Should Tragedy Ensue...

and the dullness of your scissors makes you blue,

there is a place in Seomyeon just for you:



I found this spot while walking home from Burger King a while ago. This would be the same Burger King that thinks mayonnaise, which is totally a sauce, by the way, belongs on Whoppers. Burger King is wrong.

My horrid display of rhyming and digression into Burger King's folly ways aside, I wonder if people who have never seen ice on the ground find ice skate sharpening facilities as funny as I find "hairdressing scissors sharpening centers"?

Seomyeon: Disorder Restored

A few events over the past week and a half have left me assured that Seomyeon is over it's midlife crisis, which involved being broken in an awesome way, and returned to just being broken.

First, they've been ripping up the intersection in front of my apartment. At 2am. Because if 2am isn't a good time to do really loud construction, when is? In spite of my obvious noise complaints, I'm going to concede that this particular event actually makes sense. Due to the many ways in which Seomyeon is broken - disasterous pedestrian and motor traffic, illogically connected roadways - there is simply no way that they could rip that intersection up during the day. Having said that, I suppose it's even possible that they do this in Toronto and New York City. Do they? I have no idea. Still. I refuse to overlook the fact that they're doing really loud construction in the middle of the city at 2am. This strikes me as an inconvenient irritant, no matter the location.

Second, it takes me exactly 5 minutes longer to get to work after dinner if I don't violently elbow at least three people in the neck. I don't aim for the neck, that's just the way it works out. I'm tall. If I don't violently elbow anybody in the neck on my way to work, I'm twice as likely to end up shoved down a flight of stairs. Given that I'm perfectly good at falling down the stairs all by myself, I think that I'll pass on this opportunity.

Finally, on my way to work the other morning I saw one guy pissing on a store front and another one puking over the curb. This was all within a one block span. Needless to say, a day where you witness both public pissing and puking before 7am is bound to be awesome.

Broken Seomyeon is far more entertaining and less confusing than Unbroken Seomyeon.

Its Not Always About You Korea. Again.

If you hate Korea so much, why don't you just leave?

This is a profoundly stupid question.

I've seen it not only on my blog, but hundreds of times over on Dave's ESL Forums. Every time that I see this question, my brain swells in horror. Everybody that I've ever been involved with purposely pops their collar; I was already quite dumb enough, thanks. The students and business folk of Busan are counting on Barbie to have a functioning brain. The further that you lower her intelligence by asking questions such as this, the less likely she is to remember her native tongue. Given that she already struggles to spell "ambulance" correctly and regularly speaks in the third person, this is problematic.

This question is stupid for at least two reasons (and probably many more, but I have an ice pack and The Office waiting for me):

First of all, with very few exceptions, Korea does not make people miserable. Occasionally miserable folk come to Korea, where they remain miserable. Korea is not a magic misery removing elixir. Arriving at Incheon airport doesn't suddenly make you a more interesting, better looking, jovial individual with killer wit. Conversely, awesome people don't suddenly become less awesome because they started eating kimchi. If you sucked prior to Korea, there is a good chance that you're going to suck here, too. To ask why these people don't just leave Korea is to miss the entire fucking point.

Second, being critical about the place that you live is not the same thing as hating it. It pains me to think that there are actually people older than 8 can't distinguish between the two. Criticism is healthy. Lacking the ability to handle criticism with grace is not. Disagreeing with criticism is healthy. Curling up into fetal position and screaming loudly, without bothering to directly address said criticism, is neither healthy nor productive.

Once again: it's not always about you, Korea. Really, it's not. Chill out.

Spotted: Order in Seomyeon.

The perfect, single-file line wrapped neatly around the curb. Roughly 15-20 people waited quietly, just steps away from one of Seomyeon's 42 subway exits. Nobody attempted to cheat their way to the front of the line. Nobody saw the need to plough their way through the line when they could instead, just walk around it.

When the bus they were waiting for finally pulled up to the curb, the line moved onto the bus in an orderly fashion. Still, nobody cheated their way to the front of the line.

This, in a neighbourhood where I'm unable to get to work in a timely fashion without violently elbowing at least three people along the way. This, in a neighbourhood more in need of Walking Hagwons than the English Hagwons that are currently found on every corner. This, in a neighbourhood that is so lacking in organization that I once described it as what would happen if you gave a 3 year old a pack of crayons and asked them to design a city centre.

Just the night before, somebody rammed their elbow into my back at one of the 15 Family Mart's near my apartment. Apparently there just wasn't enough room in the store for the two of us.

I gaped awkwardly at the lineup for about 30 seconds before one of the members of the line spotted me making a ridiculous face. She pointed and laughed at me. This was the correct thing to do.

Either nobody in that lineup is a Seomyeon regular, or Seomyeon is broken. This time, in a good way. Or, perhaps this happens everyday and I'm just too busy violently elbowing people to notice?

The 1st of 227 Reasons That Teaching Adults is Better Than Teaching Children

Reason #1 Why Teaching Adults is Better Than Teaching Children:

I no longer need to bring extra tissues to work.

Mucus Student was 9 years old (In Real Years. This translates to something like 17 in Korean Years) and didn't know when it was time to blow his nose. He was not functionally retarded. His English speaking ability eclipsed that of his peers. He was not socially retarded; in spite of his perpetually leaking nose, he seemed to be quite popular with the other snotrags. Yet somehow, he had minimal appreciation for the fine art of nose blowing.

It was a tragedy of epic proportions.

I would come to each of Mucus Student's classes with an extra wad of tissues, just for him. When he approached my desk to hand in his homework, dripping profusely from the nostrils, I would subtly pass him some tissues and indicate that it was time to blow. Or at least wipe, for the love of God. I was not always quite subtle enough. Occasionally one of the other students would notice the exchange, which would lead to the other 4 students giggling at their nose blowing inept friend. They all seemed to understand how totally gross he was in this regard. Mucus Student would shrug bashfully and seemingly feel no shame.

Mucus Student was a model student, whose failure to properly maintain his nostril drippings thoroughly repulsed me. Every single class my thoughts were forced to wander into the territory of How Did This Happen?! Did his parents drop the ball after potty training? Did they even teach him to do that properly? What gives, Mucus Student's parents?

I spent way too much of my time last year analyzing repulsive matters such as this one. While those of us who pretend to be adults undoubtedly have our own repulsive habits, I'm yet to come across anything as nauseating as Mucus Student and his failure to know when it's Nose Blowing Time. For this, I am grateful.

Thanks, Kloggers

In exchange for my bailing on Monday's trip to Gyeongju, my friend Diana passed along the message that Zen Kimchi had nominated Big White Barbie Does Busan for one of the The Golden Klog Awards.

(While neither of these things actually had anything to do with the other, and they didn't even happen in that order, I see no reason that my penchant for exaggeration or rampant fact manipulation ought to stop now)

I bailed on the Gyeongju trip, not because I'm a total dick, but because I was busy being sad and eating Burger King. Tragically, Burger King screwed up my Whopper with bacon and cheese by putting mayonnaise on it. You may think that it's the other way around, that I screwed up my order. This is true if you don't qualify mayonnaise as "sauce". I bet they wouldn't have screwed up my Whopper in Gyeongju. There's totally a Burger King there, right?

Describing at length that Burger King screwed up my food, the painful dialogue I exchanged with some douchebag at the bar, how much nail polish I bought last time I was sad, which student has the most inappropriate nickname, and how my broken face has had surprisingly little effect on the number of fratboys that speak to me, is more or less what I do. Should my vapid, self absorbed, occasionally bitchy and possibly cynical examination of my life in Korea not quite be your cup of tea, peruse some of the other blogs that were nominated for The Golden Klog Awards. There are undoubtedly blogs much better than mine own that weren't even nominated, but The Klogs are a good place to start.

Much thanks to Zen Kimchi for the nomination, Diana for calling it to my attention, and Roboseyo for putting it all together.

Reason 37 to Go to Japan Next Contract

Workers Urged: Go Home and Multiply

Go home and multiply? Really, CNN? Really, Japan?! This is the kind of CNN tripe that I fucking live for; the sole purpose of my checking that site on a daily basis is to come across retarded headlines such as this.

While this particular measure obviously wouldn't pertain to me (a lowly Canadian English teacher, who is unlikely to be of much use in pumping Japan full of little Japanese babies) it works out well for those working at Canon, Tokyo.

Hats off, Canon. While I'm not sure how encouraging your employees to go home and fuck got passed the HR department, I imagine that they're too busy running home for Breeding Time to care.

01/26/08

I came to the PC Bang today to write something about my friend, who passed away one year ago today. I had no idea what I was going to write, how I was going to write it, or what I was going to accomplish by doing this, but I was going to it anyways. It needed to be done.

At no point during the past year have I really shared a story which properly captured his memory. I didn't splash the walls of any of the memorial facebook groups that were created, like many of our friends did. I didn't drop a tale into my blog. I really didn't do anything to characterize what type of person he was at all. I merely rhymed off about how much I drank, how much nail polish I bought, and how dearly I needed a dose of comedy. Because that's what I'm good at.

Being snarky, cracking inappropriate jokes, providing way too much information, unexpectedly dorking out, indulging my own whims and just generally acting like a cartoon character; these are the things at which I rule. The emotional infancy which makes me occasionally, accidentally hilarious, crippled me from addressing this appropriately.

I don't lack Kyle stories. The last time I shared one was the morning that I heard of his death. I was on the train ride home from what was probably another epic night in Daegu, when somehow he came up in conversation. While I kept in touch with him somewhat after first arriving here, I hadn't thrown around too many At Home stories with the New Folk. For whatever reason I was inspired to rhyme off a series of nicknames that he had managed to earn himself, as my train friend stared blankly, wondering why I was thinking out loud again.

When I arrived home an hour or so later, I found The Urgent Email from a former coworker of both of ours demanding that I call home. Unlike another friend of ours, I was fortunate enough to catch the email and learn the news over the telephone before catching one of dozens of affected facebook status messages. Bless Facebook and all the time wasting that she's allowed me, but that's no way to learn of a death.

One of the last times I remember hanging out with Kyle, he was watching a random snippet from Borat. I wasn't that interested and frankly can't remember a thing about that movie. What I do remember is the inexplicable joy that he got from watching Random Scene for the 42nd time.

I came here today to write something in memory of him, and all I've done is spend the last four hours immersing myself in episodes of Seinfeld (Soup Nazi!), Arrested Development (Never nude! Analrapist!), and How I Met Your Mother (Legen...dary!). I read some articles on Cracked and Unreality. I skimmed xkcd. I kept crawling the internet in search of more Funny, thinking that somehow this would make everything okay.

I accidentally came across some laughs in the form of an Avery Taking Meditation Classes headline. First, Sean Avery is an epic, legendary douche. I want to have beers with him, just so that I can listen to him Douche Off for a few hours. My life is as Douche Rich as the next guy's, but Avery takes Awesomely Douchey to a whole new level, one which I can only dream of encountering in the Real World. Still, in spite of the fact that I think Sean Avery is epically awesome in a doucheworthy way... this is what passes as a headline on Sports Illustrated these days? Really? Given that this is coming from the same network of sites that brought us Incest Dungeon Teen Wants to See Ocean, I probably shouldn't feign surprise.

And that brings me to now.

I just spent four hours in a PC Bang searching for words. When my own words failed me, I sought laughter in the words of others. While I undoubtedly failed to find the same level of inexplicable joy that Kyle found in Borat that night, I like to think that I came close. Perhaps this wasn't an exercise in futility after all?

It's Not Always About You, Korea.

A former coworker, and Busan local, caught me explaining to my brother that Korea smells 100 times worse than Toronto. Or at least it did, before sensory adaptation resulted in the death of my sense of smell some time last November.

My coworker was thoroughly unimpressed.

First, she advised me that she's Korean. You know, just in case I hadn't taken the fact that I was the only foreign teacher at my school and connected the dots yet. Once she was satisfied that I properly understood this point, she explained that she loved her country. Because apparently if you love your country just the right amount, it will no longer smell like garbage. I'm going to try this and see if I can love Harper out of office. Finally, she huffed that she was sorry I felt this way and stormed off.

Colour me confused.

This reminded me of this one time that I was walking around Seomyeon with a friend and being a massive asshole as I provided a running commentary of absolutely everything about Korea that sucked. As I commented on everything in particular about our surroundings that struck me as suck, my friend finally inquired as to what my issue with Korea was. She failed to understand that I have an issue with everything, and just happened to be in Korea at the time of conversation.

Had my former coworker understood this point and accepted that I'm just a fucking dick, we may still be friends.

Alternatively, had I accepted that some folks get their panties in a twist when you speak an ill word of anything even remotely related to their nation, we may still be friends. But that would have required my not being a dick.

I want to punch nationalism in the face.

Partial Facial Paralysis: Almost as hot as Catne.

As a result of falling on my head, I may never be able to move part of my face again. It's only a minor part of my face, so it's not really that big of a deal. I won't appear to have had a recent stroke or anything of the sort. At least, not until making comments like that catches up with me (again) and I fall on my head (again).

Essentially, I will be able to raise my left eyebrow most of the way, but will almost certainly be incapable of drawing it in. As a result, I'll be able to make a lot of really awesome disgusted faces, where the other half of my face totally doesn't move. At first I thought that my Dude, Fuck Off Face would suffer as a result, but have since seen the light.

Partial facial paralysis is awesome.

In other news, I still want to punch Seomyeon in the face.

Catne is Sad

As The Shanster* and I fought for the last bite of chicken galbi, our Cat Lady friend sulked in her chair. This was alarming. Chicken galbi is delicious and should be fought for at all times, at the expense of all other things. When asked what the Hell she was sulking over, she shared the following tragedy with us: her cat has acne.

*(The Shanster hates it when I call her that, on account of it being a stupid Frat Boy nickname. But she doesn't read my blog, so it's all good)

3 minutes later when we were done laughing, Cat Lady tried to discuss this topic in a more serious nature. Epic failure ensued. We advised her that it wasn't time yet and laughed some more.

It's inexplicable that cat acne is this hilarious. But it is. It just is. I laugh just typing the words. Tears well up in my eyes.

For the rest of this week, whenever something gets me down - an undercooked meal, a failed lesson plan, getting blown off - I will remember Catne. And laugh. Until I cry.

Happy New Years to My Face

Among other things, my plans for 2009 included partaking in more healthy activities, developing hobbies that don't include bottles or sass, and not falling on my head.

Then I fell on my face.

It's like I lost 2009 already.

Somehow I ended up by the Lotte in Seomyeon, where I felt I needed to go underground to cross the street. I did not actually need to cross the street there, but I don't have my bearings in Seomyeon at the best of times; just short of 5am on New Year's Day I was a lost cause.

You know when you begin to feel yourself falling, and unless you have some sort of special training which involves falling gracefuly, your options are to either accept the fall, or try to sort of run into it in the hopes of catching up with yourself? I tried the latter. Down a flight of stairs.

To make a long story short, this did not end well: My left eye is swollen shut due to a gaping laceration above the brow, both of my knees are purple, as is my hip and various points on my arms. Judging by the pain that is endured when I sleep on one side, one of my ribs may be bruised. My tongue is swollen from where I bit it during the fall. My right thumb is bruised, probably from gripping my purse during the fall.

It's not all bad. I conveniently fell right into a group of young men who immediately called an ambulence. A friend of mine conveniently called to see where I ended up, right as I was ending up at the hospital. Later, another friend and as well as my supervisor came to collect me and ensure that I was still Everybody's Neurotic Friend. When I was at my worst, the troops rallied around me and everything fell into place. I have many things to feel fortunate for.

Tomorrow was to be my first day of work, and I'm pretty peeved that I have to miss it on account of my own idiocy. Frankly, that part hurts more than the surface wounds. As much as it might not seem so given that I can be a total dick about just about everything, I wouldn't have come back for round two if I didn't take my role as an EFL Teacher seriously. This isn't exactly how I planned on starting the year off. I'll make it up to everybody. Somehow.

I wish that I could say that I'm going to walk away from this having learned some invaluable life lesson, but the truth is there's nothing that I'm going to change that wasn't already in motion. At most, this just reaffirmed that the changes I had already planned were a step in the right direction.

I hope that New Year's found the rest of you folk Happy. Here's to not falling on our faces in 2009. Literally. I encourage face splatting in the figurative sense.

I Want to Punch Seomyeon in the Face

Seomyeon sort of looks like what would happen if you gave a 3 year old a pack of crayons and asked them to design a city centre. The streets are windy, disordered, end unexpectedly, littered with trash, and frequently adorned with pissing old men. At 9am. Because if you can't take a piss on the street at 9am, when can you?

I'm back. I've only been back for a week, but from the moment the passed out old man on the subway spat out his dentures, I felt like I'd never left.

I don't have internet hooked up in my roach infested apartment just yet. Until then I'll be posting infrequently from my beloved PC Bang (internet cafe). I haven't seen a single unbathed gamer in here since my first visit two days ago. I'm confused as to how they stay in business, but unconcerned so long as they stay in business for me.

I'll likely post some New Year's thoughts over the next few days. They'll probably be bubbly and disgusting, because I've gone all Molly Fucking Sunshine on my own ass over the past few months.

Is it possible to be Molly Fucking Sunshine while punching Seomyeon in the face? Cause I am.

Grave Mistake

My friend and I purchased an assortment of flowers and made our way to the largest graveyard in town with the intention of visiting the plot of our friend who passed away in the last year. It was supposed to be his birthday. The flowers were the friend's idea; those are the sort of things that really don't occur to me. The lady behind the desk at in the cometary office scanned the information on her screen, looked up at us, and scanned the screen again, hoping that she was mistaken. Surely The Flower Girls didn't actually show up at the wrong graveyard?

This particular graveyard has seemed like the logical place for our friend to be buried. Not only was it the largest in town, but it was the nearest one to downtown, our place of meeting that day. His being there would just be so convenient. It made sense. So, of course we were mistaken. This is probably one of those things that you really ought to look into before investing your time and energy into a graveyard visit, but somehow it just never dawned on us to check.

The lady behind the desk likely felt sorry for our dumbasses and took it on herself to contact every other cemetery in town. After the last call turned up negative, my friend reminded me that our friend was cremated. In which case, given that they haven't been memoralized at a cemetery in town, they've likely been spread or are hanging out in a closet somewhere.

It had been in the back of my mind all day that an acquaintance, and good friend of my good friend, was also buried at that particular cemetery. I had intended on visiting his plot anyways, though I can't promise that flowers were going to be part of the bargain. None the less, I hope that his next visitors like them.

No, Your Accent is Broken.

Taxi, cab, or taxicab? If you chose the third option, you're not wrong, but I don't like it. The other two I use interchangeably. Apparently I'm broken for doing so.

Last Tuesday around 4am, the following conversation probably took place :

Me: *on phone* Hey, could I please get two taxis in front of the Pita Pit?
Random Townie: Taxi?!
Me: *waving Random Townie off; still on phone* Yes, two taxis in front of the Pita Pit. Thank you!
Random Townie: Seriously, taxi? What are you, a fucking Yankee?
Me: Dude, they're called taxis.
Random Townie: They're called fucking cabs, Yank.
Me: *waving the rest of the room to attention* Taxi or cab? Or taxicab?
The Peanut Gallery: Cab. Cab. Cab.
Me: Whatever, Townies.

I don't understand why I'm not invited to more parties.

I later consulted with Random Cabbie, who thought my line of questioning regarding what he preferred to call his vehicle was Funny Talk. He, too, did not approve of my use of taxi.

Four points must be made from this:

First, I probably do sound more like an American than when I left Canada last October. I had a number of American friends in Korea, they speak funny, I have a tendency to adopt the mannerisms of those around me, hence I now speak funny, too. Of course, by that I mean that Everybody Else now speaks funny. I happen to sound quite excellent, thanks.

Second, Americans have been known to talk funny in all kinds of different ways. Which one am I resembling when I say "taxi"? Do I sound like I'm from New York? The Mid-West? Alaska? What part of the country am mimicking?

Third, there's nothing wrong with sporting an American accent. Americans speak funny in perfectly acceptable ways, and this is one of the many reasons why we love them. Wait, we don't? Right, I forgot: Here in Canuckistan, it is my duty to spout anti-American rhetoric while munching down on a Big Mac and wondering which Hollywood movie I should see next.
Culture shock is clearly responsible for my failure to accept the more retarded points of Canadian culture without question. I'm going to go munch on some Doritos and watch NBC as I ponder this conundrum.

Finally, taxi is not an American Thing, Random Townie. You too, Random Cabbie. Cab is a Townie thing. The two can be used interchangeably here in Canuckistan, as they are in the United States. Different regions may be more prone to using one or the other, but nothing about the word "taxi" links it to a particular accent. It's not fuckin' "eh", for Christ's sake. I know this after conducting a very scientific survey on facebook, where everybody who wasn't wrong agreed with me on the matter, rendering Random Townie's entire point retarded.

I probably sound more like an American than I used to, but not because I say "taxi".

Passing Change.

The first time I was handed a wad of bills with my change set neatly on top of it, I ended up dropping my change all over the floor and wondering who the Hell doesn't pass the change separately. A year of practice later, and I can't figure out why nobody working a register in Ontario seems to be able to collect the change from the top of the bill pile without dropping it all over the floor.

Everybody Else may be broken.

Canada Land: Not a Dime Store Hooker.

Canada Land is not nearly as cheap as I am.

I went out on the town last night. Given that "out on the town" here means "select one of half of a dozen bars within a two block radius and hope that the total wankers went across the street instead, purchase over priced beverage, and wonder why the lights have turned on and the closing bell is ringing before you're finished your third", this experience tends to be every bit as lame as one might expect. Thankfully, I had the forsight to surround myself with awesome people, which made up for the total lameness that was everything else. Almost.

First, there was the taxi. The last bus goes by here shortly after 10pm, after which point I'm left with a 15 dollar taxi ride or hour walk. It should probably only take about 40 minutes, but I get distracted by shiny things and move slowly. This is similar to the walk between Minam and PNU of the last year, which I usually passed on in favour of a 4 dollar taxi. A 4 dollar silent taxi ride. Cheap and quiet. What's not to love? Here I pay 15 dollars to entertain my bored taxi driver for 10 minutes. They really ought to pay me.

Second, there were the drinks. For some inexplicable reason, I thought that Strongbow was a good choice of drink. I used to think this. It seems that I was incorrect. Yet, in all my incorrectness, it had never crossed my mind that Strongbow would be even more delicious if served over ice with a lime. Possibly because that would be retarded. And it was, when my poor choice of drink was served to me in this manner at Pretentious Uppity Bar Saturday evening. My poor choice of beverage, served to me in retarded fashion, cost 7 bucks a pop. In the end, I paid 14 dollars to make the same bad choice twice, because making terrible decisions twice is apparently what I do.

All in all, a 30 dollar evening that ends before 2am, without a decent buzz does not a happy Barbie make.

Come On, Bra. Really?

I went bra shopping in Korea exactly once. Sort of. When I was still a young pup, fresh off the plane and all, my coworker brought me to some underwear shop in Nampodong. Here, Random Ajumma measured me, roughly, over my sweater, in order to determine my Korean bra size. She then informed my coworker that there was one store in Seomyeon which carried my size, should I wish to drop 80 dollars on a bra purchase. Hence, the first time that I considered buying a bra while in Korea was my last.

The majority of bras in Korea, so far as I saw, were of the AA-A Cup/2 lbs of padding variety. They also seemed to have a lot of bows on them. A whole lotta bows. It really is just as well that I couldn't fit into that shit. Thank goodness I had the foresight to bring more than half a dozen bras with me. I can wait until I get back to Canada Land to restock, I thought to myself.

Not as easily as originally thought.

Just a few hours ago I found myself in Bra Hell, Canada Style. Where Canada Style looks a whole lot like Korea Style, with fewer bows and a variety of cup sizes. For some inexplicable reason, bras of all sizes come ready to disguise your breasts as torpedoes and push them up to your neck. In fact, should you wish you find a bra that does otherwise, you'd best not shop at Random Cheap Bra Outlet, where bras of the non-torpedo persuasion are clearly outlawed.

Did I miss the memo that declared neck cleavage hot?

I just don't know.

Taste Buds, You've Changed.

My last couple of weeks in Korea Land were so stressful (and possibly drunk) that I more or less forgot that this section of the internet existed. A few days in Canada Land, the boredom set in, and I remembered blogspot! I'll be returning to Korea Land in 5-6 weeks. In hindsight, this was probably too long of a gap. Hanging with folks from home? Awesome. Temporary work placements? Snow? Understanding just how stupid the people surrdounding you in line at the supermarket are? Something significantly less than awesome. More tragically, even the food in Canada has been less awesome than anticipated.

As I had promised myself, within a day of landing I had sucked back a couple bowls of Tim Horton's chicken noodle soup, devoured an Arby's roastbeef sandwich, and struggled to finish a chicken caesar pita with extra meat. Aside from the chicken noodle soup, everything seems to have lost it's luster. Everything is... bland. Blah. This is grossly dissapointing.

That's really all I've got for now. Food is pretty much the second most awesome thing ever, so when it's not as good as expected, great dissapointment and bitchiness ensues.

I need a nap.

Barbie and The Douche Master

Korea Land is every bit as rich with douchebags as Canada Land. Merely existing here has resulted in exposure to the following charmers:

• Subway Soju Man, who felt that 9pm was an appropriate time to be a drunk ass.

• Random Frat Boy, who felt that a bar fight and threatening text messages were the appropriate response to common courtesy.

• The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (a weak nickname, in hindsight, but what's done is done), who incorrectly interpreted my complete disinterest in knowing him as a cry for help.

There have been countless others, but these three serve as illustrations of the various types of douchebag that have been known to insist on crossing my path and speaking to me (having said that, there is at least a faint possibility that I invite the attention of douchebags, on account of my being an ass). Now, before somebody gets sad that I'm only picking on men here, I assure you: I have bitch stories, too. Someday, I might even share one. Today, I feel like taking a trip down memory lane and spitting up a tale about the douchiest douche that ever did douche. Going forward, he shall be referred to as The Douche Master (TDM).

It was the last Wednesday in January. I had decided that there was no time like the middle of the work week to run up to Daegu and get inappropriately drunk. I hadn't been entirely sober in about three days, since I'd first learned of Kyle's death. As such, I was on the brink of going from confused to really fucking angry. Had I been aware that there was anger to be unleashed, my dishonourable encounter with The Douche Master could have been avoided.

I met with a few friends of mine, who had darlingly dropped everything on a week night to come out to the bar and watch me respond to crisis by absolutely wrecking myself. At some point during a series of conversations where friends shared their own stories of grief, a man wove his way over to our table and decided to strike up conversation about how spectacular he thought he was. The Douche Master knew how to make an entrance.

As I longed for a distraction, his pompous monologue was initially welcomed. After entertaining us for a few minutes (though not quite in the sense that I suspect he thought he was entertaining us), he wandered off, presumably because he heard word that the rest of the room had been seriously deprived of awesome since he left it.

With the welcome distraction gone, one of my friends and I got back on the heartwarming topic of death. The Douche Master, having received imaginary word that now our part of the room was void of awesome, decided to shift back our way within a couple of moments; right in the middle of a good conversation, and perhaps the only moment that night that I didn't want a distraction. Cutting me off as if I didn't exist, he began trying to court my friend by explaining to her how awesome he thought he was. Bored, wanting to get on with the only productive conversation I'd had that night, and knowing that my friend though TDM was a Neanderthal, I politely interrupted and explained that I was having a serious discussion that required completion. While it's grossly unlikely that I was quite that poised and polite in my use of language, the point is that I wasn't yet being an ass.

The Douche Master, in disbelief that somebody would dare interrupt his irresistible barrage of come ons, decided that ignoring me was the best course of action. He was wrong. He moved closer to my friend, cutting me off completely from the conversation. I responded in turn by getting in his face and slightly less politely telling him that he'd interrupted an important conversation, that I would like to continue. The Douche Master advised me that he was now having an important conversation with my friend, and I could wait until they were finished.

And this is about where shit hit the fan.

Drunk, my confusion immediately flipped to rage, and here we had the perfect, most deserving of targets to take it out on: The Douche Master. Slamming my pint down on the table, I said something to the effect of: "If you'd excuse me, my friend just fucking died and I need to talk about it. That, and my friend does not want to fuck you. She has a boyfriend. She's laughing at you. We all are. So fuck off".

Now, in hindsight, drunkenly slamming pints around and yelling at perfect strangers because your friend just died and you're angry, isn't appropriate behaviour. But it's excusable. It's understandable. And it's something that anybody with even a shred of basic human emotion can see and know to let be. What followed my less than admirable behaviour is what separates The Douche Master from the other douches, and moves him into a category of Total Fucking Cunt which is all his own.

The Douche Master examined me for a brief moment, as I gripped my beer mug, blinked back tears, and shook in anger. He then responded with: "Well, I need to talk to her, too. My parents died yesterday".

9 months later, and I still don't know what the fuck you're supposed to say to that. Or how the Hell anybody who has ever felt what it's like to be human could possibly retort in that manner. My response at the time was to tell him what a disgusting pile of excrement I thought he was, splash my beer at him, then run to the bathroom before I tried to throw a table at him, too. Aside from the fact that I would undoubtedly get removed from the bar for doing that, he was a big man who had just demonstrated that he lacked empathy; I have no doubt that he would have snapped me in half. Running to the bathroom is perhaps the most appropriate thing I did over that span of 40 seconds.

One of my friends followed me to the bathroom, where I apologized for my behaviour and concluded that we should probably just empty our drinks and leave. We return downstairs to find The Douche Master talking to the bar tender, attempting to get me kicked out of the bar for "attacking" him. Anger ensued. Seething, I pulled my friend's obituary out of my purse and threw it on the table in of the bar tender and The Douche Master. A friend of mine, who also knows the bar tender, attempted to explain what happened, as The Douche Master interrupted her in order to share his own twisted version of events. Unable to fathom how one could possibly be so bad at life, I grabbed my belongings and fled the bar.

I see The Douche Master out in Daegu from time to time, still. Every time, I turn the other way. He's just vile. I should probably find a more appropriate name for him than The Douche Master, but there really aren't words foul enough to describe him. So, it will do.

As an aside, the friend who he was ruthlessly hitting on would have interjected and gotten rid of him had she not been stunned to silence by his level of douche. She was forgiven immediately.