Monday, February 27, 2006

ThePeach has a Drug-Fuelled Moment of Clarity, Followed By a Much Longer Period Of The Noids

I really need to stop smoking drugs. I think I literally slept away my entire weekend.

So, TheHippie, WeeOne and I decided to have a chick’s night on Friday. This involved several bottles of wine, a tube of cookie dough, and eventually a bag of dirty pot that TheHippie bought on the streets. God I love her.

I think I need to explain a little more about this pot. The last time she went home, TheHippie went out and got smashed with some friends and decided that she needed some pot – NOW. She started wandering the streets around 2am, asking random people if they had any pot to sell. Finally, they found a guy who said that he did, in fact, have pot to sell her. They went into an alley. There, TheHippie and her friends discovered that they only had 10 dollars…between the 3 of them. The random guy said he didn’t have anything that he could sell them for 10 bucks, but they begged, and eventually he begrudgingly agreed to sell them some of his “personal stash”.

And that is what we smoked. It was probably ground up newspaper laced with bleach, but it got us fucked up. Like super, super high. As in, I tried to dance with myself in a full length mirror and eventually TheHippie had to turn the mirror around because it was freaking us out kind of high. Plus we were already drunk from the wine. Jesus Christ, and I wonder why I haven’t gotten into grad school.

So, there we were - high, drunk, and watching episode after episode of family guy. You know you’ve all been there. Don’t judge me.

So, that’s when it hit me. Why was I so stressed out about my future? Why was I wasting time wondering what to do with my life? Why was I freaking out because I have no life goals or ambitions?

THIS is life, man! Getting high and being with your friends! Who needs goals? And really, who needs a job to earn money when TheHippie gives you drugs and WeeOne gives you cookie dough and all one needs to distill your own liquor is a potato garden?? And really, that’s all you need! And the world is such a beautiful place what with all the colours and sounds – why don’t I just enjoy my life as it is? Embrace it!

Then I ate a grapefruit (“the juices…holy shit guys…so beautiful”) and wandered home at 3:45 am. A cop actually asked me if I was ok on my way. If nothing else, it’s nice to know my street is actually patrolled.

The next night, TheHippie and I decided to recreate the beauty of our Friday in a night that will forever be named “a social experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong”. We did the same thing. Drank wine, smoked some dirty pot. But this time, we went out to a club to meet up with FauxHawk and about 100 of his classmates at the end of their pubcrawl. And this time, I got paranoid. Or, as I like to call it – the noids.

First, I whined the whole way to the club that I was way too high and everyone could tell and was judging me. TheHippie, god bless her, persevered and probably tuned me out. Then, we decided to stand outside the club for a minute to get some air before we went in. That’s when FauxHawk and his good friend TheYetti bumped into us. FauxHawk, who was drunk off his tree, only had one reaction when he saw me (and by the way, he invited me):

“What the fuck?”

With that, he went inside the club and I didn’t see him again until 2:45am. It was 11:15.

That didn’t go over too well with my noids. Now I was convinced that I had crashed the part-ay. TheHippie, god bless her, sat us down in a corner in the club and tried to convince me that we weren’t crashing the part-ay. But that was hard to do when people kept throwing coats at us. Yes, we had somehow become the trolls of the coats. All the med students must have seen us, decided we were the most socially awkward people there, and thought “what the fuck, why not pile our coats on top of them? They clearly don’t belong here and thus should be hidden. Also, has anyone seen my platinum credit card? My dad’s going to kill me”.

As we slowly realized that a) FauxHawk wasn’t coming back, b) we were the trolls of the coats, c) music is scary, it became time for us to leave. I left a message on FauxHawk’s cell phone and we got in a cab and got back to the safety of my apartment and a hermit-like existence that is bound to become my future. At 2:45am, FauxHawk called me and asked me “are yoush not at the club anymore? I turned aroundsh and yoush weres gones”. I didn’t even try to explain to him that 3 hours had elapsed in the time it took him to notice that I had left. I just got in the cab that he was riding and got him safely into his apartment and to bed. The next day, he told me that he swears only 5 minutes had passed between when he saw me at the door (“what the fuck?”) and when he called me. Poor, precious FauxHawk.

So, I learned a few things this weekend:

1. I can’t get high and go out in public.
2. Getting high probably isn’t going to solve all my problems. Or any of them. In fact, it will just exacerbate the problems that already exist.
3. That isn’t going to stop me from getting high in the future.
4. I still have no idea what to do with my life.
5. It might be potato farming.

All in all, it was a pretty good weekend.


Friday, February 24, 2006

ThePeach Has an Existential Crisis

It’s been a rough week full of decision-making, doubt, and watching too much Olympic figure skating (last night I made FauxHawk watch the women’s final from 9pm to midnight…do I know how to repel men, or what?). My contract for working for TheBoss is almost up, and I need to make a decision about whether or not to work for him for another excruciating year. Also, FauxHawk got matched to do his 5-year va-j-j residency here, in Universitytown, so now I have a reason to stay – other than to mingle with the gloriously pretentious, bleach-blonde, fake’n’bake, louis vuitton toting scrags who live here on daddy’s money (not to over generalize or anything).

So, do I stay at a job that makes me want to hang myself from the flickering fluorescent lights, or do I whore myself out to the corporate world and hope to find something better? Speaking of whore, do I go to the strip club and ask for that job they offered me? I think being a crack-whore is a perfectly respectable career option. I could make tons of money on tips and from selling poon/my crack-babies to work farms, where they can sort nuts and bolts for the rest of their lives and eat the shiny ones. Shiny means delicious. Oh god, I need a job.

Here’s the deal. I stay at this job for one more year and I have the security of a (small) pay-check, a health plan, and a work-day in which I put in about 2 hours of dedicated work between breaks, naps, coming in late, and leaving early. This leaves me plenty of flexible time to pursue other goal-oriented interests, like watching Oprah and getting drunk.

But then there’s the soul-sucking work itself: Babysitting TheBoss’ kid, writing papers that TheBoss publishes under his own name, and entering survey data until I no longer am able to communicate in words, but only the numbers 0, 1 and 2. And not to mention daily meetings like the one I had yesterday:

TheBoss: *enters office* Have you seen the movie Sin City yet?
ThePeach: No, can’t say that I have.
TheBoss: It reminded me of you.
ThePeach: …how?
TheBoss: *35 minute description of gory, disturbing violence involving sadistic gangsters and hookers while he steals, toasts, and eats a bagel out of someone’s lunch in the lab fridge*
ThePeach: Um…ok, but I’m not seeing how this reminds you of me. Also, I think that bottle of water belongs to someone in the lab.
TheBoss: *drinking*. Whateva! They’ll never notice!
ThePeach: So when exactly did the movie remind you of me?
TheBoss: Oh, right. Well, at one point there’s this weird little guy with razor-nails who likes to eat hookers. Like eat them while they are alive and makes them watch.
ThePeach: Jesus Christ.
TheBoss: And at one point he ties this hooker up, deep-fries her hand in oil, and sucks the meat right off her bones while she watches!
ThePeach: *tries not to vomit a little in mouth*…I’m still not seeing it, Boss.
TheBoss: Well, later on she had a stump! She was an amputee!! *furious giggling*
ThePeach: Ahhhh, I see. Because of the stump.
TheBoss: *teeheeteeheeteehee!!!* Amputees!!!
ThePeach: I really need to finish working on this data.
TheBoss: Shit dude, you’re not done yet??? What have you been doing all morning??
ThePeach: You’ve been down here telling me about sin city for 45 minutes.
TheBoss: *teeheeteeheeteehee* amputees!! You’re going to have to work through your lunch hour today to make up for it.

** if you don’t understand the amputee jokes, read the archives about TheBoss**

So, what would you do? I’ll welcome any advice, no matter how bad. While you're at it, tell me what to do with my life in general. I have no fucking idea.

Keep in mind that I’m as lazy as shit.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006

ThePeach goes to a Strip Club

I’ve been told by some unhappy friends that I’ve been neglecting my blog. This is true; I have become negligent in the past few weeks. I apologize. And it’s not like I have any excuses like my job is keeping me busy (HA!), my social schedule is so packed (HA!), or I’ve been having personal issues (HA! HA!). It’s more like I’ve been sitting around, watching bad tv, napping, and eating my weight in cheese and cheese-related food products.

So, here’s a little something to make up for it. I promise you that nothing in this story is false or exaggerated.

Knowing the way that thing happen to me, I don’t know why I ever thought it would be a good idea to go to a strip club. Have I met me?? How could this end well? But alas, I was drunk as a skunk and wanted to see some titties.

Let me back up. This was last summer, a typical boring night in Universitytown, and FauxHawk decided to throw a little shindig at his apartment. About 4 of his med-friends showed (by the way, all boys), and TheNurse managed to drag out her boring now-ex-bf, TheTool. I’m pretty sure I was loaded by the time we hit the town, and I’m pretty sure of this because FauxHawk mixed my drinks and he liked to get me liquored. This was in the days before I hit my current charming phase of drunken alcoholic rage, by the way. Nowadays FauxHawk just forces me to drink water and prays that I don’t try to beat up any thugs. He’s a lover, not a fighter.

Anyway, we went to a skeezy bar and continued to drink. TheTool started whining, so TheNurse had to take him home (god, she is so much better without. But don’t get me wrong, I liked him when he treated her well…in the days before he became TheTool), and then it was just me, FauxHawk, and his 4 male med-friends. I was drunk. I was full of ideas of how to keep the night entertaining. I suggested the strip club. It was well received.

There are 2 things you need to know now.
1) I am not a lesbian. I am not bisexual. I heart boys and will never turn to the meat curtains, not that I judge those who do. But I’m not opposed to naked chicks. Let’s face it ladies, we lucked out as far as physical attractiveness of the body goes. So, I don’t mind looking. Especially when I’m drunk.
2) The strip club in Universitytown is the skankiest scrag-hole anyone has ever stepped foot in. The strippers are usually a) ugly, b) crack-whores, c) smelling like salty garbage. Yet the universitytown’ers go there, because it’s all we have.

We walked in and I got us seats in perv row (the seats closest to the stage). FauxHawk got me 2 more drinks. I cat-called and yelled dirty things to the strippers. It was well received. Then one of the medfriends said that I should go on stage to give one of the strippers a 5’er (that’s a 5 dollar bill, by the way – Not a fisting technique). I looked at the other guys who were on stage to give the strippers tips. It seemed simple – they lay on their backs with the 5 in their mouth, and then the stripper would (through the magic of cleave) lift the 5 out with her tits. Yes, it seemed simple, but even a very drunk ThePeach has her limits. I would not let myself be degraded!

The medfriend bought me a drink. 5 minutes later I was lying on my back with a 5 in my mouth, thinking it was the best idea I ever came up with. I noticed that the cat-calling in the bar got a little louder and that the other guys had gotten off the stage. It was just me and the stripper and her nicotine patch.

I closed my eyes. It seemed wise. I remember thinking “why is she putting the 5 dollar bill on my face?”.

I heard the medfriends cheering, so I opened my eyes. A poor choice.


I remember thinking 3 things: “don’t inhale. Whatever you do, don’t inhale.”, and “god, I hope her vagina doesn’t shoot any diseases at me, ninja-style” and “that’s a good wax job, I wonder where she got it done?”.

The graceful stripper then (through the magic of…labia?) lifted the 5 off of my face with her crotch and continued to dance over me. Thank you jesus, it’s over!

Not quite.

The clever stripper noticed that the crowd was getting even louder and decided to take advantage of the moment – and pull my shirt off. And bite me. It was well received.

Now I had stripper rabies. If I didn’t immediately get several needles to my stomach, I would start frothing at the mouth and spreading stripper everywhere I went. It was time to get off the fucking stage.

I jumped up, dodged a pole, and made it back to my seat. The medfriends kept telling me “holy shit, that was so awesome”, and FauxHawk couldn’t stop yelling “MY girlfriend! That was MY girlfriend!” in a mixture of awe and shock.

The MC offered me a job. It’s nice to know I have options.

I felt like I had stripper-grime all over me and needed one of those scalding hot, rocking on your heels kind of showers. So I stumbled (remember how drunk I still was) to the ladies washroom.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say Ladies Washroom? I meant scary naked smoking and vulvar cleaning room that terrified me to my very core. I guess not too many women go to the strip joint. Because that is exactly what was going on in the bathroom. About 5 naked strippers were lounging around, smoking, and washing themselves. I couldn’t get to a sink because one of them had a leg up. Literally.

I guess the strippers feel dirty, too.

So, I decided to enjoy the moment, got another drink, and watched a stripper covered in bruises splash around in a giant champage glass on stage.

At least she got a bath.


p.s. You'll be happy to know I caught neither stripper-rabies nor some scary projectile-vagina disease to my face.

Monday, February 20, 2006

A little bit random

Do you ever have one of those weekends where you tell yourself that you’re going be productive, and then you binge-drink for 3 nights in a row and wake up on the last day with no clean clothes, no food in the house, and no idea what happened?

That was my weekend. Except that it was a 3-day weekend thanks to my new favourite stat holiday, Heritage Day. Today, I am celebrating my heritage of being a useless bum by watching a “10 years younger” marathon, wearing (dirty) sweatpants, and cat-sitting for my ex-bf’s (TheTeen) cat.

In reality, it is my cat. I picked her out of the litter of other little stick-legged grey kittens a year and a half ago. I took her to the vet and paid for all of her kitten accessories. I shut her in the bedroom when TheTeen hot-boxed the living room to prevent neurological damage. I was a good kitty-mommy.

But then I left TheTeen for FauxHawk (an excellent decision) and he kept the cat because TheBitches wouldn’t let me keep her in the house. So, now I have FauxHawk but no cat. And much less pot. It was a trade-off.

But every once in a while TheTeen takes off and needs a cat-sitter, and I throw myself at every opportunity. Now that I live alone, she can stay with me for weeks at a time. She really is the best cat. Although each time I see her she is a little bit fatter and a little bit stupider. Just like TheTeen.

Anyway, having her here for the week should be interesting. She enjoys waking me up at 6am by stepping on my face, running around like a bat out of hell during the middle of the night, and throwing herself, spread-eagle style, at my legs. She also likes squeezing her head into impossibly tiny glasses of water and using her “I just cleaned my ass” tongue to taint any liquids that I leave sitting around. I brush my teeth a lot when she’s around. She’s a good cat.

I’m so hungover.


Friday, February 17, 2006

The Driving Follies, continued

I had another driving lesson with Frank, my strange old-man instructor, yesterday afternoon. I was doing pretty well. I drove downtown without causing any pile-ups, and I drove on a highway! I'm almost at a 16 year-old's level of skill! Those skinny bizatches have nothing on me. With Frank, I can conquer the world.

So, Frank made me drive to a remote parking lot in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere to set up a pilon course so that I could practice swerving out of the line of danger. Like if a car is about to rear-end me, or some child is lying dead in the middle of the road (yes, he actually made me visualize this). Everything was going normally, and I feared that I would have nothing bizarre to write about in my blog. Was my life no longer hilarious? Was I living a giant lie??

That is, until he asked me to drive him over to a shack on the edge of the woods so that he could take a leak behind it. That's right. I'm not gonna lie, there was a minute there where I was afraid that gentle Frank was taking me to that shack to molest and kill me. Or show me his speedo (see the last 'driving follies' if you're lost). But then he told me to put on the parking brake, he got out, and disappeared behind the shack for about 2 minutes. I was perplexed. I figured he was either smoking or voiding his bladder of urine. I prayed for the former.

When he got back in the car and smelled nothing like smoke, I knew that he had taken a leak. I made a mental note to disenfect my hands after the lesson, seeing as how regularly took a hold of the wheel to show me how to steer in some of the scenarios. Hot.

About 30 seconds later, he pointed out a black stain on the road. He told me that a car had burnt down in that very spot:

Frank: You see that black spot? A car burned down there.
ThePeach: *eyeing the pee hands warily* Is that so.
Frank: *grabs wheel to steer around it* Yep.
ThePeach: *mental note: cut off hands* interesting.
Frank: They say it was an accident, but I bet it was Jewish lightening.
ThePeach: Jew-WHAT?
Frank: *giggle* Haven't you ever heard the expression? Teehee! Jewish Lightening means arson!

I don't even know how that makes sense, but I know that it crossed some sort of moral boundary. Not mine, mind you. I have no boundaries - or morals! And I regularly make fun of Jews, but that's only because FauxHawk is one of the chosen few and he understands that I'm just making fun of him, not the entire religion. I'm sweet that way. But how did Frank know that I wasn't jewish? My last name is Polish, I have dark hair, a stately nose, and I haven't paid him yet for my extra lessons (heh, sorry FauxHawk). I regularly get mistaken for Jewish.

So, in the matter of 2 minutes, Frank took a leak behind a shack and insulted jews. My life was back to normal.


Thursday, February 16, 2006

Sunned and Cirrhotic: Part 4

Days 4-7: Drunk

I’ve decided to clump the latter half of my vacation into one entry because a) there was a lot of drinking, and I can’t really differentiate between the days anymore, b) I’m tired of writing about my vacation and don’t want to do it for 4 more days, c) It’s my frigging blog and I can do whatever the shit I want.

So, let’s see…

MedFriends and I did a city tour of Puerto Plata. We went to a cigar factory, where I learned to roll a cigar. I’m sure this skill will come in handy when I’m sold to slavery. We also went to a rum factory, which may be better known as TheNurse’s mother ship. I was given strict instructions to buy her some sauce while I was in the DR, and I did. For 7 bucks. God bless slave labour! When I handed over the bottle a few days after I got back, I swear I have never seen her so happy. For a fleeting moment, I thought that I had finally been promoted to having a bitch instead of being a bitch. A bitch can dream.

It rained for 2 days while we were there. I spent the first day playing connect 4 with FauxHawk under an umbrella. Yes, the game for children aged 6-10. Shut up. He beat me every time, I yelled at him for being so ‘fucking smug and jewish!’, and we are now never allowed to play any competitive game with each other again for fear of breaking up. I don’t like to lose. Especially at connect 4. Mofo’ing lines of 4!!

FauxHawk and I went for a long walk down the beach on the 2nd rainy day to take in the scenery. We saw 2 wild dogs, a shanty-town of souvenir shops, and a man surrounded by stuffed parrots with a sign (ie. piece of drift wood) propped up on a palm that stated ‘information centre’. When he saw me taking a picture of him, he started flailing his arms and grinding his pelvis in a dance that can only be described as poetic. The scenery sure is exotic in the DR.

FauxHawk went to bed early that night because I beat him at Poker and he ‘didn’t feel like playing anymore’. Looks like someone else doesn’t like to lose!! I stayed at the table, got shmammered, and eventually wobbled my way back to my room to tell FauxHawk that “I shwon at ze Poker!”. I’m a sexy girlfriend.

The sun was back on our last full day. I made sure to let my skin get nice and cancerous. That night was my drunkest of all the nights. TheCrazy and I climbed down a dirty linen chute because it might make a sexy picture. Now I think I have a sexy case of scabies and, possibly, the herps.

The midget (that’s right, I said midget. What are you going to do – bite my knees?) was back at the dance club – this time, in drag. FauxHawk got over-excited in his dancing and started pelvic-thrusting my ass with gusto. He thrusted me face-first into someone’s jabby elbow. Fuck, I hate skinny bitches with jabby elbows!!!! The last thing I remember is hitting FauxHawk in the face and then everything was a blur until our 7:30am wakeup call. I may have blacked out, but my anus felt fine in the morning.

FauxHawk must have passed out.


Ps – I’m on my way out the door for another driving lesson with Frank. Look for another ‘driving follies’ in the near future.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Sunned and Cirrhotic: Part 3

Day 3: Getting to Know BillyBoy

After another ‘morning’ of raging hangovers and missed breakfast, FauxHawk and I hit the beach. But not before having a conversation with BillyBoy about life outside the resort. FauxHawk and I were sitting down to some much needed caffeine (thank god the coffee station was open 24 hours) when BillyBoy came and sat at our table. Surprisingly, he was in fact capable of communication beyond “brap brap!” and “looky looky!”. We asked him about his life and learned that he worked 14 hours/day, 7 days a week, in order to save up his 1 day/week off to be able to take 4 days off in a row to go visit his family on the other side of the island. He hadn’t been there in over 6 months. Also, his 2 children lived there with BillyBoy’s parents.

Well, now I felt bad. Poor BillyBoy, separated from his children and forced to work such long hours just to save up his money to send them school supplies. Not to mention the humiliating work of dancing like a monkey all day. Poor, poor BillyBoy.

Furthermore, he didn’t have a wife yet he wants to have 4 more children. His logic is that 6 children cost the same as 1, so why not have 6? Umm…maybe this is why BillyBoy is forced to dance like a monkey for a living. Them’s some good math skills.

He also told us about how his father had 4 wives and how most people beat their children. But not him, since he barely sees them. That’s heartwarming.

Poor, poor gentle BillyBoy.

Later, on the beach, BillyBoy came up to me and the med friends and taught us some local dialect. Here is what I learned:
Meloni = tits
Salami = penis
Cheechoo = muffin-top, or better known as love-handles
Jiggy Jiggy = getting it on

He then pointed out all the women on the beach with ‘grande meloni!’, made fun of all the women with ‘cheechoo’, made fun of all the older women with ‘meloni relocated’ (saggy tits), and said that he likes his job because he gets lots of ‘jiggy jiggy’.

We taught him how to say ass (which he pronounced AHsss). He then, using a mixture of broken English and charades, explained how the men in the DR save ass-sex for their golden years. Allow me to describe our conversation:

BillyBoy: Een da Dominican, we only use da AHsss for crappy crappy. *squats and makes constipation face*. Only crappy crappy!
ThePeach/MedFriends: …what?
BillyBoy: Only use AHsss for crappy crappy because da salami is good for da jiggy jiggy.
BillyBoy: But, when da man ees get old, salami no good for jiggy jiggy. *thrusts pelvis, dangles arm limply from crotch* Only pissy pissy.
BillyBoy: So den you use da AHsss for jiggy jiggy! *bends over*
ThePeach/MedFriends: I’m sorry, are you saying that when your ‘salami’ becomes ‘flaccid’ in old age, you take it up the ass?
BillyBoy: Ci!

I’ve learned so much.

Later that night, when we were as usual pounding back drinks at the local dance club, we saw BillyBoy dry-jiggyjiggy’ing some girl on the dance-floor, and buying drinks left right and centre. It was 3am. I was so disillusioned! But, BillyBoy! What about the school supplies for your poor children!? Shouldn’t you be at home mailing them the 50 cents you made today?

BillyBoy lies for pity-money. And pity-jiggy.

On our last day, he asked one of the MedFriends for his shoes.


Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Sunned and Cirrhotic: Part 2

Day 2: ThePeach is Graceful

We woke up on day 2 to find the sun shining, the birds chirping, and our hangovers raging. Getting drunk after 2 days without sleep may not have been the best idea, but since when have I ever done anything good for my body?

FauxHawk and I slept through breakfast, which would become a recurring theme. We headed for the beach in search of the rest of his med-friends. We found them in lounge chairs placed conveniently in front of the beach bar. God bless all inclusive resorts. I wish my life were all inclusive. I think life would be much simpler if I could just flash a bracelet and then walk out of a restaurant without paying, or flash a bracelet at the grocery store the next time I run out of peanut butter. We have much to learn from the Dominican Republic. Much to learn.

Anyway, FauxHawk and I immediately chased our hangovers with some drinky drinky. ThePeach was back on the sauce.

I then decided that it would be a good idea to try boogie boarding. For those who aren’t familiar with this, boogie boarding is kind of like surfing but on your stomach on a small board. The idea is to catch a wave and ride it to shore. I don’t recommend wearing a bikini when you attempt this unless you like the feeling of exfoliating your nipples with sand and permanent plumber-crack.

So, TheCrazy and I went boogie boarding. The waves were huge that day and the undertow was strong. You could get knocked off your feet in ankle-deep water. We were both wearing string bikinis and buzzed from the “Banana Mama’s” we’d been drinking. Yep, this was a good idea.

We paddled out into waist-deep water and waited for the waves. TheCrazy caught one and flew towards shore, ass-crack smiling, and her man-screams piercing the ears of all in the vicinity. She washed up on shore moments later, boogie board nowhere in sight, salt water gushing out of her nose, and claiming that thanks to all the sand in her ass that she now had the smoothest anus of all man-kind. Bring on the anal! Awesome. My turn!

I looked behind me and noticed that the mother of all waves was heading my way. Perfect. Time to be awesome. I caught that wave like a pro and rode the motherfucker all the way to shore, where the med friends all congratulated me on my skill and grace.

No wait, that’s what I pictured happening.

In reality, the wave crashed down on me, threw me towards shore at terrifying speed, I screamed like a gay man at a shoe sale (to hell I go!), the water pushed the boogie board straight down into the sand, I rammed into it and then flipped over it head over feet, was thrown around in the wave like a sock in a washing machine, and finally washed up on shore with my bathing suit bottoms around my ankles and sand in every orifice of my body.

FauxHawk killed himself laughing as he described to me that all he saw was my feet flying through the air. I coughed up salt water and whimpered. Then one of the med friends grabbed my boogie board and took off with it. I scraped the sand out of corneas and hiked up my bottoms. FauxHawk continued to laugh - the fucktard.

For the rest of the week I sported a sexy swollen, purple bruise the size of a dinner plate on my thigh. I’m sure everyone thought FauxHawk had beaten the shit out of me, but that’s smiled upon in that country. I also sported a lovely sunburn on the right side of my body as a result of laying by the pool for the rest of the day in the recovery position.

That night, I got so drunk that I danced with a midget.

I am so fucking fantastic,


Monday, February 13, 2006

Sunned and Cirrhotic, Part 1

I’m back from the DR and skipping work already! I rock.

So, my week was awesome and I’m tanned and my jeans are nice and tight thanks to my swollen liver. I don’t even know where to begin to describe the trip, but I guess all I can do is start that the beginning.

Day 1: Where ees da wenchel?

We arrived in Puerto Plata at around noon. None of us had slept in 2 days (we had to be at the airport at 3am – mofo). I tried to sleep on the plane but was put next to some trashy 40 year old woman and her 14 year old brat and neither would shut the fuck up.

ThePeach: *head on food tray, trying to slip into a gravol coma*
Trash: Have you been to Puerto Plata before?
ThePeach: *zzzHUH?* uhh ya, once. *closes eyes again*
Trash: I like the Caribbean because you can smoke your cigs anywhere and not get hassled.
ThePeach: *zzzHUH?* *opens one eye* ya, sure. *slowly closes eye*
Trash: I like a smoke with breakfast.
Trash-brat: Me too. *pokes ThePeach* Look out the window!! You can see the ocean!!!!
ThePeach: *jumps, hits head on seat ahead* HUH? Um no, that’s ok. I saw the ocean when we started flying over it 2 hours ago.
Trash-brat: Look again!!!
Trash: *grabs ThePeach’s arm* Look NOW!
ThePeach: *warily opens one eye* Pretty.
Trash-brat: Are you tired or something?
ThePeach: It’s 6am.
ThePeach: *takes 2 more gravol, prays to lose hearing*

And that, in a nutshell, was the plane ride.

We spent the rest of the day on the beach and at the pool bar, drinking away our sleeps. That night, after many drinks with names like “Tom Colling” and “Gas Hoper* (god bless broken English), we watched the nightly stage show. Note that this show usually consisted of the hotel workers dancing like monkeys, encouraging us to clap in time to the music (“Brap Brap!” = Clap Clap!), and pushing moral boundaries. For instance, in one “skit”, the workers managed to stereotype gays (sailor suits with no ass in them), encourage violence against women (shooting their wives after they catch them kissing other men), and insulting anyone of asian descent (taping on buck teeth and doing karate chops).

At one point, one of the workers (who I would later learn is named Billy Boy) pulled me up on stage to ‘participate’. I think we all know how well that turned out.

ThePeach: Let the fuck go of me.
BillyBoy: OHHH looky looky, hot mama!
ThePeach: Seriously, I will hurt you if you don’t let go of me.
BillyBoy: Ay yi yi, brap brap!
ThePeach: I’m getting the fuck out of here (runs off stage).

I’m so pleasant.

But I had no problem volunteering FauxHawk to take my place. I’m not gonna lie, I was a little afraid that he would either break up with me or beat me up, DR style, which they apparently smile upon. He was not pleased. He had to be a participant in some sort of game that took me about 20 minutes to understand. I’m no good at foreign languages. Especially broken English.

Worker: Brap brap! Hokay Yadies and Yentlemen! Ees time to play where ees da wenchel!
ThePeach: *what the fuck*
Worker: Where ees da wenchel!
FauxHawk: *gives me the evil eye*
Billy Boy: *dances like a monkey*
Worker: Where ees DA wenchel! Brap!
ThePeach: *seriously, what the fuck is he saying*
FauxHawk: *glare of death*
Billy Boy: *dances like a monkey*
Worker: Where ees da WENchel! Brap Brap! Where ees da wenCHEL! Brap Brap!
Audience: *puzzled*
Worker: *attaches whistle to back of pants, makes FauxHawk blow it*

It suddenly became clear. Where is the whistle. God, how I love broken English.

Where ees da wenchel then became the new greeting that our group used every time we saw each other. As did “Babeesoo”.

ThePeach: *waves to TheCrazy* Babeesoo?
TheCrazy: Babeesoo.

This is how our server pronounced what we would later find out was “Black bean soup”. At the restaurant, he went around the table asking “Babeesoo?”, and most of us nodded our heads since we didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. We were later all served a dark, beany soup and thus realized that we had all somehow ordered “Black Bean Soup”. By the way, it tasted like the inside of an ass. Not that I know what that tastes like. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. It tasted exactly like the inside of an ass.

At the end of the show, as Billy Boy was dancing like a monkey in time to the music, the worker goes “ay yi yi, hot mama, I YOVE MY YOB!!”. That was heart warming. Until I later saw him downing shots at the bar, swearing in Spanish, and looking thoroughly depressed. I highly doubt that he actually “loves his job”. Although I do trust that he yoves the $3/month that his yob earns him. Now he can buy many wenchels for his 14 children and perhaps a nice pistol to shoot his wife with.



Friday, February 03, 2006

The Joys of Dementia

Alzheimer’s disease is a tragic, debilitating illness. I spent a year volunteering in a nursing home as part of an Alzheimer’s program, where I helped seniors with the disease attend a weekly art class. Because I’ve spent a good portion of my life helping those with Alzheimer’s, I figure I’m allowed to make fun of it without going straight to hell. It’s like a trade-off. The good points I’ve earned by volunteering balance out the immoralities of what I find hilarious. Which is why I feel like I can share this story with you without being a total shitty-bad person.

I have a friend, or rather, FauxHawk has a friend that I mooch off of him, named TheCrazy. She is the most hilarious person I have ever met in my entire life, hands down. Every minute that I spend with her is a minute where I’m practically pissing myself laughing. She’s also the craziest biotch I know (and I mean biotch in a good way). To help you visualize this, picture this scenario. It’s a Tuesday night. She has hospital rounds the next day at 7am (she’s in the same med-school class as FauxHawk). She invites a few friends over “for a drink”. Fast-forward to 2:45 am, and TheCrazy is chugging a beer…through her nostril. Just to prove that she can. Doesn’t that make you feel good about the quality of care you receive in your local hospital? After hanging out with future doctors for the past year and a half, I can confidently say that the next time I need medical help I will be visiting a tribal healer for some roots.

Anyway, TheCrazy has a grandfather with Alzheimer’s. While she admits that this is very sad, it does have some benefits. In the case of her grandfather, he thinks that every single day is TheCrazy’s birthday. So, every single day she receives a phone call from her grandfather where she picks up and he starts singing “Happy Birthday” with gusto (yes! G-word!). She also receives a big fat birthday cheque from him about once a week in the mail. This has been going on for about a year. She has no intentions to stop it. Do you blame her?

So, TheCrazy’s grandfather gets Alzheimer’s, and she gets enthusiastic phone calls (and who doesn’t love that?) and money on a regular basis. My great-grandfather had Alzheimer’s, and all I got was a pat on the head and told I was a “good boy” because for the last year of his life he thought I was his dog, Lucky.

Life isn’t fair.