THE Useless Cambodian

Good Afternoon,

A few years ago, a not so dear friend of mine and I had a conversation. It was pointless and stupid, but was gave birth to his nickname as the Useless Cambodian. Prepare to be disappointed.

 

Hong: did u donate to my honduras trip??

me: wtf

  why are you going there

Hong: no my past honduras trip

  i went to honduras to help build houses

  back in college

me: yea

  i definitely supported

Hong: i guess u didn’t donate

  cuz u didn’t even know about it

  or payed any attention

me: whatever

  i had to make sure

  because i donate to so many causes

Hong: oh yeah i forgot how much of a humanitarian you are

  u should adopt a cambodian kid

me: and do what with it

Hong: puahaha

  its not a toy or an item

  actually cambodian kids are good at killing spiders

me: but then i have to feed it

Hong: well..they would deep fry the spider

  and eat that

me: would you eat that?

Hong: so we are self sufficient

  umm..i ate a bug before

me: so next time i find a spider

  i want you to deep fry it and eat it

Hong: it only can be a tarantula

me: why

Hong: more meat

  so if u can catch a tarantula and deep fry it

  let me know

me: you said you all were self sufficient

  go find one

  deep fry it

  and eat it infronto f me

Hong: haha

  i said the kid is not me

  i’m not a kid anymore

me: so when cambodians become adults, they become useless?

Hong: so i’m not good at catching spiders

  no

  we can do many more things

me: but catching spiders is a skill that you lose with age

Hong: yeah

me: and how is that possible

  i don’t think catching spiders is that difficult

  in fact

  as you get older

  catching spiders should become easier

Hong: then why don’t u catch them

me: i’m not claiming to be a self sufficient cambodian

Hong: stop making jenny do it

me: you’re over here making all these claims

  that cambodians are self sufficient

Hong: then ur saying jenny is a self sufficient cambodian person

me: but as you get older

  you become useless

  because you lose the ability to catch spiders

Hong: cuz its a skill that we leave to women

  catch spiders

  deep fry them

  sell them at the market

me: so…

  male cambodians

  lose the ability to catch spiders

  but women don’t

  so you’re saying that female cambodians are superior to male cambodians

Hong: well we don’t lose the ability

  more like we rather not

  we have better things to do

  stop insulting my race

me: so you’re saying that as cambodian males get older

Hong: damn it

me: they don’t lose the ability to catch spiders

  they just lose the desire to?

Hong: yes

me: so if they just lose the desire to, but not the ability

  you should be able to catch your own spider

  deep fry it

  and eat it

Hong: i’m done talking to u

A Favor

A few months ago, a dear friend of mine was less than satisfied with her Haribo purchase. She asked me to notify said company.

 

Dear Haribo,

I’d like to praise you for the delicious products you provide us. The joy that fills my heart when I open the gold/clear packaging can only be topped by the discovery of an extra french fry at the bottom of my Wendy’s bag. The tasty treats your magical little elves create are simply divine. Unfortunately, I must report a crime, to which I am the victim.

I am a hardworking woman who must deal with the stresses of corporate America so that my husband and I may continue our pursuit of what is known as the American Dream. As I was out slaying the dragon, I decided that it was time for one of my regular trips to the convenient store downstairs. This break was like any other break…or so I thought.

I took my non-biodegradable bag of goodies to my desk and began my ritual. As I tore through said goodies, I could feel my stress melt away. In fact, I was beginning to feel empowered, motivated and ready to take on the rest of my day, that is until I came across the bag of Haribo Gummi Bears.

As a woman living in a shallow society, I opted to buy the small bag of Haribo Gold Bears, which always comes with seven delectable little pieces of happiness. As I open the bag and peer into the non-environmentally friendly packaging, I notice that the party seems to be dead. The club isn’t “poppin”, as the kids now say. I count, “one…two…three…four.” I think to myself, “Of course, this can’t be right! Haribo wouldn’t do this to me!” I rip the bag open even more and make sure I count, this time using my fingers to help me remember the total, “One…two…three…four.” My heart sank.

As I sit in disbelief, I am unsure of my next move. I can’t bring it back to the convenience store. The owners are Korean and will never believe me. They’re going to think that I ate three of the seven and am trying to get another seven for free, earning me ten little gummies for the price of seven. I can’t just eat these four and go on with my life. I paid for seven, expecting to ingest seven with the expectation that these seven gummies would complete my snack, but I only have four. I can’t go and buy another pack, because I bought the small pack, to help me control my calorie intake. I could just buy another pack, eat these four and then eat three from the other package, but then I’d have three jolly green gummies just waiting to be eaten. What’s going to happen the next time I purchase a bag of Haribo Gold Bears? Will I eat these three and then another four, leaving the next three to rot until the day I decide to buy another package? As you can see, you have put me in quite a predicament. What was supposed to be a stress relieving exercise has now gone the complete opposite direction. You have raised my blood pressure, stress level and ability to trust that I will get seven gummy bears when I pay for seven gummy bears. I, as a red blooded American, who comes from immigrant parents, should not have to deal with the uncertainty of my afternoon snack. If I pay for seven gummy bears, I want seven gummy bears. I do not need you or anybody else to tell me that I only need to eat four. That’s insulting and you do not know me. I demand that you make this right to me, my family and this great country of ours. The ball is now in your court.

Gumbi

The Unamerican Burger

God bless this great nation of ours. I’ve visited many a nation and can honestly say that I am proud and thankful to call the great US of A my home. Unfortunately, I cannot sit idly by as our way of life is under constant siege. No, not the Russians; this isn’t the 1980’s. We are under attack by a chain restaurant that calls itself Matchbox.

I was recently attended a birthday dinner at Matchbox. I skim the menu and come across an item labeled “bistro burger”. The description goes as follows, “grilled certified angus beef / melted gorgonzola / cremini mushrooms / applewood smoked bacon / thick-cut onion rings”. Of course, I replace the thick-cut onion rings with onion straws. Who doesn’t love onion straws?!?!

I patiently wait as the server unloads his tray and hands me my meal. My eyes light up as they lock onto the open face burger; beef, gorgonzola and bun on one side with lettuce, red onions and bun on the other. I immediately get to work, by assembling what I believed to be a top burger contender. I slide my two thumbs between the greasy plate and the bistro burger’s bottom bun. My mouth begins to water as this tasty treat gets closer and closer. After what seems like an eternity, I make contact.

What the fuck is wrong with Matchbox? I take one bite and immediately get punched in the face by the gorgonzola that sits atop the slab of ground beef in my hand. This is unbelievable! The crispy applewood smoked bacon and the juicy angus beef both get shoved to the aside as the gorgonzola cheese rapes the shit out of my taste buds. Do you like the taste of meat? Well that’s too damn bad, because the gorgonzola has decided that it’s the belle of the ball and deserves all the attention. Fuck you gorgonzola and fuck you Matchbox for putting that disgusting ass cheese on my burger. Hamburgers are American and are to be accompanied by AMERICAN CHEESE. 

Born to Dance

As I sat in my chair, buzzed from the many shots and cocktails I had consumed earlier that night, I watched three Jamaican men dance like there was no tomorrow. The more I watched, the more I realized that they come out the womb like that. Jamaicans are a happy people. They don’t need iPhones or fancy cars. All they need is their God given ability to dance. They might not be blessed with wealth, but they’re definitely blessed with lightning fast movements. If they were given white skin, I’d swear they were lightning bolts…and not the tennis balls thrown by some chubby nerd from YouTube.

I Should Have Listened

I Should Have Listened

As I sat in class, listening to my teacher lecture about the Civil War, I feel this sudden wave in my stomach. Not thinking too much about it, I ignore the discomfort and continue to day dream about whatever it is that nine year olds day dream about. Then, in a split second, it happens.

Spring, the season of rejuvenation and rebirth. Eggs begin to hatch, flowers begin to bloom, geese have come back to shit on every possible grassy patch and trees are in a constant state of ejaculation. Unfortunately, millions…and millions of law abiding citizens are forced to suffer the wrath of these inconsiderate Ents. We’re left with uncontrollable sneezing, itchy throats and unbearably itchy eyes. Luckily, the white man created Benadryl.

There I was at the breakfast table; orange juice in one hand, Benadryl in the other. My Mom looks at me and asks me what I’m doing. I respond, “I’m about to take my allergy pill with my cup of orange juice.” She warns, “Don’t mix orange juice with Benadryl. Take it with water.” In my head I arrogantly fire back, “Whatever Mom. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. I’m almost ten years old.” I throw the pill in my mouth and chug the entire glass of OJ. Feeling as though I had triumphed over Goliath, I energetically place the mug on the table and wait to be told that it’s time to go to school.

This day, was like any other day, until the way. I was in class, minding my own business and then it happened. I shit my pants. I didn’t know how or why it happened, it just happened. Seconds after full evacuation, I frantically wave my hand in the air and ask for the bathroom pass. I rush to the bathroom, but it was too late. I had nothing left in the chamber. As I sit on my throne and attempt to figure out what my next move was going to be, I hear three kids breach the perimeter. Panic stricken, I freeze. I don’t make a peep. My goal is to sit there silently and hope that they don’t see me. My plan fails. I see the shoes of my peers under the stall door and hear one of them say, “Watch this!” My heart sinks as I watch one shoe ascend towards the light and disappear. BOOM! This very shoe connects with the stall door and it flies open. Surprised to see somebody in the stall they so mercilessly attacked, they run away. I can hear as their laughter grows fainter with every step they take. I sit in horror. Not wanting to be there for the next act of violence, I pack up and head back to class.

My visit to the bathroom accomplished nothing. Not only was I still surrounded by a brown cloud of stench, I had just been witness to an act of violence against a stall door. As I went back to my seat, I hear the intercom activate. It’s the principal. “Good Morning. There will be a tornado drill in fifteen minutes.” Tornado drills are not exactly the best look if you’ve just soiled your pantaloons.

As my classmates rise from their seats and form a line, I somehow end up in my rightful spot at the very front. I guess it was only fair that if one person was getting crop dusted, everybody was getting crop dusted. We traverse hallway after hallway until we reach our destination. It was quite discomforting to see that every man woman and child had shown up. Apparently our school was equipped with only one tornado proof hallway…

We eventually stop by our designated wall and wait for instructions. “Face the wall! Kneel down!” Up until this point, it was not of the most desirable scenarios, but it was bearable until, “Stick your head between your knees!” Wait…what?!?! Did I hear that correctly? As I look around, it becomes painfully obvious that I would be broadcasting the unpleasantness emanating from my unclean trousers. Like I said, not the best look.

I end up surviving the rest of the day at school with no further humiliation. I spend the rest of my time at the daycare center, where I wait for my parents to come get me. Feeling a renewed sense of confidence, I stroll around like I didn’t shit my pants earlier that day. I walk by one of the counselors and then the death cloud hits her. She looks around, grabs the kid next to me and starts asking, “Does somebody need a diaper change?” Horrified, I decide it’d be ideal to walk, in a spirited manor, towards the corner. I turn and watch as, one after another, she checks to see who needs a new diaper. My heart begins to race as she gets closer and closer. Trying to act casually, I pick up the closest toy and pretend to play. With my back against the wall, I “play” and wait until she starts throwing the absurd accusation that I am the guilty one. I turn to look at the door and it was like a beam of light straight from heaven. My parents had arrived! I threw the toy down and pushed over little kids as I sprinted towards the door without even acknowledging the chaos and destruction I had just left.

It was finally over; I threw down my stuff, raced to the bathroom and took a much needed shower. I put my unclean clothes where they belonged, in the trash. As I rid myself of all things unclean, I say to myself, “Yes Mom. I should have listened.”

 

Fuck You Chewbacca

I race up my driveway to throw my car into the garage. The sweet aroma of the large Hot ‘N Juicy ½ LB Double value meal sitting in the passenger seat bombards my nose and puts me in a state of euphoria. I can’t wait to get into my house to devour that little gift from heaven fast enough.

As I jump out of my car, frantically grab my bag of treats and drink and head towards the door. As I get closer and closer, I notice something odd about the floor mat. Did I leave a mud stain the day before and not notice it? Maybe a tiny leaf blew into the garage and I just hadn’t noticed it before. I finally get close enough for my eyes to see…holy shit!!!

Spiders are fucking scary. I mean…the fear is completely rational. They’re dangerous, disgusting looking and are probably the cause of every deadly disease known to man. This hairy little sucker was probably the size of a quarter and that’s not including its eight hairy ass legs. He was so big, brown and hairy that he probably should have been flying around with Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon. Instead of trying to take down the Galactic Empire, he decides that today’s the perfect day to chill in my garage.

I begin weighing my options. I can go through the front door…well no I can’t, because I always see spiders there. I can get back in my car and drive back to work, but then my Wendy’s will have lost all its heat, so no. I can man up and fight Chewbacca for the right to enter my own home, but I’m a huge pussy.

Finally I make my decision. I decide to not let Chewbacca ruin the chance for my taste buds to experience that piece of heaven known as a Wendy’s double, so I continue on my eight foot journey. I inch closer and closer to the door without taking my eyes off the wookie. Five minutes later, I breach the perimeter. Excitement punches me in my gut as I enter the premises. I slam the door and think, “Fuck you Chewbacca.” I methodically unpack my meal, turn to channel 588 (the NFL Network) and mouth rape my food. God Bless America and all she has to offer!

I finish my meal and start packing up to head back to the office. As I throw my trash away, reality sets in. “Shit, I have to go back out there…” I was so focused on entry that I hadn’t put together an exit plan. I reach for the door and slowly open. I look to make sure Chewbacca hadn’t jumped onto my door to try to sneak attack me for the trash talking I had done just twenty minutes earlier. I search intently for any brown and see none. This lasts for about three minutes. You can never be too sure. Chewbacca’s a sneaky gigantic bastard. Not seeing him, I check the stairs to make sure he hadn’t tried to slip in behind me during entry; still no sight of that hairy son of a bitch. I hesitate a little bit and finally begin inching towards the opening and try to peer over the last step to see if that lazy asshole was still in the same spot. Being the real man that I am, I feel something under my foot so I immediately jump and scream…like a man. I look down and see a piece of plastic…nothing too life threatening. At this point, I feel like a huge pussy. I was not completely thrilled with the way I was acting so I yell at myself, “Pull it together. You’re supposed to be a man!” Feeling ashamed, I attempt to follow my own advice.

I calm myself down and attempt to make my exit. As soon as I look up, I see something in the air. I think to myself, “It’s too big to be a fly, but too small to be a bird. Holy shit! It’s a wasp and it’s coming to attack me!” I tell myself that I’m a man and I won’t let a stupid little wasp get in between me and my car. As those thoughts race through my head I immediately slam the door shut. I’m left, once again, weighing my options. I can’t call my boss and tell him that I went home sick. I can’t go through the front, because of the GOD DAMN SPIDERS, so I step back take a deep breath and try again. I open the door, do a quick once over and like a ballerina, I leap as far as I can into the garage. I quickly grab my shoes and jump into my car. Feeling like the real man that I am, I confidently yell, “Fuck you Chewbacca!” and head back to work.  

The “Ethiopian” Kid

It was a cloudy, fall afternoon. My three friends and I were sitting on one of the grassy areas in front of my beloved secondary school, where 40+ buses were lined up to take the next generation of leaders home. Three of us were immersed in some boring conversation about baseball, while I was lost in my own thoughts…probably about the video games I wanted to get lost in when I got home.

As I sat there thinking about all the aliens I was going to destroy, I heard the click of two metal rods being pressed towards each other to allow for a yellow school bus window to be opened. Not thinking too much about it, I turned to see if my ears were playing tricks on me. As I watched the window slowly move down, I began to fantasize. Could it be? Maybe somebody from class is going to actually say hi to me. Not only that, the three losers I call friends are going to see that there are people who know me and are willing to take the effort to open a bus window just to say hi. I was going to look so cool and popular. I was going to be the envy of our four man gang. I was on my way to the top of the food chain.

As I looked on, I saw a head pop out of the bus. Here it was. A friend! As I watched his head come out of the darkness of the unlit cabin, my excitement turned into confusion. I had seen this guy before, but I didn’t know him. I had never had class with him. I don’t even know where he’s from or what his name is. Maybe this guy was relaying a message for somebody else? Who knows? Let’s just see what this friendly face has to say…

He finally looked straight at me and began to speak. Curious to hear what he had to say, my ears perked up. He shouted, “You one ugly mother fucker!” As those words processed in my head, I thought to myself, “Surely he can’t be talking to me.” As I heard those words over and over in my head, “You one ugly mother fucker…You one ugly mother fucker…You one ugly mother fucker,” my heart sank. My excitement ran straight past confusion and ended with disbelief. I watched as his head disappeared back into the unlit cabin and all I was left with was the clicks of the bus window closing. Four clicks to be exact.

That five second sequence of events was forever burned into my brain. Needless to say, it was a blow to the ego. It wasn’t enough that I had next to no friends, but I had to be on the business end of a brutal verbal assault. Looking back, the words might not have been the worst part. The fact that this kid had put so much effort into pushing down the bus window, which anybody knows that if you’ve ever tried to open one, is an enormous inconvenience. This kid had decided that it was worth it to straight the muscles in his pointer fingers to open that window and shout his five word monologue.

I don’t think I ever saw him again. I knew nothing about where he was from, what his name was or why he decided to share his thoughts with me that day. All I knew was that he looked to me like he was from Ethiopia.