The "Hop Down Off The Shed Before the Shingles Burn Another Hole In Your Ass" Award:
- Those who complain about me not speaking Spanish, then dogging on me as I'm busting my ass to learn - You know, I'm not like some Americans who think everyone in their own country should speak English (see here, here, here, and anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line). I appreciate a variety of cultures and languages. I wish I had the capacity to learn multiple languages, but too much drinking and the crack-pipe smoking US education system and their pansy ass attempts at teaching foreign languages in schools have made that difficult. I came to Mexico knowing about six words - "Yes, No, Thank you, Hello, Goodbye, and 'Made in Mexico'." I knew less Spanish than a deaf, dumb, blind, mute Spaniard whose been raised by a pack of African pygmies. Let us just make that clear. And now, I can get around, have short, meaningful conversations with people, order food, buy things, etc. And let us also be clear that this gathering of language has taken place over the course of three weeks WHILST I was getting acclimated to a new place and getting ready to teach for the first time (in a foreign country no less) - and this learning was also facilitated by myself. I didn't take a class, or have some magical Matrix upload shoved in my ass and I didn't secretly study for hours on end under my blankets with a flashlight like some six-year old reading Spiderman comics. So when I attempt to speak or write Spanish, I would appreciate a little courtesy as you look down at me from your perch atop the shed. Gracias.
- Americans in Mexico - If you are American, and you are living in Mexico (or any other culture for that matter), take a moment and reflect: have I been a total, complete, utter jackass at any point in my stay? If your answer is yes, extend arm, open hand, and slap self in face repeatedly. Seriously. Open your eyes for six seconds (and not to stare at some 16 year-old Mexican girl like she's Penelope Pussycat in a thong). Look around. When you see Mexican citizens sitting quietly or shopping quietly or generally being respectful of others in a public setting, maybe you shouldn't come swaggering down the aisle in oversized flip-flops, baggy shorts (people here wear pants, Eminem), and your college's t-shirt, which might as well be a target that says, "I'm a douche bag Gringo," spouting off racial epithets that would even make Lindsey Graham cringe, especially if it's a fucking Office Max, where many of those business men and women you saw can probably speak English. But, thanks to your complete lack of common sense and your notion that everyone in Mexico gives a shit what you think, you are making the rest of your fellow countrymen look bad. Gracias.
- We have co-winners in this category! The co-winners are: Ashley, my neighbor, and Susy, our guide - If it weren't for their generosity, knowledge, and their ability to speak Spanish, I'd probably be half-naked in Tijuana somewhere with a cactus shoved in my ass screaming, "Agua, agua, agua, agua" (thank you to the two and a half of you that know that reference and laughed). Gracias.
- To the awkward army of men who constitute what has to be the most overanxious, hormone driven bunch of males since the locker room of my eighth grade PE class - Really? Seriously? Is it necessary to call someone 40 times a day, for two straight weeks? And that is singling no one out. It seems like every male I've met here has phone finger Tourettes or something. One call, or a text, or maybe two calls if she's really attractive. But because men here are often creepier than being a dank cellar with Hannibal Lecter and Miggs (the link for this is completely inappropriate, even for me), it has totally ruined any effort I thought about making in asking any girls out. Why? Because asking girls out here is like an auction - everything happens too quickly and before you know it, you are stuck sitting there with a dumbass look on your face while what you wanted is in the hands of some fat slob whose going to sit it on his mantle where it will collect dust and Cheetoh residue. I don't mean that in a demeaning way towards any women. It's just the only metaphor swimming around inside my mind at the moment, a mind that is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.
- Self-explanatory
- Do I deserve the "Debbie Downer" award for this post? Probably. I mean, it's not like I haven't moved to a foreign country, tried to learn a new language, ended up in the hospital, and spent more money than I have on stupid shit I'll never use in less than three weeks. BUT, as much as Mexico fraggle-rocks, there are a number of Debbie Downers here, and this award goes to all of you, with the hope that whoever you may be, you hop down off that shed Nancy and change your name to Deborah, because you are ruining a good time for the rest of us.
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