Saturday, May 16, 2009

Being gone for so damn long demands a wicked long post so...

Photobucket goes.

Hello, Hi, and Hello again to all.

Wow. Typing keys even feels weird. My giant monkey hands feel even more giant-y and monkey-er than ever. Which I kind of dig, actually. It makes me feel big, like Paul Bunyan which is good for my self-esteem.

Judging from the numbers I "mathed"
(fig. A) on my abacus and the raw data the Korean kid I keep under my bed for arithmetic emergencies faxed me while I was overseas, my calculations tell me that it has been approximately 1 hot minute + many moons x 1.5 WTF dude! + way-way-way-too-long to the power of Boss since I rode the blog horse to nerd town. (Which, in non-astronaut terms, equals a wicked fucking long time..give or take a decimal point.)


Fig A: "Mathematics"

First off, many thanks to my M4H brethren for holding down the monkey fort while yours truly took a much needed internet vacation. If you were all with me right now, I'd give you a giant bear hug that would go on for far too long, which you'd eventually have to squirm out of because you couldn't take being that uncomfortable for a moment longer. It would be sexy and awkward.

What was that you didn't say? What is it I did on my break? Glad you didn't ask.

Um...I finished school, reluctantly cut my warrior hair, slept like a rock if rocks could sleep, and did some other non-internet shit I can't remember. I promise you that you wouldn't care if I told you. But most recently, I took a real-life vacation to Brazil for a wedding and island retreat. It was to quote the great William S. Preston, Esq., was "most triumphant." Bodacious even.

Here are a few things I jotted down between Caipirihnas and sucking my gut in on the Brazilian beaches over the last few days. *Note: Apologies in advance if I inadvertently stumble into Seinfeldian waters with this post. I'll try and avoid saying "what's the deal" as much as I can, but can't guarantee that I won't tuck my jeans into my sneakers at some point or another (fig.B).


Fig B: "Seinfelding" the jeans

1) Pronouncing English words in a comically-cliche Brazilian accent doesn't accomplish anything, other than making locals noticeably uncomfortable.


Several people looked like they wanted to stab me in my mouth when I tried to do this. Maybe the fact that I sounded like Borat on Ketamine doing a Super Mario impression had something to do with it. Let's look at the phenomenon scientifically. Please take in mind I'm not a scientist,
and only occasionally do I believe in it or understand it's fundamentals. Basically I think all forms of number wI suppose there's a small chance that rolling your eyes while sighing is a positive cultural expression over there. If that's the case, I have enough local support to run for mayor of Rio.

Seriously. I'm like Husky Edition Pelé down there.

2) The Banana Hammock totally plays in South America.


It's cultural. We enjoy frying things, filling S.U.V's with pallettes of Gatorades and road raging on 15 lane highways, as well as exploding various people, places, and things. Brazilians enjoy volleyball, dancing, and the peace of mind that comes with having well-supported and frequently manicured genitalia. I understand it in theory, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. (FYI: The locals tell me the national Brazilian bird is a feathered hand cupping a pair of balls. Don't quote me on that.)

3) Brazilians like the sauce.


Ok, I've seen my share of empty glasses in my day, but Americans have nothing on these guys. I've never seen so many people in such good shape eating fried animals and drinking alcohol. These fuckers know how to party. Jesus Christ on the mountain, I never had so many drinks in my life. The sugary drinks they rock down there are no joke.
The beautiful thing about the Caipirinha is that it tastes like candy, but at the same time is filled with grown people candy too. I have to be careful when I drink them. It's like Diabetes in a glass. So much sugar. You should see the whammy faces I make when I have one in my hand. I look like I've been snorting fire ants. I may have the face of a devilishly handsome man in his thirties, but inside myself I bet dollars to donuts I look like exactly like Wilford Brimley.

4) American money is boring.


Boring green, same boring dead white guys on every bill. Enough with the Pyramids and the Masonic symbols. And yeah, Presidents are cool, I guess. But at the end of the day who cares! We need some pop! Some pizazz! Brazilians have turtles and Monkey knife-fights on their money
(Fig.C) . So what gives? We need to get on this. When out economy sucks as bad as it does right now we should be giving Americans an incentive to spend and earn dollars. And I believe one way to do this is to design all legal tender to look like fruit roll-ups and put Tigers and shit on it. Just a thought.


Fig. C: Brazilian Reais. I wonder what their monopoly money looks like..

5) Planes suck, and passport control/customs is a motherfucking joke.


After the hellish flight I endured yesterday, the profilers at Customs had no business NOT stopping me..on both the Brazilian and the U.S.A. ends of the trip. Simply because I was about as sketchy looking as a human male can look in a security heavy location. Because I'm an ass with the memory retention time of a brain injured Ritalin addict, I somehow lost my razor a few days ago, which is OK if you're the Unabomber but not OK when traveling internationally. Since then things have gotten kind of .... beardy.

Friends, I do not exaggerate when I say that at 6:30 AM this morning in JFK airport, I was a dead fucking ringer for Grizzly Adams after a vigorous Bear raping. And it only got worse. Good God my flight sucked. Turbulence from the beginning to the end, then some asshole came and say next to me in the middle of the night and totally violated my aura and personal space like Swiss clockwork every quarter hour, and I got like 12 minutes of sleep in between screeching, pacing aisle wanderers all night. And as if God tied a bow on my misery, I spilled my sippy cup portion of orange juice on my Godamned socks. The brain-killing combination of "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" and Xanax wasn't even close to strong enough to deal with the cornucopia of cacophonous evil enveloping and assaulting me from every conceivable angle. It was like being in Hell, except Hell has more leg room and better pillows.

The point (if I ever had one) is I looked like I went to war with Sauron's army when I finally stumbled bleary-eyed through the invisible gates of our country. It surprised me that no one cared. I could have strolled in chewing a cocaine sandwich and with angry Hornets and an Uzi in my carry-on and they would have waved me through. I don't get it. Can't a brother get a strip search? Sternly worded letter on it's way, Uncle Sam.

6) Brazil has more species of monkeys than any other country.



I really don't think I can add anything to that to make that fact more awesome.

Phew. Obligatory rant out of the way. It's good to be back. Time to strap in, and prepare for nerd off. Cheers,
webtubes. I missed you and adore you, and I mean it in a very gay way.


And to all the M4H readers, if I try and bite you when we meet, don't be alarmed. It's just my heart doing the chewing. Because I love you like a fat kid loves cake. And not the shitty supermarket cake, either. I'm talking Ice Cream cake with those crunchy things in it. Word life.

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