Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Help me end Spacism™

I call it Spacism™. (n.) (spay-sissum): The irrational hatred and discrimination against all things related to science theory in the form of entertainment.
And you are probably a SPACIST™.

If you think Star Trek is stupid, but don't realize you owe your mobile phone to an idea created there, you're a spacist.
It was called the "Communicator." And it flipped open.

If you think Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy was nonsense, but love your Electronic Reader and your "Babel Fish Translator" (from which the word came), you're a spacist.

If you use anything that uses an orbiting satellite for communication, thank Arthur C. Clarke. He's the guy that wrote 2001: A Space Odyssey, where an artificially intelligent computer...never mind. A spacist wouldn't get it.

A spacist doesn't care that H.G. Wells thought up the DVD player nearly a century ago. Without him those two dvd-ladies in the hall would be broke.

Jules Verne's book "From the Earth to the Moon" was the first on the subject. Not only that, his calculations in order to make it happen are surprisingly close to those used by the Apollo missions. He even predicted weightlessness in space. But a spacist wouldn't appreciate someone like that.

The book Neuromancer was the first time the idea was put forward a computer network in which all humans were connected. But spacists are too busy taking the edge off their social network addictions with BBM. :)

Don't be a spacist. Almost everything we own and use comes from minds and wills far greater than our own who take humanity forward...and who receive no recognition for it.

If you're a spacist and want to change your spacist ways, Hunterino can help. I'm strong in the Force.

Please. End Spacism Now. For the Future of Humanity.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

An Embellished Tale of a Black Amexican In Search of a Burrito in the Desert

I've been searching for several months for a Mexican restaurant in Dubai. Finally, I found a place. A major franchise called On the Border.

I order this burrito with some Spanish adjective that implies it's grande. It was more like a red pepper and onion wrap sprinkled with tofu-like chicken cubes. A dash of rice. A pinch of pinto bean beings. And their recipe seemed to not include cheese.

The waitress asks me if I want a margarita...aka a Slurpee aka frozen Kool-Aid aka Slush Puppy. No alcohol. Contains 10% fruit juice high fructose corn syrup with finely minced ice made of Mexican, I mean, Dubai water. Dubai water isn't unlike Mexican water. Nothing is a coincidence.

No, thanks. I digress.

If you don't like your meal in Dubai, you don't get your pesos back. The attitude here is "tough shit-kebab, puta."

With her telescopic stare, the lurking waitress is aiming at the plate I pushed to the other side of the table finally comes over and asks if I was done. I said yes, duh. She asked me how I liked it.

It, the burrito, sitting there as the severely injured, rare survivor of the gastronomic leviathan...

One bite and you ask me how I liked it?!

I told her it was the worst burrito I've ever had in my life.

She actually laughed.

I said to her, "I tell you I just ate the worst burrito in my life, I'm hungry and could've spent my money elsewhere and you laugh?!"

She asks me if I'd like it in a box.

Why? So I can eat the worst microwaved reheated burrito in the world later?!

Her face shuts down.

She walks away. Never to return. Typical Dubai restaurant service.

Another waiter happens by my table and asks me if he could get me anything. I ask for my bill. He brings it. Still no sign of the clown queen of comedy service.

I put my money inside the fold and write on the bill: THIS WAS THE WORST BURRITO I HAVE EVER HAD IN MY LIFE.

The manager, El Jefe, comes to my table, as I hoped. I expected the norm.

But wait! He actually apologizes and doesn't want to take my money. He asks where I'm from. I tell him. He says, "I'm also from America," in his heavy indistinguishable non-western English as a second language accent.

I said, "Really?" He said he lived there for twenty years (in Minnesota, Nebraska or something) and wanted me to know that all the ingredients they use are from Texas--birthplace of the burrito in a manger under a star that led three wise Vatos Locos on burros by a virgin tortilla.

He was proud of his ingredients' Texas origins. He looked at me with that "Ha, I gotcha" look. Everything is mas grande in Texas, like brains, right?

I said to him, "The fact that you import your fresh aka festering ingredients from halfway across la galaxia doesn't really help your cause. Not only that, this salsa's made in New York City!"

The two cowboys in the booth across from me were flabbergasted. They yelled, "New York City?! ....Get a rope." (For you old schoolers who know that commercial.)

El Jefe insisted that "The ingredients are from America...from TEXAS!" So his burrito couldn't be nasty. I mean, of course. After all, having ingredients from's like, wait...we've been teleported to TEXAS via quantum burrito technology. It's like real Mexicans from the mythical 51st state of Mexington, Alabama made it right in el barrio, holmes.

I digress.

So I told him, "Hermanito, really, where you get your ingredients has nothing to do with how you prepare a burrito. You're, ahem, American, you should know a real burrito when you see one. In fact, I'd wager that you might even have a little Mexican in you." He grimaced at that statement.

Look at El Jefe again:

Now put him in, say, a different non-American cultural set of clothing...Hmmmm...I'm just saying. Looks like my Uncle Shyquan Julio Ahmed Inglesias. We're all from the same gang, hombre.


Short of pulling a midget Mexican right out of his ass, he says he's been to Texas, thus to Mexico. And all Americans know that Texas belongs to Mexico. As does California and Minnesota. And Vermont. No one wants Canada. Except maybe Idaho. But no one wants Idaho. Except the Native Americans--who didn't believe in private property until theirs was taken by the rabies, scabies, gangrene, syphilis, common cold, bullet-firing Anglo-Mexans.

Orale esse, I digress.

He asks me what was muy malo with it. Other than being nasty? I explained to him what a proper burrito is. Being American, that makes me 1/3 Mexican by default (But 0/3 Canadian). So I should know. And I should stand up for my culture. I mean, imagine I opened a Canadian restaurant (Canuck-a-Yuck) located in Bangladesh and I make the bacon in triangles? Canucks would go crazy and start making incomprehensible jokes, eh. Besides, authentic Canadian food consists of only one thing: round bacon, eh. Nothing else. So it would be stupid to get THAT wrong. Oh, they have this wonderful Italian ice made from hockey rink slush. But that's still Italian.

I digressed, eh?

And El Jefe of On the Border looked like he could be Mexican, but I dare not say that to him because you should never tell brown skinned non-Blacks/Non-Mexicans that they could easily pass for a Black person or a Mexican, if they're not. They hate it, but will kinda act like they don't. But you can see it on their faces. Somehow imply they're Anglo and you will become their new minority friend. By the way, don't tell Latinos that they're related to Black people, either, hombre.

I digress, vato.

He shakes my hand germs and does the honorable thing--gave me an unheard of before in Dubai free non-meal. Which is far better than a paid for non-meal, chico.

Never make the assumption that because a Mexican-themed restaurant is staffed by Filipinos that their tyrannical Latin ancestry somehow translates across the aether as having the innate ability to make an awesome burrito. Because although I have Anglo Gringos in my lineage, it doesn't mean I know how to properly tie a knot.

Por la vida, esse...

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The True Origin of Grimace the Purple Blob.

Okay, first of all, for those of you who remember Grimace, what the fuck is he?

According to Wikipedia--"The character [Grimace] was initially developed due to complaints about no minorities being present in McDonaldland." Yeah, because fat, stupid purple blob-creatures were complaining about not being represented by Earth's most fattening fast food chain. Chain?

Also according to Wikipedia, while they were deciding to add a token obese purple blob to their roster, Grimace's original form was, and I quote, "Originally...the 'Evil Grimace', with two pairs of arms with which to steal milkshakes." So a fat, stupid, thieving purple blob with an underdeveloped conjoined twin was McD's solution to racial complaints? Sweet.

So to not offend stupid, purple blobs or the Siamese, MickDee's decided to represent Grimace "as a well-meaning simpleton." Thank you again, Wikipedia. You're ALWAYS right and incorruptible.

This is my version of the true origin of Grimace the Menace and why you should keep your kids away from clowns:

Graham was just a regular little American kid. You know, watched a lot of TV, a future of obesity, and loved his McDonald's. On his 7th birthday, his parents gave him a party at McDonald's! Yayyyy! And guess who showed up? You guessed it! Ronald the devil-haired-Stephen-King's-They-All-Float-Down-Here "IT" killer-clown-from-Outer-Space-Poltergeist-Juggalo-John-Wayne-"not the Duke"Gacy-McDonald.

(by the way, there is obviously a connection between clowns and evil. Remember that, kids. The exception is the Joker, who's still a psychopathic homicidal maniac.)

Anyway, so Ronald asks the boy, "What do you want for your birthday, little Graham?"

The little boy replies, "I want to come with you to McDonaldland!"

"Are you sure you don't want to go to Never Never Land or Narnia?" asked the white devil, his yellow fangs reminiscent of the golden arches of death.

"Never Land is for fairies and Narnia has too many critters who talk too fucking much. I want to drink milkshakes all day," was the young dummy's reply.

So Ron McDonny takes the kids to the playground and gives Graham a special burger and says, "Eat it all. To escape this world, you have to burst out of the seams and rip the threads of the fabric of space and time, which exists around your waist. Then you must travel through the magic door in the playland slide tube.

So Graham hungrily eats. And he starts to get bigger. And bigger. And goes to the slide tube and gets stuck. He starts crying for help. He gets stuck so much he can hardly breathe, his blood vessels swell and he begins to turn purple. One of the other kids named "Ace" tried to pull him out, but both got sucked into a vortex. While getting royally discombobulated in the space-time continuum, they heard Ronald's evil voice taunting them, "Graham! Ace! Gra-ham burger...Ace. Graham...Ace...Graham, Ace...Grimace! Hahahahahhaaaaa." Graham and Ace merged into the hulking violet mass of glop known as Grimace.

So the four-armed Graham-Ace arrived in McDonaldland. Fat. Purple. Dumb as ever, due to the competing total minds of the two confused half-wits, Grimace just grimaced.

"Now you dumb sonuvabitch, you will do my bidding," roared the Clown Prince of Darkness. "You look like a big piece of purple dung."

To be continued...
Episode Two: Enter the Hamburglar aka Calvin! Oh, you don't know who Calvin is? Just wait. Next episode is a can't miss.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Scientist Discover Elusive Style Gene attached to Gay Gene?

I walked into this house party and this dude starts hitting on me. I mean, he acted like I was Penis Christ looking for disciples. Please, I don't want any stakes in my hand. I knew he was one of those homosexuals that pretend to be straight until they get a bit o' liquid courage in them. I guess he felt motivated to make a move on me because of my eccentric dress code. He assumed I was homosexual because I was dressed really uniquely, as I do.

Does this outfit accentuate my cock?

I've come to realize people equate fashion sense with homosexuality. I don't know why. Because gay dudes I know or have met or seen don't dress any better than straight dudes. Their homes aren't neater. Their hair isn't sharper. They just prefer to have a penis pushed in their ass.

I mean, look how stylish he is.

Besides, if you've ever been to Dubai, you'd know how most of the men from one particular country (which shall remain anonymous) dress in a style that most of us Westerners would consider gay attire. They even get manicures and get their eyebrows arched. That's pure gaiety, in my opinion. But that's another blog.

I don't make it a point to say I'm straight (because I don't care what people think) but I guess I have to in order to make my point.

Gay dudes have been branded as fashionistos and style gurus, as if their gayness automatically makes them fashionable. Bullshit. If there's a gay gene, then a style gene isn't automatically attached to it. Besides, no one is BORN with good taste. Not that I've tasted myself or anything. That was called a joke. But seriously, I developed this style over the years. Maybe I was born with the seed, the imagination, but I had to cultivate it. Nurture over nature.

Besides, who said gay dudes have great fashion sense? And why? I see no connection with wanting a dick in your ass and having a great sense of style. Was that offensive? Sorry. But I find it stupid to assume someone is gay because they have a great sense of style...or that someone has a great sense of style because they are gay.

They say this gay guy has taste. They who?

I'm just wondering--if gay dudes are so stylish, then why aren't gay day parades filled with stylish couture, rather than the uniform of so-called sexual deviants.

I should make the point that the gay guy who was hitting on me was dressed really lame.