gathered my belongings as fast as I could and began staggering my way out of the apartment. Just before I reached the door Moulin stopped me to inform me of the antics of the previous evening. Supposedly I had failed to remember (gee I wonder why) that I had vomited over her ENTIRE porch! I was completely appalled at myself. I couldn't believe I would ever engage in such an unattractive activity. However, I was slightly proud of myself for the fact that even in a drunken stupor I was able to keep my goal weight at the top of my priority list.

           As I sit here and stare at my empty highball glass, it boggles me that there was ever a time when I did not appreciate or understand how to consume alcohol. Now, it's a very natural thing that seems to fit in so easily like every tampon should. I can barely imagine what it was like to be so stupid and inexperienced to actually throw up on a friend's porch. How embarrassing! I KNOW my limit now! I can have up to 7  adult beverages of the vodka variety in a period of 6 hours. However, If I am to prepare these beverages myself I can only consume 3 on account of my making my drinks a little stronger than proved safe by any living scientist. Ultimately how I live my life is up to me and most recently I have decided the best way to enjoy my life is not sober. I hope to inspire others to join me on this slightly inebriated adventure. You don't know what you're missing. And for those of you non-believers, I'd like you to try an experiment. Prepare yourself an alcoholic beverage and go into your bathroom. Before you take a sip take a look at your ugly mug in the mirror and ask yourself "Do I like what I see?". After you've answered yourself, immediately turn the lights off and chug the drink. Run back into the kitchen and repeat this exercise seven times over. If by the end of the evening your self-image has not improved then you are fully entitled to send me hate mail accompanied by the required 750ml bottle of Smirnoff Vanilla of course. Cheers bitches!

                                      

Mother Superior

        It's amazing how as you grow up there is so much role reversal. I remember Princess Toadstool (my Mother) reading a story to me about a Mother and her Son. She would rock her little baby son until he was asleep. The story continued the journey of the little boy's life growing up and moving away from the home. The story concludes with the Mother growing elderly and her son instead rocking her in a chair in his arms. I recall this among many stories Princess Toadstool would read to me including many of the Dr. Suess variety. This one in particular is in the forefront of my mind today because I find myself beginning to role reverse myself.

       As a kid, Mother's Day is usually planned by the Mother herself. She usually orchestrates some sort of activity to spend with her children while the Father will secretly take the kids out a few days prior to pick out a card or a small present. My involvement in Mother's Day as a kid was really more about following instructions than taking any initiative. I find myself today, at 24 years old, taking a much different perspective. Today is the day that I must now take initiative and show my love for the person who endured several hours of labor to give birth to a bi-racial Canadian. I'm not sure if I would have made the same sacrifice. I was crying profusely at the dentist's office and it was only a consultation. Mothers truly are amazing.

       Princess Toadstool always had this very strange habit of doing the dishes in the dark. I'm not sure why she did this but on several occasions I witnessed this oddity. One time she cut herself with a knife that was submerged in the water. I now find myself occasionally doing the same thing. My roommate thinks I've lost my mind but for some reason I feel comfort in participating in this activity, always remembering to remove all sharp objects beforehand. In a strange way I am paying tribute to the woman who taught me how to make Shake 'n Bake. It's my way of giving thanks to the person who explained to me why it's best to not go number 2 in a public park. If it weren't for her I probably would still be copping a squat under a neighborhood slide right here in Texas. I have so many good memories of Princess Toadstool and it is today that I must honor my Mother.

        Not only is it important as an adult to take initiative to pay homage and acknowledge the sacrifices and celebration of your Mother. It is also important to to acknowledge (and most certainly remember) all of the other Mother's in your family! First of all there's my Grandmother who we will refer to as Celine. For much of my life I lived with Celine, Princess Toadstool, Barbie (my Sister), Luigi (my Step Dad), and Harry Potter (my Brother). Celine was a wonderful Grandmother but not typical of sorts. She was not the kind of woman who sat in a rocker or wheeled herself around slowly on any kind of motorized vehicle. She went to work everyday and could cut you with a backhanded commented faster than you could say Quebec. Celine, as the nickname denotes, is French Canadian. She refuses to be referred to as Grandma, we must call her Nana. She is NOT Jewish. She just feels that "Nana" has less of an elderly stigma attached to it. She constantly makes fun of her boyfriend (of over 20 years) and makes special comment on his gigantic nose. He is from Saskatchewan which has a very "Children of the Corn" feeling. Celine LOVES Canasta, Bingo, and Yahtzee! It's like crack cocaine for this woman. I am right behind her! I've already started watching Law & Order marathons. Clearly I am turning into my Grandmother, and fast!

          The next mother of  mention is my Sister, Barbie. How quickly I forget that she is a Mother too! Barbie has an adorable little daughter who we will call Barbie². This little girl is the absolute vision of my Sister as a kid. I remember very clearly watching Barbie brush her incredibly long blond hair in the mirror with adorable beady little eyes and bright smile. This memory has come flooding  back as I've witnessed her daughter's facebook growth. Barbie² is a dancer and ultimate performer. When I saw her last summer she was very excited to show me every move she had possibly learned! I have no idea where she gets any of this from. When we were kids, Barbie was the person who taught me how to do the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man. I still break these moves out when I've had too much tequila. They really are a hit in the Black night clubs of Texas. It's also very strange to note that Barbie and I are both turning into Betty Crocker at the same time. She is 4 years older than I which means that Barbie is a little further along the track. I just started making my own pie crusts but she has her own vegetable garden with gigantic cucumbers! At least I have an example of what is yet to come for me. Apparently we are both turning into Julia Child at an accelerated pace.

          These three women have ultimately helped to shape my life in many ways. I am slowly turning into all three of them. Princess Toadstool, Celine, and Barbie possess many of the traits that are slowly brewing inside of me. As I find myself doing dishes in the dark, busting out the Running Man or making fun of people's noses, I realize that this is all merely a reflection of my lineage. It's Jesus's way of reminding me of where I came from. So today, I must send out my love three ways! For my Mother, my Sister, and to Nana, I love you all very much! I hope you have many pancakes with smiley faces on them today! I will be FedEx-ing some Aunt Jemima syrup over shortly.

Happy Mother's Day

       

My Dental Appointment (aka Mouth-Rape)

          Today, I felt like a character on my favorite television sitcom, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. This particular series focuses on people whom are victims of sexual crimes. This morning, I felt like I was literally living inside of an episode! I had a dentist appointment! By the time I had left the office I felt like I had been mouth-raped. I'm not sure if this very controversial and sensitive subject of mouth-rape has been tackled on SVU but I really think there's a large audience out there who are looking to be represented. So here's how it all went down!

           First of all, the last time I had a dentist appointment, George Bush was in his first term, Kaballah hadn't been invented yet, and Jennifer Lopez had finished recording her first album. This should give you an indication of the last time I had been to the dentist. I'm not particularly afraid of the dentist, it's just that this is the first time that I have had a job with dental benefits. So I foolishly decided to use them. I made a deal with Shoniqua that I would get dental coverage ONLY if she signed up for life insurance. I think she may have gotten the better end of the bargain. I made my appointment on today of all days, CINCO DO MAYO! The receptionist told me over the phone that she would have my margarita ready. I was VERY excited! On account of me not having a vehicle, I asked Evangeline if she would drive me this morning because she had so smartly decided to have her dental work done on this non-Mexican bullshit holiday as well.

         I very clearly remember as a kid going to a gigantic building with a lobby bigger than my Kinder garden classroom when I visited the dentist. Apparently things have changed. The entire dental office was no bigger than the size of my kitchen. When I became aware of this I immediately began to perspire. Without Evangeline I probably would have imploded completely. I decided to make a quick toilet trip and return to the very soft couch where I patiently filled out my form. In my dreary state at 8 o'clock in the morning I joyously filled out the section "Who will be responsible for this bill" and answered "ME!" with a sideways happy face. I feel like people who work in dental offices so seldomly experience joy, I wanted to be the catalyst for that opportunity. As I handed back the form, the receptionist indicated to me that there was a backside along with two other forms attached behind that I had failed to fill out. I guess that's what happens when the evening prior you make seven cosmopolitans for yourself in preparation for your next day dental appointment. As I scanned through the backside of the form, I came across to a very strange question (among many): "Do you have any artificial heart valves?". I placed my pen firmly inside the "No" box and paused for a moment. After a second of reflection I remembered, "Oh that's right! I do!". I had completely forgotten that as a child I had open heart surgery. I was born with a birth defect called "coarctation of the aorta". I had a thinning of the aorta, the main valve entering the heart. To fix it, they put in a "stent" which treats artery blockage. For some reason, in those 2 seconds my pen was pressed inside the "No" box, it all came flooding back to my memory. I checked the "Yes" box and walked on in not thinking anything of it.

           I walked into the "office" (I use this term loosely) and sat down on a lovely grey leather reclinable seat. "The chair of death" would have been a more appropriate title. Let me explain that this particular visit was of little previous stress on the fact that this was only for the purposes of x-rays and consultation, ie. there will be no razors, knives, needles, or sharp object of any kind near your mouth. I met this lovely Black woman whom was my "dental assistant". She spoke with a peculiar drawl. She instructed me to open my mouth to which she inserted a plastic device that looked like a prop on the Nicki Minaj Stripper Tour. She was supposedly there not for my entertainment but to take X-rays. Let the mouth-rape begin! She stuck that plastic ho all the way to the back of my mouth almost causing me to gag. This feeling is quite familiar as this happened one time with a banana when I was twelve. Somehow, I resisted vomiting and allowed her to take the x-ray with some temperamental gadget. She repeated this awful exercise four times! Finally, once she completed she went to go print the pictures. When she came back, she informed me that the photographs from the x-ray were completely jacked up! Can you believe it? All of that suffering and I needed to go through this shit again!? Really!? I needed to write a letter. So naturally, they brought the White woman over to do the job properly. THOSE photographs were fine.

             The Black dental assistant with the very strange Southern accent in blue scrubs came back to visit. "What next?!" I thought. She instructed me to stand up. She lead me over to some ridiculous R2-D2 like contraption. She told me to step inside the chamber of doom and rest my chin on a tongue-shaped slab. From there, I was to open my mouth and slide it over a metal gadget. Was this a Kim Kardashian video? From there, she told me to hang on to two handle bars, each with one hand. She explained that I needed to remain incredibly still and upright. Clearly, this bitch was trying to kill me! Out of nowhere, these two plastic globes began spinning around my head in VERY close proximity. My eyes widened more than Pamela Anderson's vagina over Spring Break. I peed  a little. I haven't felt so nervous in my life since the time I pooped under the slide in Kinder garden! I felt like I was being abducted by aliens. This was absolutely horrifying. There was nothing I could do but shake profusely in my stillness and soil myself secretly (in that order).

               After that monstrosity I was instructed to head back into the chair and lie comfortably. Really? How could I be comfortable after being mouth raped? This was absurd! I thought this was merely a consultation! See, that's how they get you! Those bitches! I lay down and in comes yet ANOTHER character to this story! I remember the last time I visited the dentist (12 years ago), I only saw TWO people: the receptionist and the dentist. Nowadays you see a myriad of people in a twenty minute span of a consultation. This was absolute craziness. In walked a White lady (different from the one who took the good x-rays) in scrubs with floral decoration. I immediately started laughing uncontrollably: this is what I refer to as the "church giggles". I tried VERY hard to maintain my composure (unfortunately this was to no avail).  At this point, the NEW and improved second round version of X-rays had been printed. The assistant handed them to the White lady. She put them against a bright light and stared for a moment. After a brief pause she said "WHAT'S THAT!?!?!" as she pointed at the photograph! "I don't know bitch! YOU'RE THE DOCTOR!" was my first thought. Somehow I refrained from turning that phrase into vocal and/or audible reality. I just stared at her in disbelief. Talk about bedside manner! Apparently the second round of pictures were no good either. As I peered toward the picture I realized that there was a black line stricken completely through the photograph making it look like my teeth bad been detached from the gums! I couldn't believe it! I swore if they made me do a third round of the gag reflex that I would throw up on the Black lady! I really would! But alas, the White lady seemed disinterested in the X-rays. She, instead, asked me to open on up and have yet another look.

         At the precise moment when I was going to receive my follow-up mouth-rape Caucasian style, the assistant walked back into the room to point something that apparently was rather important. Remember the plastic heart valve? Supposedly this little issue that I almost failed to remember would ultimately inhibit anyone from mouth-raping me again! The assistant and the dentists there explained to me that I need to receive antibiotics before they would even touch me with a metal pole! I didn't realize it would be an issue, at least not in the stage of the game that would only include a consultation. I was wrong. They immediately brought out a lovely little plastic cup containing some delicious penicillin. I swallowed four lovely pills. I didn't gag on them, I promise. The White lady came back to finish what she had started, the mouth rape. She peered inside and poked and prodded. I was surprised that even with just a simple look-see that I felt quite uncomfortable. This made me concerned for the future. What she was about to tell me was not going to make the situation much better. Once she shined the bright E.T. light off of my face she explained to me that I needed something special called a "deep cleaning". This is when they go underneath your gums with sharp metal objects for over an hour and a half. Supposedly this procedure is so painful that many patients opp to do it in two separate appointments freezing half of their mouth at a time. She recommended to me that I simply get a slightly numbing gel that would allow her to do my entire mouth in one shot. However, this gel would not completely alleviate the pain. She also explained that should I get numbing shots which would completely numb my mouth, they would not be able to do my entire my mouth because I would feel like I was swallowing my own tongue. Sounds to me like a mouth gangbang!

          After receiving this horrific news (I opted to go with the slightly numbing gel for financial reasons, just wait for THAT blog!) I thought my journey into detriment was over. This was not the case. After the White lady left, there was ANOTHER person who had to come bother me. FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! When was this torture going to be over? A dark-haired, Jewy, old man came waltzing on in. This man was apparently the REAL dentist. The big cheese! What was he going to do to me? You can't mouth-rape twice. Who wants sloppy seconds? Definitely not a Jew! He told me that he had a special machine that would look for cavities. He held this little metal device in his hand with a red light shooting out of it. He explained that when he held it up to a particular tooth, that the machine would let him know if there was a cavity there. He said he would hold it up to a tooth that he found to be suspect, if the machine beeped, it meant I had a cavity. No beep, no cavity. I immediately clenched my butt cheeks together and prayed to Jesus, Allah, and Moses. Apparently none of those bitches were available because that plastic ho done beeped FOUR TIMES! And you know what that means: FOUR CAVITIES! Really?! I had never had cavities in my life! My teeth are absolutely amazing! Or so I thought! How could I deal with the traumatic experience of having this little bitches filled in my own mouth! I can barely handle having an I.V. put in! Now I was going to have to have a needle in my own face! For Christ's sake!

            In situations like this when I perspire profusely like Lil' Kim on Christian Singles Night at Youth Group, I find  myself turning to my best friend, only second to Vodka, sarcasm! She truly never lets me down. So I asked the lovely White Dentist Man for a favor in response to a question of his. He asked me before he left "Whiter or Straighter?" I had no idea what this ho was talking about. "I'm neither", was my first response in my head until I realized he was referring to my teeth. I immediately declined. Cosmetic surgery is really not the kind of endeavour that should be taken on by anyone who makes two dollars an hour, ESPECIALLY a bi-racial Canadian! For real! However, in my declination, I considered something. "Do you do grills?" I asked. I was referring, of course, to Black people such as celebrities Flava Flav who don sparkling blinged out choppers from ear to ear! "No" he said swiftly. He explained that he is not interested in destroying teeth only for the purpose of making them golden. I then explained to him that he is truly missing out on a very huge market here in Dallas where people will happily go broke turning their children's teeth golden before getting braces. I'm just sayin!

            I'm not exactly sure why my sensitivity to the world of health, hospitals, and dental offices has increased exponentially as I become older. I thought we were supposed to become more relaxed and  mature about these situations. Not me! I've been pooping myself all day over this! July 11th is the date by the way! This is the day I will be mouth-raped like never before, THE DEEP CLEANING! After that, I have two separate appointments for my fillings, two each! OY VEY! The stress! This truly is Jesus punishing me for being such an ungrateful jackass. I really need to go to church more often. Maybe that will be a good prevention of any future mouth rape.