Monday, May 31, 2004

The "I Hate the World" Blog

"And on the Thirty-First Day,
God said, 'Let's fuck with Ray.'"

The minute I woke up from a horrible dream of being chased down London by an entire grouping of slithering Black Mamba snakes (yeah, all fucking thanks to this news article about this dumb ass), I knew this wasn't going to be a good day. After undergoing that mental trauma of sprinting away from a cluster of hissing poisonous snakes that never seemed to get off my trail, I wake up and find that I'm being fucking choked by my iPod headphones. My nightly habit of listening to soft tunes to rock me to sleep caught up with me, and clearly, after all that tossing and turning I was doing while my creative little mind dreamt of my being chased by members of Jumanji, I was in a one-on-one with the Apple product. Once I realized I wasn't being assaulted by an animal that needs to keep its ass in Africa (no, not black people, you KKK card-members), it quickly became a one-sided battle, and I conquered that dastardly, villainous, iPod. "I'm going on Sa-FARI, mother fucker, Sa-FAR-I!!!!", I screamed, as I calmly placed the $300 device on my nightstand. (I might be crazy, but I sure as hell ain't stupid to be throwing that thing off me.)

(If you don't get the "Sa-FARI" reference, don't feel bad. Only "Death to Smoochy" fans and, to a much lesser extent, Mac users, get it. So stop pretending to laugh. And if you do get it, proudly stand up and scream, "What does it all mean?!!!!")

So, yeah, after I staked my victory over my iPod, I got up, and immediately started looking for Michelle. And then, I immediately fell down; I tripped on a hanging fold from my bed comforter. As the pain from the hard fall began to sweep through my body, the creeping feeling of stupidity entered my mind; Michelle was long gone to NBC London, doing her journalistic duty to see all the unedited raw footage from Iraq and then later, laugh about it with me. (Now THAT's reality TV!) So I was all in a rush to see someone who wasn't even there. And of course, I had just tripped on a fucking bed spread. How silly did I feel? I got up in personal shame, and, while looking down to make sure no other object would dare to knock me down, I walked to the bathroom to freshen up.

That was Sp-Ed moment #1. Not to be confused with the one and only, SpED.

After my stint in the bathroom, I began to rummage for food in the kitchen. Of course, what do I discover? We ain't got shit for food, that's what. The only thing in my fridge is half a pack of grated mozzarella, a package of sliced ham (a fucking tease considering I ain't have bread), and the fucking cure for AIDS. (Either Maria or Giselle left a cup with some unrecognizable substance in my fridge when they came to stay with us. Now, the shit turned all moldy before we realized it was there, and both Michelle and I are afraid to touch it out of fear that it'll speak and tell us to put it down. It might even eat us. We don't want to know. We'll just pay some immigrant 25 pence to deal with it before we leave. No one will miss 'em.)

I realized that I had some ice cream left in the freezer, so I break out the spoon and took a dig at it, only to have it drip on my pant leg. Great. Now, I fucking looked like I busted all over my black pants. A fucking dreamboat, I was. I grabbed some napkins to clean myself up, and when I went to throw the napkin away, I noticed my trash needed to be emptied. So, I walked outside our flat to see if the sanitation people picked up our other trash in our garbage shed, and to see if UPS came, when I heard the loud thump of retardedness jar my attention. The front door slammed behind me. I ran to the door and tried to push it open, but it was no use. I was officially locked out.

Sp-Ed Moment #2

So, I'm sitting here outside my flat, my hair suffering symptoms of bed head, and my pants looking like I received too much head. I was going to go and get my landlord to open the flat, but there was no way I was going to walk down the street looking the way I did. My cheeks grew hot in frustration and anger. Michelle, that hot-blooded bitch, always liked opening up the windows in the flat despite it being mega brick (brick = freezing, for ya'll not versed) outside. But, this time, she actually closed them. Wench. I fumbled in my pockets and discovered I had a nailclipper chilling in there. It was McGuyver time. I flipped out the nail file, and went about picking the lock. All that lock-picking practice in high school (remember the teacher's bathroom's, Technites?)paid off as I was able to jar the slam lock open just enough for me to push open the door. Problem resolved.

I was all proud of myself for a minute, when I realized that if I could get into my locked apartment so easily, then so could anyone else...but, that's what the deadbolt is for...No Ray-wannabes were going to pull off the same feat on me!

I took a quick shower, got dressed, and headed to the supermarket to get some stuff to eat for today. It's Bar-B-Que time in the States (AKA: Memorial Day), and I was going to hold true to tradition in London. So, here I go getting some meats n stuff on this lovely "Bank Holiday" (Ask a Brit what exactly is being celebrated on 'Bank Holiday' and they'll tell you, "It's just a bloody day off, chap. Some bloke decided to give us a long weekend to catch up on horse racing and Big Brother")when I run into those dreaded "people who can't make up their fucking minds about which direction they're going to walk." Each of us going back and forth, side to side, looking stupid in the process of trying to walk to Aisle 3. To the observer, it must look like some kind of ritual dance, ending in the simultaneous shrug of the shoulders by both parties, and both feeling completely stupid for not knowing how to engage in a simple activity like WALKING. Eventually, we move on, going about our business, but for the next five minutes, you can't help but wonder if there was anyone watching when that feat of stupidity took place.

Sp-Ed Moment #3

After about 10 mins, I was done shopping, so I headed to the check-out counter. So, whatever, I paid at the cashier, and I told this guy "thank you" on my way out with the groceries, when this Indian-looking dude, who overheard my accent, stops me and goes,

"Are you an American?"

"What's it to you?"

"What do you think of President Bush? Are you going to vote for him again?"

I couldn't believe it. This muthafucka was going to drag me into a political conversation on my way out of the supermarket with groceries in my hand. Like, you fucking dick, can't you see I am predisposed to something else at the moment? But, I had to be wary and "vigilant" (Bush's favourite word) in this situation. I had no idea what this dude was up to. I turned my back to him and said over my shoulder, "I didn't vote for him in the first place," (wasn't old enough to vote, yet, lol) and kept it moving, while the guy, apparently, stood there with his mouth all open in disbelief, as if he never thought there were Americans who didn't side with Bush. I assume he was looking for trouble by trying to get into an argument with me over why Bush was an asshole, but he wasn't going to find an opponent on that note. I kept it moving, leaving the dick behind me. Imagine if I said that I did want to vote for Dumb-ya? Would he have tried to beat me down or something? Like yeah, Bush is a dick, but there's no reason to start a fight with someone on the basis of their accent.

A block away from my flat, I saw this chick who, the other day, got mad at me for not hollering at her. She was checking me out that day, and I did the same in return, but then, when I got closer to her, I noticed that she looked a little too young for me, so I just looked away from her and kept walking. (God damn young British girls!) She got all mad n shit and screamed, "Gay-dar!" I ain't say anything back at the time, but I was thinking, "yo, this bitch called me gay because I didn't want to waste my time with jailbait." So, I saw this same girl on my way back home today, and she recognized me. "Can't find a decent looking man to look at?" I couldn't believe this bitch. I had to speak my mind.

"Nah, none at all. You wound up scaring them all away, beast."

Her face turned all red in anger. Joyously, I turned away, happy I just destroyed the self-confidence of a fickle pre-teen.

Reminds me of that movie, "Thirteen" which I saw last night. If I had kids like that, I would fucking beat the shit out of them. Fuck domestic violence. That's just plain discipline. I'm a firm believer in the Law of the Belt, especially after dealing with little girls like that one. I think when I have kids, I'm going to look forward to inventing ingenious methods of torture for them when they turn bad. Like, paying bullies to beat them down when they come home late. Or setting them up on dates with ugly people. Or them having a taste of Michelle's "Budgens" Shrimp, Chicken Fettucini Alfredo. Oh yeah, baby. That's torture...:-D

Let me fucking stop ranting, before I start to sound like Andy. As a joke, I should've given that little girl a copy of the Manwhore Contract... That'll teach her.

Where the fuck is my Mac?!!!


Anonymous Anonymous said...


It takes a big man to admit he fell down and busted his ass when there was nobody there to laugh at his stupid ass.


1:37 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Poor Ray..I'll fix u up when u get back here..try to erase all the damage those Londoners have done to you..but then again I may hurt more than Don't tell anyon but I have those moments all the time!hehe

5:29 PM  
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Ay Dios!!! Only you...

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