Posts Tagged ‘wtf’

It only gets weirder…

February 12, 2011

The other day I had a weird dream and I really wanted to blog about it. So when I woke up, I went straight to my laptop and jotted down the key points of the dream, with the intention of filling in the details later. When “later” came, however, I couldn’t find the pen for my drawing tablet, so I just saved the draft and forgot about it.

Now, four or five days afterwards, I remembered this little half-started post in my drafts folder. However, I’ve forgotten the real details of the dream and I still haven’t found my pen.

So it’s going to be brief, might not make sense, and the comics will look even worse than normal because I’ll be drawing them with my finger on my mouse pad:

We were at a house party, but then we started moving. Apparently we were at a boat party and I didn’t know. I was scared.

There was a dog. But not a normal-sized dog. It was elephant-sized.

Viktor gave me twenty vials of drugs for my birthday. But Viktor looked like the old (current) version of Brad Pitt.

I was holding a snake. It bit me. And didn’t let go for several hours. I was light-headed.

The big dog could fly. He had a jet-pack. If you whistled, he’d come back.

Sometimes the big dog turned into a man who looked like Jesus.

The houseboat started moving at warp speed. The deck got really slippery. I fell into the water.

Big flying Jesus dog saved me.

I repaid him with a vial of drugs.

Ten is cray-cray

January 30, 2011

Hahaha, I just found this on my desktop and thought I’d share it with everyone:

Need a translation?

Black: hello! This is Ten’s first time <3

Red: I wish Jerome would drink milk :( I want the best for him. I am a mother. :'(

Why driving in Dubai sucks

November 14, 2010

One of the major cons of living in Dubai is having to deal with many lanes of horrible drivers. Every time you get in a car, you’re playing a little game called “Am I going to live today?” And I’m not even exaggerating. I mean, it’s fun every once in a while. But every single time? Not so much.

I’m going to describe to you now what some of the main problems are, and at the end of my little lecture, I’m going to share with you a true story of how I almost died yesterday.

People who have never heard of an indicator. I’m going to be honest here. I don’t indicate every time I’m turning or merging or whatever. If there is traffic and I’d like to cut across several lanes to get to my exit, I do. If I’m turning right into a street, and I see a guy that wants to come out of that street, I signal to let him know, “Hey buddy, it’s safe to pull out in front of me, because I’m turning off anyway.” If I’m going to make an illegal U-turn, I at least have the decency to inform the drivers behind me of my plan. What really pisses me off is when people NEVER signal and expect me to be able to read their sick minds, forcing me to either slam on my brakes, beep like an angry maniac, or swerve into another lane.

The WRONG way

The RIGHT way

People who beep 0.0001 zilliseconds after the light turns green. Seriously? I mean, I too was waiting for this change to occur. I too have somewhere to go. And I too understand that green means go. Do you really need to be obnoxious?

Irritating and unnecessary

Acceptable and cool

People who don’t understand the concept of a lane. Lanes are wide enough to accommodate a full-sized SUV plus like, a motorbike next to it or something. They’re pretty wide. You have no excuse to be straddling the lane, thereby making me wonder if you’re near-sighted, or drunk, or playing a game, or trying to come into my lane without warning (again, the lack of signaling becomes an issue). Can you just stick to your side and leave me alone?

People who drive slowly in the goddamn FAST lane. It’s called “fast” for a reason, you stupid guy. The minimum you should be driving in this lane is the speed limit. Exceeding the speed limit is usually preferred. But if you wanna mosey around at 80 kmph, get the fuck outta my lane. Go creep around in one of the right lanes, the ones reserved for old people and 1.6 L Peugeots and large slow trucks.

And there’s many more problems that I just don’t have the energy to discuss: people who brake spastically, people who have young children and live animals crawling around on their dashboard, people who drive way too close behind you, etc. I understand that these issues aren’t only a problem in Dubai, but everywhere else too. However, in “everywhere else” it doesn’t happen every day, every time you get in the car, with every driver.

Now on to my story of near-death.

I was approaching a green light that started flashing yellow when I was about 25 meters away. There was a car in front of me, and no one else. The car in front of me didn’t brake, which translated to “I’m going to run this yellow slash maybe-red light, tee hee!” which was excellent, because I also planned to drive straight through it. Mind you this was a small intersection, with no cameras, there were no cops, and it was like eleven o’clock at night so there were few cars around.

Anyway, when the car in front of me got about 10 meters away, the light turned solid yellow. I was still following closely behind, and the car in front still made no indication of braking.

FIVE METERS FROM THE GODDAMN LIGHT THAT WAS STILL YELLOW, douchebag decided to chicken out and slam on his brakes. Not even a huge problem, because as I said, I checked my mirrors, and there wasn’t another car in sight. Technically I could veer into the left lane and still happily go through.

Just as I was getting into the left lane (by a thing of habit), I checked my blind spot and zeeoooom! this car whizzed past me, through the now-red light. I don’t even think it was a car, actually. I think it was a Lamborghini rocket. I swerved back into my lane by reflex, but now I had a stationary car three meters in front of my face. So I had to squeal to a jerking stop and when I came to a complete halt, I was literally practically touching the guy’s car. Not that I had an accident, but I think we were touching.

When I regained feeling in my face and the light turned green again, I shakily sped off. You have to keep in mind that this entire ordeal took place over a period of about two and a half seconds. And the worst part was, like three lights later, I caught up with the zooming guy, which really pissed me off. Because if you’re going to speed in such a way that one second you’re invisible in all the mirrors, and the next second you zoom past my window nearly scraping the body off and killing me instantly, I shouldn’t be able to catch up with you.

Anyway, the moral of the story is: Never try to run a light if someone is in front of you. Move over first, and then run.

The good, the bad, and the WTF is wrong with me?!

November 12, 2010

For those of you who are loyal readers, you already know that I have severely fucked up, twisted, and vivid dreams. The content of said dreams are typically reserved for the minds of the criminally insane, the drug overdosers, and the brain damaged (due to a cigarette-smoking birth defect). Sadly Fortunately, I don’t fit under any of these aforementioned categories. Yet still I have the weirdest dreams.

Last night’s dream was particularly long and detailed, so I’ll spare you the intricacies and instead just outline a few key points that I think were particularly interesting, both in the bad sense (i.e. “Oh my God, please don’t ever let that happen or exist in real life! Lock up your brain, you sick freak!”) and the totally awesome sense (i.e. “Aww, why can’t that be real? I’m jealous of you that you got to experience that and I never will.”).

Talking fish that can morph into humans. This one’s pretty self explanatory. Basically I had a fridge. And you know those little drawers at the bottom that are meant to keep vegetables fresh? Sorry, side-note: How is that supposed to work? What’s so special about the bottom of the fridge that keeps my fruits and veggies fresher than on a normal shelf? I don’t like banishing them to a drawer, because it makes them sad, which in turn makes me sad. Not cool. Anyway, back to my dream. So in those freshness drawers I had about forty live, swimming little fishies. And they were all pretty, as far as fish go. Like, not just ordinary like goldfish, rather, exotic-looking and flamboyant, with vibrant colours. And they could talk.

At one point I took a little tupperware-full of like, three or four, and when I got to the train station and opened up the little plastic container, they morphed into really good-looking females of the human species. Except one of them had a damaged fin, so her arm turned out to be in a cast, but whatevs.

Evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat. This was almost traumatising enough to wake me up, but not quite. Basically, I was visiting some random dream-person in the hospital, and the evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat jumped out from under the bed and started growling at me for no reason. None whatsoever! I didn’t taunt it. I didn’t step on its tail. I didn’t insult it. I wasn’t looking for a fight or anything. I was just minding my own business, visiting a sick person, and then I got growled at. But not just a normal growl. It was exactly as I said: a combination of Chewbacca’s weird-ass voice, a mother bear’s deafening roar when she’s defending her cubs, and Tommy’s low cat-growl when he fights other cats in the neighbourhood. It was so very frightening.

And then I must have made a sudden movement, or maybe the demon sensed my fear or something, because it proceeded to attack me and clamp onto my arm and not let go.

It was one of the worst experiences of my dream life, even worse than that time I was delivering pizzas to a creepy alien guy.

Awesome elevators that transport you in all directions at nearly warp speed. We were on our way to this party in a huge warehouse, and when we got to the elevator, I was expecting it to be normal, like every other elevator I’ve ever been on. As in, it only goes in two directions – up and down. But this elevator also went left and right, and it did a loopty-loop at one point! I didn’t really understand the physics behind it, because I didn’t feel the effects of g-force, but it was cool nonetheless. And, it took me to my desired level, which is all that really mattered.

Getting into a fight with a car-wash ghost because he confiscated your car and motorcycle. Different party, same warehouse setting. So I drove into the parking garage. I drive a Ford Edge in real life. It’s a little bulky, and is difficult to handle at slow speeds, but it’s cool. In my dream, I was driving the same car, maneuvering it around all kinds of twists and turns and corners. You know how parking garages can be. Anyway, I was informed that this garage used to be a car wash back in the day, but they tore it down and rebuilt it into thousands of parking spaces instead. I found what appeared to be a completely legal parking space (near the “elevator”) and got out of the car.

Then, a car wash ghost floated over to me and started talking about how I can’t park there because I’d be blocking other customers who want to come and have their cars cleaned. I tried explaining to the ghost that he was dead and this was no longer a car wash, but he was in denial and a physical fight ensued. A few minutes into the most useless fight in the history of violence (because no punch was ever landed, they just kind of passed through us), I decided to be the bigger person and just walk away.

Upon doing so, I noticed that my car was gone! Ghost guy laughed and said that he confiscated it due to the illegality of my parking. This made me very irate. But I was late for the party, so I let it go, and went upstairs.

Fast-forward to a few hours later, when I left the party. I got back down to the garage and asked ghost guy what he did with my car. He said he took it down the road to the Ford service centre, which was about two kilometers away. I definitely did not feel like walking that far. Luckily, I had my spare motorcycle parked one level above. So I went and got it, but I fucked something up and the clutch started smoking and then kind of just exploded off. I was sad.

I went back to ghost guy and asked if he could fix it, but he said he didn’t know how to. So I figured I’d walk the bike to Ford, pick up my car, and leave the bike there, for Ford to maybe fix in the morning. But when I went back to my bike, it too was gone! Why does this keep happening to me?! My blood boiled with anger. In a forced-calm voice I asked the ghost what he did with it and he said he sent it to Saudi Arabia.

Cake that tastes like weird non-cakey things. I was at the hospital again, celebrating the life of someone. There was cake. It didn’t taste like chocolate or vanilla or marble or strawberry or walnut or carrot or cheese. It tasted like chicken. Grilled chicken. There was another cake that tasted like mashed potatoes and peas. And another cake that tasted like barbecued spare ribs. And finally, a spaghetti-flavoured cake. Yes, they were all exact replicas of the original taste. But because of the cake-like consistency, I was slightly grossed out. However, to be polite, I had a small sliver of the ribs-cake.

And yeah, that’s pretty much it. I mean there was a lot more to it, but I’m not going to delve any further into my insanities. Bear in mind though, that all of the situations that I discussed above happened over the course of a single dream. So I don’t know if that means I need a brain transplant, or if it means that I’m actually a genius mastermind.

I’d like to think the latter.

Flea markets suck

November 7, 2010

Okay imagine the worst place imaginable. Got it? Okay now imagine it a hundred times worse. That’s how this goddamn flea market was yesterday (in which I was forced to participate). It was like a combination of Hell, septic tanks, waiting rooms in hospitals, the dentist’s chair when he just told you that he ran out of Novocain but will continue with the root canal anyway, and a kindergarten class. All of those places and feelings just decided to get together and collectively call themselves a flea market.

Let me back up a bit. To five-something in the fucking morning, when it’s still dark outside. Yeah. It was an early start. I was awakened before the crack of dawn, only to be rushed because “we need to leave at 05:30.” What I should have realised was that when Ma said 05:30, she meant a little after six, because that’s when we actually left.

We got to the hell-hole at like six-something. The sun still wasn’t really out, but I was wearing my sunglasses so I could sleep-walk and no one would notice. Then, we proceeded to unload our two full-to-the-brim SUVs of heavy boxes and transport them to our table like 300 metres away (for you Americans, that’s like, I dunno, four blocks or something). I instantly regretted all those times I was *this* close to stealing a shopping cart but never did. Because it really would’ve come in handy.

Anywho, an hour and a half later, everything was finally set up. And from like 8 until 10, things were all okay and normal-ish. Sure there was the occasional freak, but most freaks are still sleeping at that time on a weekend, so it was bearable. Also, things were selling at normal prices.

 

Later, however, the freaks started coming out. They were all unintelligent, weird, semi-OCD, and either smiled way too much or not at all. Many of them looked like the only time they shopped was during a flea market, and they have therefore become experts in the game. Others were just downright greedy. And still others were the kind of freaks where you know they’re not going to buy anything, and they know they’re not going to buy anything, but they still have this unexplainable need to touch EVERYTHING. It was horrible. Not to mention I was hungry and tired and sweaty.

The “haggling” was the best part. And by “best” I mean “worst.” And by “worst”, I actually mean that words can’t really describe the haggle-aspect of what went down.

“Hey how much for this?”

“Oh you mean the 100% silk blouse from DKNY with the tags still on it that says it originally went for $99.99? Uh, I guess I can give it to you at like, a ninety-five percent discount, so let’s say… 20 AED?”

“Really? Not 5?”

“Okay my best price is 15.”

“Are you sure not 5?”

“Yeah I’m sure. Okay 12 is my last price.”

“Aww, boo. Not 5?”

“Goddamn it, fine! Take it for 5!”

“…How about 2?”

Like, are you serious? Then there was this other lady:

“How much is one pillow?”

“One is 10 AED, or you can get all four for 30.”

“But you just said one is 10.”

“…yes.”

“So shouldn’t four be 40?”

“Uhm, yeah, but it’s called a discount. That’s what happens when you buy in bulk.”

“Oh strange. Well, I only want one, so how about I give you… 1.50?”

And this sort of stuff kept happening! By noon I didn’t give a shit about haggling or anything anymore. I just wanted to get rid of everything so I wouldn’t have to repack it all and schlepp it the whole way back to the car. Also, I was really tired and just wanted to go home to shower and rest.

And later, by the time we were ready to leave, I was practically giving shit away for free, BEGGING people to take it.

 

Eventually, we got rid of 95% of the trinkets, 15 out of 16 pairs of shoes, half the hanging clothes, three-quarters of the folded clothes, and all of the eight pillows. I think that’s pretty good. We came with two cars-full, and we left with just four boxes, which are being sent to charity. Oh and we made over 800 AED, 200 of which I kept for myself, whammy!

But now I can barely move. My body is stiff and painful and sore and I wanna curl up and die. I’m strongly considering spending those hard-earned 200 dirhams on a full-body massage.

A comical* nightmare

October 26, 2010

*By “comical” I literally mean that there will be comics. In no way am I implying that there was anything funny about this nightmare. In fact, it was freakish and disturbing.


I was just minding my own business, taking a casual moonlit stroll around the lake. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some light coming from the surrounding forest, like a campfire. “I love camps!” I exclaimed aloud, and decided to go towards it.

The fire grew closer, and soon I was on the site itself. But this was no ordinary campsite. There were no marshmallows. No tents. No illegal fireworks. Just this one old dude who looked like a tribal leader of some sort.

“Ah, we have been waiting for you, my child,” spoke the old man. “You are just in time!” I was wondering who this we was that he was referring to, because there was no one else there. I later found out the skull on his totem pole stick thing had like, a soul or something. It was weird.

“Uh okay, well, what exactly am I in time for?” I asked.

“The ceremoooony….” he replied ominously.

Now, I’ve seen enough horror movies in my past to know that “ceremony” usually means “freaky-ass rituals in which several people and animals die as a sacrifice.” So in no way did I want anything to do with said ceremony.

“Oh okay cool, well I think I’ll just, you know, pass. It’s getting late and I’m not really feeling the whole ceremony thing tonight. Thanks for the offer though, gramps! Bye!” And I started backing away.

“Oh no, you have misunderstood. It’s not an offer. It’s an order. You have twelve hours to chop off your hair and turn it into a wig for Mr. Snuffles. If you fail to do so, all of mankind will instantaneously cease to exist!” It seemed the skull’s name was Mr. Snuffles. And I had to chop off all my hair to save humanity?!

Well at least I had twelve hours to decide. I wandered around the forest. I did a full circle around the lake. Not a single barber. I guess I was going to have to do this myself. But with what? I had no scissors! Then I remembered this show I once saw on Discovery Channel, where the guy needed a knife, so he cracked a rock and it splintered into sharp knife-like tools. So I found a promising stone, threw it against another stone, and using my new caveman blade, proceeded to cut off my hair.

Looking like a total douchebag, I then started weaving my own hair into a fucking wig for a goddamn skull called Mr. Snuffles. I was furious. Why was I the chosen one?!

Just as I put on the last finishing touches (I decided the skull would look better with bangs, to hide the massive forehead), this random girl pops out of the bushes and starts making fun of me for having been so gullible. She explained that the tribal guy was actually just an old dude who escaped from a mental institute and had a fetish for hair. He discovered that by disguising himself as a creepy tribal chief, his ploy tended to work on the majority of his victims. But Blondie over here was ironically smart and told him “humanity shmanity, I like my hair and you can’t have it!” and twelve hours later, there was still no apocalypse, and she still had a full head of luscious shiny hair.

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to cry. Not only did I look ugly, but I was being made fun of, and I got duped by an insane person! How much worse could my life get? Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea.

If grandpa couldn’t trick this girl, maybe I could! I would tell her that it wasn’t humanity that would be destroyed, rather, all the cute bunnies in the world would die violent deaths if she didn’t give me her hair to take to the Chief! Then, I could make another wig, wear it on my head, the creepy guy still gets his hair, nobody dies, and karma would grace its presence by allowing me to make fun of her! It was brilliant! BRILLIANT, I SAY!!

She didn’t buy it.

So, in an act of sheer desperation, I did the only thing I knew how. I slit her throat with my rock-knife, skinned her head, created my new wig, as planned, and headed off towards the campfire. Little did I know that now I was the deranged lunatic, because while I thought I looked like this…

I actually looked like this…

So I scampered off into the woods, with a twitch in my eye and maniacal laughter in the back of my throat. When I arrived at the campsite, however, the old guy wasn’t there. Grunting like a werewolf who just morphed into the beastly state, I looked around, confused, angry, and still exhilarated from my kill just a short while prior.

“SURPRIIIIIISE!”

All of my friends and family jumped out from behind the trees. A Happy Birthday banner swung down. A small child was carrying a big cake, lit with candles for me. I was confused. And then it all made sense. I thought I recognised the tribal chief!

Turns out, he was my marketing professor, and this whole thing was carefully planned as a surprise party. He dressed up as a chief to send me away for twelve hours, so everyone would have time to arrange the event. The blonde girl was sent as reassurance that I needn’t actually cut my hair. And the plan was, that she and I would become friends and gallivant through the forest for a couple hours, until finally she led me back to where the party was. Oops.

Anyway, the cake was delicious, I was slightly less delusional, and everything turned out okay.

…later…

“Hey guys, has anyone seen Sally?”

The Fun Police

July 18, 2010

Tell a story with dialogue. Your characters: two cops in Alaska.

“License and registration, please.”

“But officer, I–”

“Hey. Didn’t you hear my partner? He said… ‘License and registration. Please.'” The two cops stood on either side of the vehicle.

The boy laughed nervously. “Look, officers, I uh, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong here.”

“Just give us your license and registration, son.”

The boy was as bewildered as a deer who jumped in front of a snow plow. He looked between the two policemen and searched desperately for a glint of humour in their eyes, as if expecting them to burst into laughter, clap him on the back, and reassure him that they’re just pulling his leg. But there was no such glint. They were serious. Unsure of how to react, he carefully reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his library card and a recent receipt from Target. He handed both to the friendlier-looking cop, who inspected the documents thoroughly.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

“What? Uh, no. Not at all.”

“You’re telling us you have no idea how fast you were going. None whatsoever?” the second officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, if I had to guess, I’d say I was going maybe 25? 30? But it’s not like there’s a speed lim–”

“25?! 30?!” The first officer cut him off. “Are you high or something? We clocked you going forty-three!

The boy was in disbelief. Were these guys serious? So he was going 43 mph, big deal. There was absolutely no traffic, and no speed limit as far as he was concerned.

“Listen. Here’s what we’re going to do,” the first officer said, passing the documents over to his partner. “We’re going to take you down to the station and sort this mess out over some hot chocolate. You like marshmallows?”

“I’m sorry officers, but what ‘mess’ are you referring to? I wasn’t speeding! I’m just a kid, having some fun! Give me a break!”

The two cops exchanged a single, silent nod of agreement. The second one threw the documents at the boy and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “If we catch you being reckless again,” he growled in a low voice, “there won’t even be a conversation. Just a one-way ride to jail, you understand? Consider this a friendly fucking warning.” He released his grip, spat on the ground, and did the I’m-watching-you signal by pointing two fingers at his eyes and then back at the boy. The two policemen then returned to their car and drove off.

The boy put his library card and Target receipt back into his pocket, shaking his head in confusion. He then kicked off and, being sure to mind his speed and his steering, he slowly sled down the hill.

Meanwhile, back in the patrol car, Tyler and Ethan were in hysterics. “Aw man, Tyler, that one never gets old! Did you see the look on his face?! He was about to shit his pants when we said we’d take him to jail!”

“Yeah,” chuckled Tyler, “the sledder pull-over is a classic. Gets me every time. Hey, you wanna go down to the lake and ‘arrest’ the ice-fishers for defacement of public property?”

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