Brian made me do it

Mr. Splicea:

Wait, no formalities required.

Big Jim, Jimbo, Senile Splicea, friend o‘ the prairie dog, ignorant bastard:

Thank you for taking the time to express your concerns with the Senator. Unfortunately, and god help you if you never realized….HE DOES NOT READ YOUR LETTERS! Lowly interns are made to sort through daily mail. Largely, a collaboration of conservative concerns about the most minute of legislation, senile requests for more mashed potato days in the nursing home, hate mail from prison and my personal favorite, Medicare’s pathetic attempt to garner more federal funding by mass mailing pictures of “satisfied” elderly customers enjoying the benefits of a Scooter Store provided means of artificial mobilization. Because honestly, who doesn’t love a photo of a “satisfied”, grossly overweight and clashingly dressed, ambiguously sexed, frowning to the point of general contempt, senior citizen? I ask you that.

But Jim, to address your concerns, there is a reason legislation has been introduced to ban prairie dogs as pets. No one knows that reason, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be eternally damned should you question it’s creation in the first place, but so help us, there’s a reason, even if little more than the fact that Teddy hates prairie dogs. Though, judging by the inane manner of such legislation, I’m guessing it was a neo-fascist, mid-western conservative to think up this one. Clearly, ongoing international and domestic terrorism, nuclear threats from everyone’s favorite dictator, Kim Jong-il, and Medicare don’t provide enough of a challenge for the Senate. No, we have to go and create reasons for lowly, prairie dog-lovin’, south westerners to commit suicide. Now, Jim, don’t for a minute think that I don’t agree with you one hundred percent. And by I, I’m supposed to mean the Senator, because the ignorant masses are meant to believe that a man who schedules the Dalai Lama and nuclear proliferation sessions into his daily schedule has time to respond to your requests….oh, and he does, but today, just this one letter, will be written by yours truly. And I’m here to tell you, probably in contrast to anything the Senator believes, because I’m not a forest-destroying, prescription drug hording, unilateralist, that you, my friend, are a complete primordial mistake. Dude, you’re not even from this state. Go write to Feinstein, or better yet, hound down Schwarzenneggar. I’m sure The Terminator could more adequately express the giant slap across the face I’d like to give you, after he beat the living stupidity out of you….which, by the sound of it, would most likely require nothing short of decapitation.

Jim, prairie dogs may be cute and cuddly. They may scurry across the southern plains and instill within you some dream of complete and natural freedom. They may dart their little heads in that funny little manner that always makes you giggle like a pre-pubescent, uniform clad schoolgirl. But, Jim, I’m here to tell you, if you want that kind of freedom, get out of the U.S., for starters. For your sake, for my sake, for the sake of an ever diminishing gene pool which you hopefully won‘t further lessen through procreation. If any variation of the sentence “Prairie dogs are my life” is uttered from your mouth, I hereby grant permission for any member of society to pummel you to death. There are countless hobbies deemably pathetic, taxidermy, for one, ikebana yet another, but even these do not constitute such sheer and utter uselessness as prairie dogs. Jim, they’re called prairie dogs for a reason, they live on prairies…not in your house. Let me reiterate, do you require special attention? Jim, prairie dogs don’t really exist. They just come alive on the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet. There’s probably a grand total of five in the whole of the continental U.S. They’re wild animals, they carry diseases, they don’t even have enough common sense to clean themselves. And you’re fighting for their continued status as pets in your home? Jim, an animal is considered a pet when you purchase it from a pet store. Pet stores don’t sell prairie dogs. Therefore, you’re not keeping prairie dogs as pets, you’re keeping them as hostages. And as such, I’m fully prepared to have you arrested for kidnapping and attempted murder. After all, taking wild creatures out of their natural habitat and placing them upon your plaid sofa in the family room to watch Monday night football and chew through your sidewing covers and a stale bag of Cheetos destroys any sense of normalcy they once held, and, eventually, destroys their livelihood. Jim, you are abducting wild, undomesticated prairie dogs and turning them into lethargic, lifeless, couch potatos…it’s a classic, though somewhat off the beaten track (someone should beat you) wife substitute. My suggestion, mail order bride. You can learn Russian, can't you? Or, mass amounts of therapy. Neither mutually exclusive. And I haven’t entirely ruled out suicide.

Our office also thanks you for the voice mail forewarning of the impending attack at the hands of the Canadian mounted police. I think you’ll find, by tomorrow at the latest, that Canada no longer exists. It was absorbed by nuclear weapons and American imperialism. Bound to happen eventually...I mean, let's not lie to ourselves.

Best regards,

Senator….no, wait. Me, it’s just me. Lauren

P.S. We would prefer if you did not refer to yourself as 'King of America.' Such blasphemy is deemed domestic terrorism and offensive. Bush is fully prepared to mandate a larger than life prison sentence in Guantanamo Bay…and we all know that’s not as tropical island, umbrella-in-the-cocktail, topless swimsuit model paradisey as it sounds. Yeah…fooled me too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Mr. “I am not a cop killer”:

Thank you for clarifying. I recommend you get a lawyer. You’re going to need a good one. Your handwriting and general use of poor/worse-than-the-kids-that-ride-the-short-bus grammar suggests you’re not too bright, and, I’m assuming, not too wealthy as a result of that stupidity. So, um, good luck with that whole defense thing. Your grounds are good though. “I am not a cop killer.” Yes, that’s solid. You’re sure to get off now, and then scammed by a faulty pyramid scheme. And when you do, a) god save Indiana or any state you may chose to inhabit b) avoid all cops and law enforcement officials, and my house while you’re at it c) McDonald’s has this new policy that all their employees not kill cops, so feel free to leave that bit of info off your application. Judging by the other fuckwits that grace the counter I don’t imagine a background check is thoroughly enforced, nor is wearing your underwear inside of your pants. So go crazy. Have some fun with your wardrobe, but so help you god if I find pickles.

Best regards,

Lauren

P.S. What's federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison like? Do they serve Jello?

Shopgirl no more

Yes, that's me, flicking you off. Deal.

The theme of today's third and fourth grade elementary class was fast food shopping. Don't ask, I don't make these plans, I just suffer their humiliation. The teacher mispronounced 'fast food restaurant' as 'fast food restroom.' There is a largely discernible difference between restaurant and restroom, I believe. I don't think I'll be doing too much shopping in a restroom, especially a fast food restroom, although to what point can a fast food purchase be considered shopping? They made me play the role of shopgirl. They called me shopgirl. I have no name. I am shopgirl. Nice to meet you, I'm shopgirl. What? Degrading. My job is utterly embarrassing. Oh, but it gets better. Always gets better in Japan. They made me wear an apron. Let me reiterate. AN APRON!!!!! Now, I haven't worn an apron since I was probably five and thought cooking, i.e. emulating my mother, was tres cool. I should also add that I probably haven't cooked since that day either. A short lived domestic career. Yeah, I'm a real catch. To top off my shopgirl ensemble of frilly, white, largely oversized apron was a bright pink handkerchief, which they tied around my head Rambo style. Again, WTF? My new identity: Little pimped out Dolly Parton on the Prarie. It was country and ghetto and feminine and backwoods and trash...just trash, and debasing beyond belief. What kind of fast food restaurant do they think English speakers run, that requires a uniform of apron AND doorag? Holy fuck man.

I am, once again, off for the weekend. But I shall leave you with these:

And some inspirational words...or just pure nonsense. Personal interpretation.

"I'll tell you what's not funny. Killing strippers. Strippers are people too. Naked people, who may be willing to pleasure you for a price you negotiate later behind the curtain at a VIP room. Besides, there's no need to kill 'em, cause most of them are already dead inside."

Demasiado frio para correr

I always get the strangest urges to go running around eleven o’clock at night. At which point I get dressed, grab the iPod, take one step outside into the blustering cold and realize what an absolutely, fucking insane idea that is. So I get up at five instead. Which is also, an absolutely ridiculous scheme, no matter the amount of techno music blaring. Clearly my days of track and field stardom have been replaced by apathy and lethargy. Although, I do believe my days numbered only twenty-one, if I remember correctly. Yeah, long track career in my history…that is, if three weeks can be deemed a career…which, no, no they can’t. Revision: no track career in my history. So much for committment. I was never any good anyway. Two miles is just about my limit. I remember when I was living with my uncle a few years ago and he used to bribe me to go running with him. He was training for some ungodly base marathon, but he could never find the motivation to outrun his record of fifteen miles, to which I say, GOOD GOD MAN! The marathon was something absurd, some distance I can’t even count on my hands, though I don’t remember exactly a) because I have an insanely short term memory and b) because I still can’t convert, to which I should add it was in Kaiserslautern. Never heard of it?…no surprise! Tiny. Fucking. Town. Nothing to do but listen to a barrage of German oma and opas ramble on in a practically indecipherable language (are we delineating a pattern yet?) and run...apparently. I always turned my uncle down. Opted to watch Blues Clues for the four millionth and second time with my two year old cousin. Speaking of Blues Clues, I heard some rumor that the host overdosed. Not too farfetched if you’ve seen the show. If I had to host, or even watch, Blues Clues repeatedly, again at least, I’d be prone to OD as well. I still have this tacky little watch my cousin gave me as a going away present. Hideous for anyone over the age of five, and that’s pushing it, but I still wear it on occasion. Especially if that occasion requires me to wear a business suit and watch hours of the Senate floor channel, all while responding to constituent letters informing little Suzie how to properly wear a backpack so as to ensure for minimal damage to her posture, or concurring with California Jim Splicea that, indeed, prairie dogs do rule, though they are not my life, as they are, pathetically enough, his. Clearly, I was never cut out to work for conservatives. I stuck out like a sore thumb…a super king kong mega mega sweet thumb, but a sore one.

I just returned from an afternoon elementary class and my driver...that's right, I said my driver (it's a stipulation that every job I assume come with a personal chauffeur, dude, I deserve it)..anywho, my driver played The Big Chill Soundtrack. Yeah...yeah. I said I liked it, but really, really I died a little inside.

So...what I want you to think...

...is that my party went a little something like this:







When in reality, it was uber lame. Exhibit A:


Tons o' food. More specifically, tons o' food I don't like. Nay, tons o' food that makes me gag. However I managed to smile...note the Asahi.

Exhibit B:


WTF? I've got nothing. What is this weird attempt at Japanese gift giving? And, for future reference, should pictures surface, at a later date, in which I am smiling at these awkwardly kitsch dolls, again, note the Asahi...directly behind the diaper bundled, apparently armless, Japanese female, though her sex is heavily debatable.

Fiesta from hell

Friendly gesture: my conversation students throwing a birthday party for yours truly this Saturday night

Obnoxious gesture which uses a disguise of amicability to cover it's blatant purpose of spying on me in "my natural habitat": my conversation students throwing a birthday party for yours truly, at MY OWN HOUSE and not asking whether or not I'd be able to attend.

In all honesty, it could turn out fairly decent. Like a party with my parent's friends, I suppose, if, you know, those friends of my parents liked to get plastered and take their clothes off intermittently while dancing to the junior high school anthem, didn't speak English worth a lick....of anything, force-fed me raw food, actually loved karaoke and one of them had a lazy eye. Yeah, those friends.

Is it wrong to bail out now?

Oh, fyi, you're all invited. I advise you bring copious amounts of alcohol.

Crimear, Russier

Jenn, three words: you. ROCK....hardcore! A display of the hardcore rockage:





p.s. You may never find an individual to rival the comic wit, or lack thereof, terrible mispronunciation and gross overestimation of interest, geographically obsessed, map man himself, Bruce Bigelow. Denson, however, is easily replicated.

Oh yeah, Shatner is an historical icon!!!

In pain

Hey, so you know what's fun? 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes.' You know what's not fun? 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes', nine times in a row, because your students are too mentally deficient to comprehend the complexities of touching their head, followed by a vocabulary lesson of body parts, and another round of 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes' on uber-intense, cracked out, epileptic chipmunk speed.

I know. You were this close to guessing, weren't you?

Harry is pissed

Mr. Shiwa is wearing a Harry Potter look-a-like vest. I'd knit him a red and gold scarf to complete the ensemble...if only I knew how to knit, if only I liked him, if only he didn't pronounce Harry Potter in the most annoying manner so as to sound like a mime rejoining the world of speech, Haaaaaareeee Paaahhhtahh. Trust me, it's fucking obnoxious. The floor is flooded. My pants are proving a useful resource...token mop in the school, absorbing puddle after puddle, weighting down the legs until it takes considerable effort just to walk. The students are noisy, typical, inattentive. I don't care. Mr. Shiwa cares. But I don't care. Hell, they could dye their hair purple, strip naked, dance around and call themselves Georgette. I wouldn't care. This is not my job. I just pretend...and I'm very. Very. Good at it. Mr. Shiwa is pissed no one cares about English. He makes the students apologize. One by one they approach me, eyes downcast, whimpering something along the lines of "gomen" or "I'm sorry," while I tug at my hair, bite my lip, chip the ever-fading black polish from my nails...anything to keep from laughing. Why does he care? The students don't care, I don't care. He's the only one. So, I figure, the problem isn't the students, or me, it's him, all him. Let's dye his hair purple, tart him up and call him Georgette. No, Haaaareeee...that suits him.

Maybe my identity will work for someone else...who knows

I spent the better part of a good hour, or no, not so much, in retrospect it was a bad hour, and the worst part of that bad hour, attempting to phone my credit card company, as they fear someone is using my card for fraudulent purposes. I must have dialed every possible country code, save Botswana, international calling code, area code, and, randomly, 7399 (just because it spells SEXY) about a million times. Every. fucking. time. the operator comes on and says," Who the fuck do you think you are dialing more than three hundred numbers for one god damn phone call? You must be insane, or else purposely pissing me off." Well, in all honesty, she yells at me in Japanese, so it's probably closer to," Our company wishes you to cease and desist the telephone immediately, if you'd like, in order to maintain your own mental stability, please. However, should you deem yourself fit, by all means continue misusing our services to the best of your ability and we will no longer bother you. Thank you for your patronage, however misguided. We'd like to reiterate, do as you please, and have a nice day. Happy happy!(<--not said, but implied, I feel)."---all in a sing-song voice. All the while some jerk-off is stealing my credit card info and using it to buy internet porn from someone's Aunt Bertha. I think this is really just karma coming back to bite me on the ass for threatening to post that weirdo's credit card number....but I didn't, I promise. You hear that Karma? Search the archives...no postage of the actual number, just a threat. An open ended threat. Never came to fruition. Now give me back my identity, you fuckwit. And, if possible, a lower interest rate...thanks. But don't you worry, I'll never get to the bottom of this. Besides, my identity doesn't mean that much to me, maybe it's time for someone else to have their fun.

P.S. Do you think the new picture to the right makes me look like a cracked out, heroin junkie? Because that's the new identity I'm thinking of assuming. It works for Courtney Love...so I'm gonna run with it.

Bill and Ted signage

Doko? Dude, DOKO? I never saw the fucking room...I feel it doesn't really exist. Just a ploy to get passers-by to think, "Damn. This JR must be pretty sweet to require its own excellent room...and smart too. I mean, what kind of design tactics must you employ to create an "excellent" room? I certainly don't know, but JR does. Touche Japan Rail." Or, maybe just, "...weird..."

Happy happy?

I don't practice Santeria...but I do own a crystal ball. Okay, so technically it's a magic eight ball, and it's never really worked.

My friend Rhiannon thought it'd be fun to sign up for this free text messaging service online, so we could text back and forth without paying anymore damn money to the phone company. She has, to date, sent me one message. But this fourteen year old from Bangkok likes to send me messages all day. And it ROCKS! Tres cool messages too, like "hope you are happy day" and "Happy Happy." The last one is probably my favorite. I don't even know what the fuck he's saying. At least the first has some level of discernible, underlying English. Happy happy....what's that? The kid's got issues...and evidently, zippo friends. Yup, I score the winners. I think one day I'll send him an elaborately worded email in which I use nothing but two dollar words, slang and American idioms...just to confuse the hell out of him. Keep him busy with a dictionary for a few days.

My phone company sent me a bill for six cents. WTF?! I didn't pay. I hope they don't cut off my phone again. That last time they conveniently forgot to tell me they'd switched it off. It took me two weeks to realize. Yeah, I'm SUPER popular. My parents don't even call Casa de Lauren anymore. NTT says our relationship is riddled with, what they call, miscommunication. I call it, "I don't speak Japanese, but thanks for trying....oh yeah, and you're service blows goats...not to mention other small barnyard animals."

I have the flu. It's cool. I cough on all of my students. I cough on my supervisor. If I'm lucky, I'll have the chance to cough on the principle and call it a day. This is war.

Yeah........so instead of sleeping all weekend, I think I'll go to Hiroshima. I'll let you know how that turns out, unless, in fact, I do die. And wouldn't that be ironic? An American dying in Hiroshima...newsworthy I feel. What the deuce.

Happy happy.

If Faulkner can get away with it, so can I

My mother is a fish.





But that doesn't mean that I get it. I just don't. What are you telling me, Will?

Fuck the system

So, in light of my constant coughing, quasi-nonexistent voice, spiked temperature and general feeling of impending death, my supervisor suggested I go home early, which while enticing and possibly beneficial, comes with a catch...naturally. Though in the form of a suggestion, it's not. Instead, it's one of those gently worded, "Get your sick ass out of here" comments. What's worse, going home sick requires taking vacation time. I, technically, can't take a sick day unless I've been to the hospital. WTF people?!?! It's not just me, right? I know it can't be. This is insane. Since when did convulsing with cold chills, passing out at random intervals and seeing bright flashing lights become a vacation?

What's worse, is my supervisor wonders why I'm always sick. Well, Cayo-sensei, I'll tell you why I'm always sick. Besides the obvious, 'I work with five hundred kids on a daily basis' cop-out, no one in this country has heard of central fucking heating...or even central non-fucking heating, for that matter. I spend the better portion of my days curled in the fetal position fighting to maintain some semblance of warmth, a losing battle I do believe. Furthermore, I don't eat on a daily basis, I don't subscribe to Maslow's hierarchy of needs...wait, in fact, I'm almost positive I've successfully proven that his hierarchical pyramid can be inverted to form Maslow's cone of self-deprecation, masochism and assholes. And last but not least, you, Oh Wise Supervisor, find it fascinatingly funny, amusing, to cough on me while riddled with more communicable diseases than the CDC. I mean, I don't know...that last one's a shot in the dark really.

On the bright side, and there is always a bright side you non-believers, I've got that raspy, lounge singer voice going on...which is always entertaining, though never lasts long enough to be lucrative.

Somebody...

...please...get me a life, or a hobby, or a pet (that's not a mouse.) It is a sad, sad life I lead.

I place a curse on:

• anyone who does not respond in kind when I initiate a smile. Doesn't happen all that frequently, like visibility of Haley's Comet, so get out in your backyard with a telescope and smile.
• Captain Obvious (of which there are many) for enlightening me on just how cold it is outside while snow lies three inches deep on the ground. It's not cold. By the very nature of winter, and snow, it's undeniably fucking freezing...huge difference. You're wrong.
• that girl in my poli sci class two years ago who always wore a Von Dutch trucker cap just to portend an image of irony because she felt she was a spoiled princess, when I know for a fact that she was a spoiled princess bitch with tendencies on the side of hookerdom, reliant upon her father for her debatable one fourth of a functioning brain, wads of cash with which to buy shit like that lame trucker cap, and completely antiquated and ill-founded conservative ideals, I feel, for a nearing twenty-something floosy-because really, when we see more of your cleavage than your face, the word conservative doesn't belong in your vocabulary...your wardrobe, yes...sputtered from your mouth like an ignorant name-dropping/wearing fascist, no.
• Big Titsu, aka Tetsu, for the mere fact that his existence requires him to stalk my house, make lude gestures and stick his house down my pants...and it's getting old. Plus, he reeks.
• the parents of Donald Trump, Trump himself and his offspring. Oh, might as well include his pets while we're at it. Toss in the Hiltons as well, same obnoxious ballpark.
• N'Sync, for that torrid display of vocal cacophony they call talent, and sang outside the Rock-a-Billy's parking lot, in hopes of luring Ash and I to attend a post concert party. I don't trust any guy who a) bleaches his hair and b) "sings" with five other metrosexuals, because you can't spend that much quality time with metros before that sexual changes preceding meanings.
• that mouse in my ceiling
• reality television. I'll give you reality, take the aforementioned Trump, Hilton girls nd N'Sync, throw them into some hobo's shack for three weeks without food, water and an Armani outlet and let's see who bludgeons who first with either a shoddy hairpiece or sixteen inch stiletto heels. My money's on the Hilton's...I mean, c'mon...anyone who can survive the Simple Life, participating, or watching, can clearly survive Celebrity Bum Fights.
• anyone who wears hot pants. And if I have to elaborate my reasoning for you on this one, perhaps you'll grace the next list: Those I've secretly been plotting against using my intergovernmental intelligence resources, a Voodoo doll and really harsh Family Guy quotes. (Ha, governmental intelligence-that's ironic...or at least more so than a fucking trucker cap...no...no takers?)
• the makers and marketing strategists of Johnson and Johnson tearless baby shampoo...because they lie.

Sato chan

Because Dave says I don't post enough pictures.....

There's a photo of George W. Bush hanging in the entryway to school. Next to a pack of sumo wrestlers and a newspaper clipping about some guy getting arrested. I don't see any correlation between the three. What's that all about?

Misconceptions

My supervisor, who super sucks by the way, was embarrassed to explain to me the crazy naked man stalking about town molesting girls. She pointed to the words in the dictionary instead of saying them out loud. She won't use the word sex either. And she still coughs on me because she thinks it's funny. It's not. It's really not.

There are love hotels everywhere for the sole purpose of sex. There is watered-down porn lining the aisles of the 7-11. Dre and I caught some dude jerking off in the car next to us in broad daylight, at an uber-crowded intersection. More Japanese men have groped me than Italian and Scottish combined...now there's a statement.

There are, clearly, only two discernible fashion statements here, one ultra conservative, involving thirty-seven and one fourth layers of clothes, all worn simultaneously, and, preferably, not matching. The other, half a layer of a shirt and maybe a bandaid or two, paired with six inch stillettos.

What is going on here? I was obviously mistaken when I labeled them all as prudes. Maybe it's just me here, but doesn't buying your milk and bread (weekly essentials) in the same place as your porn a little disconcerting? Everytime I walk in there are at least five teenagers lined up against the magazine racks glaring and flipping, page to page, magazine to magazine...though they're not allowed to buy them. That, in itself, is rather incongruous. This whole country is one huge, fucking contradiction.

Oh, and just fyi, I was informed that eating whale is illegal here in Japan. Can I then call the FDA or some equivalent and have my entire school staff fined, or better yet, arrested, for the blatant, and illegal murder of whales? I'd like to think so.

Lungs aren't that important anyway

My supervisor hacked up a lung today. Just hacked it up, in the middle of class. It fell to the floor at my feet, and rather than pick it up and put it on ice, she continued with class. You can’t interrupt class for a lost lung. A larger body appendage or internal organ, perhaps. A lung, no. We played Bingo. We played Bingo on top of the lung. It was sick and sad and morbid and nauseating, all rolled into one horrible hour of teaching. One student wore a paper clip in his mouth like a retainer. I ask, who wants to wear a retainer?…or stick sharp metal objects in their mouth? Maybe a culture which places no emphasis whatsoever on dental hygiene is fascinated with such abstract concepts as straight teeth, braces, matching clothes, respect for students, cooked food, a snow shovel!

Dude, somebody’s got to save me from my own devices.

So, HEY, super fun post, right?

I want to see a pirate. Just once.