Hey. Gramps. Not EVERYONE is deaf.

My grandfather led a pretty interesting life. He was dirt poor, and grew up in South Carolina. He didn't finish 8th grade, spent a lot of time in the Marines- including fucking shit up during WWII- and drove a truck for a living post service. He retired VERY early, and bought a sweet-ass place in Florida that endeared him to me from my earliest childhood..

If you had to make a few assumptions about my grandfather, based on his socioeconomic background, his generation, his education and his time fighting in the Pacific Theatre of WWII, you would probably assume a few things:

1) Gramps hates blacks
2) Gramps hates Japs


You'd be wrong though. He's 100% non-racist (except that he still says colored), and has absolutely no ill-will towards the Japanese.

He just really REALLY fucking hates fat people. More than anything. And he can't control it. He's pretty senile now, and lives in an assisted living facility, but that doesn't stop him from shouting vile insults at every fat person he sees. He'll even go so far as to shout at the people in the lunchroom who feed them, suggesting that "it wouldn't hurt her to skip a meal, now, would it?"

I came home from college once, weighing a robust 205. When I saw him, he warned me that "fat people don't get good jobs, because everyone hates them."

He also constantly warns my mother that I'm on drugs. Thanks, Grandpa: now mom calls me every 3 days to make sure I'm not all coked out. You know what she asked me today? "Have you ever done Horse? or Junk?"

I told her that I used to, but the methadone program is really, really good.

Wang

Blogpurri/Blogpuree

A few odds and ends screamed for attention while I was drinking alone/playing poker recently, and I figured instead of fleshing out every idea over multiple entries in the next few weeks, I'd underdevelop each one in a single entry. (shrug) I thought it was a pretty easy decision.

IN TYPICAL WANG LIST FORM!

1) My blog is a critical success. Evidence follows:

a) Dutch writes...
"...and started singing the song of the workin' man. (In case you're wondering, that song is "Working Man" by the band Rush, and I really fucking hate that song.)" I love that sentence. Well done.

Thanks Dutch. I have a feeling you just really fucking hate Rush, too.

b) Renae writes...
I've been laughing at your blog all morning, Wang.Thanks!

Red-hot rapper Mike Jones says it best: 'Back then hoes didn't want me, now I'm hot hoes all on me."

c) An Ex-Girlfriend, Whose Anonimity I'll Do Her the Favor of Protecting writes...
i like your blog, its really funny

I'm sure you're asking yourself, "Derek, how did you get involved with a woman who's got such a poor grasp of commas, clauses, and won't use a semicolon even when it's daring her?"

Answer? She pretended I was funny for the first 3 months. That snagged her 8x that time in "Wang Love." In the interest of full disclosure, she's on record as being seriously, seriously disappointed with the (her words begin here): "quote 'Wang Love' end quote." In the interest of further disclosure, she definitely did the little fingerbunnyears thing when she said "quote" and "endquote." In the interest of FURTHEST AND MAXIMUM disclosure, she probably said "unquote" instead of "endquote." I'm one of the few people on the planet that insists on the technically INcorrect "endquote." So. To recap in order to make sure we're completely aboveboard:

I'm a poor lover prone to unwarranted bravado, and I have a slight OCD problem that manifests itself vis a vis the verbalization of the end set of a pair of quotation marks.

d) Cee Em said...
Wang...you're an absurd human being with no class, and no morals... but hella tizzle facial hair...

Thank God my bestfriends- not to mention housemates- have nothing but nice things to say about me. Also, I shaved my mustache out of spite; who's the absurd human being NOW?

2) UGH. We're only on #2? I'm gonna cut this shit off early. (a) - (d) saw the Wang Man consume at least half a fifth. I've got one more story I've been meaning to tell. In order to artificially lengthen the list, I'll tell it in #3. Lists with only 2 bullets are hyperlame.

3) Okay, so a few weeks after I got too drunk to handle my minimum wage clerk position at the Clark Station, I got a phonecall around midnight from my friend Chris, who lived a few houses down from me.

Chris: "Smokey Robinson?"

Anybody who knows me knows I don't love the marijuana cigarettes all that much, but that summer after Freshman year of college we were getting all high and gambling with Dave LeBluff almost everynight. I was feeling a little sick with a chest cold, and probably had the least equity there, but it was too much fun to pass up, and walking home was never a problem. So.....

Wang: "SmokeitySmokeSMOKE!!!"

Long story short: Chris got a stalk of shit from an old buddy of his, and it was... neon. I'm still convinced that shit was lace with opium or something, but it's more likely that I'm just a pussy.

We smoked a whole lot, and I instantly felt.... different.

Wang: "Ah man..... I'm going home." (<------ concise version)

When I got home, I felt just terrible. I lay on my bed and tried to sleep, with little to no success for at least an hour or so. Then, suddenly, a horse walked into the room. I'm not sure what kind, because I know/knew nothing about horses, but it was a big ass horse. I remember briefly considering whether or not it was a pony, but quickly dismissing the idea, because it was neighing at me.

Fucking horse.

Not only do you have to wander into my basement room, you feel the need to put your big fucking clod-hopping iron-clad shoes on my chest. Pushing down. MAN that makes my chest tight. I was pretty fucking out of it, but I thought I recalled that horses loved carrots.

Carrots? Carrots.

So I shrugged the fucking invasive annoying horse off of my chest, wandered upstairs to my mom's kitchen, and grabbed a bag of baby carrots. Okay, so the horse is probably still in my room. What Would Elliot From "ET" Do?

I left a trail of carrots from my door, across the basement, past the TV room, around the pool table, and out the basement door. I then proceeded to lead the horse by it's muzzle (reins?) to the backdoor, making sure it followed the trail of carrots. My plan worked perfectly, and it ate every single one. Proud of my problem solving ability, I tossed myself in bed and slept until......

WangMom: "Goodness Gracious, Derek! Why in the HELL are .... Why.... Why are there carrots all over the basement?"

Wang: ".........."


And I think that's it.

Conversation had today at 530ish.

Chris: "Hey, the Tigers won today again."

Wang: "Ah, shit. I thought it was another night game. They already played?"

Chris: "Yeah. Actually, I don't know."

Wang: "(puzzled)"

Chris: "Well, the last thing I saw was the score was 3-1 in the fifth inning"

Wang: "When was this?"

Chris: "Earlier. They're on right now. I think they're on now. Wait... probably not."

Wang: "(puzzled)"

Chris: "Actually, the last thing I saw was Zumaya give up a 2 run homer."

Wang: "So they were tied, last you knew."

Chris: "Yeah, unless they weren't. Something might have changed. You know? They might actually be losing."

Wang: "So we get from 'Tigers Won' to the 'Tigers are on now' to 'It's probably tied' to 'It's incredibly likely that the Tigers actually lost.' Am I getting all this right?"

Chris: "Yaa....."


The Tigers lost 4-3

Counting pennies after 12 beers is hard

The summer after my Freshman year at Michigan, I came home for the summer. My mom was hounding me to get a job, so- out of spite- I got a job at the Clark Gas Station a half-mile from my subdivision, and started singing the song of the workin' man. (In case you're wondering, that song is "Working Man" by the band Rush, and I really fucking hate that song.)

On a Saturday in early July, a friend of mine was having a party. I didn't want to have to stop at the Liquor Store That Sells to Minors at 8 or 9, so I headed out there at 4ish, and bought a 12 pack of my former bread and butter, Labatt Blue Light. The moment I left the store, I got a phone call.

Boss: "Hey, Derek. We need you to come in to work today. Mark's wife left him and he's devastated. You gotta cover for him. And I need you here NOW."

Me: "Man, fuck Mark. She left him because he's 32 and works at a fucking Clark Station, and does enough coke to kill a small horse. It's his own damned fault. Tell him to be a man, do a line, and get his ass to work."

Me: (for real) "Alright... Whatever. You owe me."

So I showed up, and my boss was pretty apologetic. To make him feel guilty I explained that I had a party to go to that night, that some hot highschool junior wanted to get laid (<------- lie), and that tonight was one of the biggest nights of the year (<------- double lie). I even told him that I'd already bought a 12 pack, and now it was gonna get all skunky in my car.

Boss: "Just go ahead and put it in the cooler, man. I don't care. Just don't drink on the job or anything."

Well, I took his advice, but the booze in the cooler, and did my job. By 6 I'd checked on it 3 times, just to make sure it was staying cold.

By 7 there was condensation on the bottles, which makes no sense, because cooler's are dry as fuck. In fact, I'm reasonably sure I was hallucinating.

By 7:15 I thought to myself, "Ah, one beer can't hurt. I did them a favor, and it's not like this is a tough job."

Fast forward 3 hours: I've smashed 12 beers, I'm unable to make change, and more than one customer as commented on the volume of the music from my CD player. At least one person was reasonably scandalized when I greeted her with a spirited, "Ahoy-hoy!"

Fuck it. I'm shutting this bitch down.

So, nearly an HOUR before we close, in order to protect the profits and reputation of Clark Oil and Retail, I locked the door, turned off the lights, spent an inordinate amount of time counting and recounting cash, change, lottery tickets and cigarettes, and drove the half-mile to my home.

Mom: "Derek... are... Are you drunk?"


I was definitely too drunk to think of THAT

I was NOT poor when I was 11

In late elementary school and early middle school (4th-7th grade), the coolest kids in school were just complete and total fucking dirtbags. The worst was a kid named Scott.

Scott was mean. And very, very poor.

After Chris and I thought about it, we noticed that pretty much all the cool kids were just completely impoverished. Then, once everybody starts approaching that highschool "Material things contribute immensely to popularity, and it's not cool to show up to school or social events malnourished, unshowered, and unable to answer when someone asks what your dad does for a living because he's a raving drunk and can't hold down a job" phase, the poor kids that were cool because they were just the meanest suddenly had almost nothing going for them. They dropped out of sight, and ended up at some alternative education system because their dirt-poor asses couldn't stop fighting.

In Circuit City today, we were trying to waste time until it was acceptable to fall asleep (existence is overrated), and trading hypothetical one-liners. We were both crying with laughter, and the tightasses at Circut City started shooting us dirty looks.

"Oh man.... Scott just pulled out his lunch, and all he's got is 3 pieces of bread, a package of saltine crackers, and some ketchup packets his mom stole from McDonalds. I wish I were that poor...."

"Did you what Scott was wearing? He was wearing that yesterday. Lucky...."

"Did you hear why Scott was late for school today? His alarm didn't go off 'cause Consumers Energy shut off the power when his dad didn't pay the bill for 5 months..... what a DREAMBOAT!."

Anyway, this is just a circuitous way of explaining that from now on, I'm gonna start using "poor" as a synonym for "awesome." I may even use it as a one word statement (like "Rad!" or "Gnarly!" or "Bitchin'!") when something utterly sweet happens. "Poor!" I can't wait to explain to people what it means...

I am the worst person on the planet.

"Look at Yourself!"

When I grew my beard out, almost everybody I ran into said I looked like Ben Roethlisberger, QB for the Pittsburgh Steelers. I still don't see it, but it's come up so often that I'm resigned to it. In order to symbolize my grudging acceptance of the similarities, I recently tacked a picture of Ben Roethlisberger on the door to my room.

But I had a plan.

"Fuck you," I said to the world. "I'm shaving this scruff into a Fu-man-motherfucking-chu." And I did. I look like Jeff Galooly (spelling), the guy on the sex tape with Tanya Harding. I look a little like a retarded, unhealthy, even-more-drunk Ron Burgundy. I look- in a word- absurd. Never let it be said that I'm unwilling to embarrass myself for the amusement of my friends.

And, boy, were they amused. I'm typing this update on a Sunday night in a collared shirt (open 3 buttons, chest hair exposed) and a sport coat with tweed pads on the elbows. I'm epicly sweet.

But let us travel back in time, to Friday night, only hours after I furiously trimmed by facial hair into a not-so-neat ug'stache.

I went to a bar with a few buddies, had a few drinks, went to a party, had a a few MORE drinks (total alcohol consumption at this point: 1 Arcadia Whitsun, 1 shot Whiskey Bourbon, 1 Bass Ale, 1 Bell's Oberon, 6 shots Popov Vodka), and decided to head around the corner to do some socializing and show off the mustache.

Greg (my black friend) led the way, and I wandered into a random house a few drinks deep, ready to teach a few sophomores a lesson in beer pong. The moment I walked into the house and introduced myself to a few random chachs, I heard the following:

Chach: "You know who you like?"

Wang: "If you say 'Ben Roethlisberger' you are dead."

Chach2: "Dude! How did you know?!"

I was furious. I shaved my beard, I have a pornstache, my hair is 3 months past haircut time, and I'm rocking dress shirt/ no shirt, exposing so much chest hair CHiPs wants me for a call back. I am furious.

So I played a few games of beer pong (4-0, too many shots and beers drank to remember how many shots I took, or beers I drank), and this girl I knew started... hitting on me. This is where the night starts getting real real fuzzy, but I was told I said the following:

Wang: "What is wrong with you? Have you seen me? Look at me! LOOK AT YOURSELF!"

Anyway, I took her home, and crossed, "Hook up with a girl while sporting an absurd mustache and dressing like it's 1983" off my "Things to do Before You're 30!" list.

Does anyone doubt my magnificence? My absurd and mustachioed MAGNIFICENCE?

I thought not, bitches. If you see a man strutting your way dressed to the nines in West Michigan, sporting a fantasticly aweomely ridiculously ridiculous mustache, shout my name. I'll give you the wink and the gun, baby.

Wang

From now on, I ask for ID

Wang: (cracking fifth of vodka) "I tell you, Chris... if there's one thing I DON'T do when I'm hammered, it's getting all wasted and hooking up with some random chick."

(3 hours later)

EveryoneElseAtParty: "Hey, check out Wang on the couch, holding that empty fifth, making out with that random chick. Not only is it terribly inappropriate, it's horribly ironic."

Aw, maaaaaan....

To my credit, I don't remember ANY of it, and I black out quite rarely, so perhaps I wasn't quite adequately prepared to handle the moment when my brain decided, "Alright, that's it. You're on your own, you fucking asshole."

To my discredit, she was 18.

To my credit, I really had NO idea what her name was, let alone her age.

To my discredit, the next time I saw her, it became immediately obvious that she was, indeed, no older than 18.

To my credit, if she'd been 17, I probably would killed myself.

I drove Across the State yesterday to see my mother for her birthday. I was early by a day (note to self: you're a terrible person), but I covered it very well. Sadly, I was also off by a full year, and I did NOT cover that well at all. Thank the lord my mother came home at 4PM, fully inebriated from a series of LunchBeers with her galpals.

Perhaps this is why sex is so elusive....

I spent a few hours this morning discussing philosophy battles with my friend Chris. Here are some highlights from the absurdly dorky conversation:



WastyMcWasted: Who would win in a philosophy fight? Nietchze or Kierkegaard?
F atn wA: that is a good question because neither is in the analytic tradition
F atn wA: probably nietchze, but kierkegaard would show up
F atn wA: playing kierkegaard would be like playing at oregon, jsut a game no one wants


WastyMcWasted: We should make a bracket.
F atn wA: a bracket of 64?
F atn wA: kant boycotts in a huff, because he is given the #1 seed in the far east region
WastyMcWasted: Kant would be favored in every round by at least 12, and the spread would move up to 15 the first hour.
F atn wA: the overall #3 seed, but the book has him at 3:1 to win it, followed by #2 aristotle at 5:1, and #1 overall plato at 8:1 WastyMcWasted: The best would be the #4 seed Descartes being a dog in the opener
F atn wA: he would be the worst road player in the tournament


WastyMcWasted: Oh, and whoever drew Rawls would stab himself
F atn wA: the classic 8-9 matchup, rawls vs. nozik
WastyMcWasted: The Libertarian vs. the Liberalist?
F atn wA: ya the taylor-made 7:30 game on cbs
WastyMcWasted: "I'm gonna fuck you up, because I believe in regulated capitalism or modified socialist economies, BITCH!"

WastyMcWasted: Where would Marx be?
F atn wA: oh god
F atn wA: jsut as a philosopher?
WastyMcWasted: I think so, yeah
F atn wA: disregarding his other accomplishments would be like throwing that cincinatti team in without kenyon martin
WastyMcWasted: "Still above par, but..."
F atn wA: ...

Curtis Ferguson Goes to the Spelling Bee

Announcer: "Curtis Ferguson, you may step to the microphone."

(A 13 year old male wearing a 3XL t-shirt and 2XL jeans approaches the mic, with a pick in his hair)

Curtis: "What my word is?"

Pronouncer: "Your word is 'sommelier.' Sommelier."

Curtis: "Man, you gave that little Hawaiian chick 'moloch' which every-goddamnedbody knows, and you give me sommelier? Man, what that even mean?"

Pronouncer: "A sommelier is a restaurant employee who orders and maintains the wines sold in the restaurant and usually has extensive knowledge about wine and food pairings."

Curtis: "Motherf-... you think MACDonald's has a mothafuckin' WINE LIST, bitch? Man, how I supposed to spell 'dat?"

Pronouncer: "Sommelier."

Curtis: "You say it one more time, I'm gonna fuck you up. You hear me?"

Pronouncer: "..."

Curtis: "Yeah, that's better. Now, what, that shit's, Greek, right?"

Pronouncer: "Uh, no. Sommelier is from Old French, to French. And then to English, obviously (chuckles)."

Curtis: "Obviously? Obviously? The itty-mologoy sure wasn't obvious to all of us, now was it sweater vest?"

Pronouncer: "I simply meant that it's now obviously an Eng-"

Curtis: "Man, shut up. Gimme some time to think, man. You always talking."

Curtis: "Man, sommelier.... Look, man, tell me how you spell 'dat."

Pronouncer: "How... how did you make it to the final 4 people of the National Spelling Bee?"

Curtis: "I'm serious, nigga! How the fuck you SPELL that?!"

Pronouncer: (looks terrified)

Curtis: "Man, whatever. Is it derived from the French 'sommerier' or the Vulgar Latin 'saumarius'?"

Pronouncer: (shocked) "Uh, yeah... yeah, it is. From, uh... from both, but how-"

Curtis: "Shut up. Curtis needs to spell. S-O-M-M-E-L-I-E-R."

Pronouncer: (nods)

Curtis: (pounds chest) "Yeeeah, Boy-ee! I got this spelling game on the LOCK down! Which one of y'all bitches takin' second. You wanna run shit? You gotta get through C-Fizzle, bitches!"