The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

Posts tagged ‘sarcastic’

De Jour of the Week (1/4/10)


Boise State and TCU and … poetry! What a night!

My Supreme Intellect

I can tell by my supreme intellect that you’re mad at me,
I can tell because your middle finger is held up so clearly.

Aha, once again my might brain comes to my rescue
I can guesstimate with some amount of confidence that I’ve just had a miscue
When you asked me ‘do I look fat in these jeans?’ that was my cue
And I think my choice of saying, “did you seriously just ask me that?” and then laughing was a choice I’ll rue.

Once again my mind is hard at work –
I knew something was bothering you the second you stopped swearing and foaming at the mouth and finished your rant with the word ‘jerk.’

My mind is wonderous, wonderful, and wondering
When will my phone ring?
Sure, I broke the ice by saying I liked your wedding ring,
But I just felt like we really had something …
I’m waiting for your call with baited breath my ho-on-the-side darling.
But my intelligence tells me it may not work – that slap did sting.

Here is an educated guess
It was a faux paus when I said, “kiss more, talk less.”

I’m even good at logical deductions
I’ve learned from experience that fortune cookies are hardly cookies, and even less so fortunes
Still, I shouldn’t have taken yours and said ‘you could do with smaller portions.’

Even though I don’t know you, I am thinking you’re miffed,
Could it be because when I cut you off I barely missed?

I’m no less than gifted at learning by observing patterns
From experience I know that I should listen to your concerns
And not respond by saying “blah blah blah” (last time you threatened to feed me your parents’ urns).
(And the time before that I learned just how hot hot chocolate really is … fyi, it really, really burns.)

Yes, my supreme intellect is something to be marveled
But please, resist temptation, I hate being ogled.

Weekly Wacko (11)

It’s a long post but I think it has some funny stories. Especially part V.

In August of 2009 I went to a beautiful wedding in San Francisco. My brother-in-law’s best friend (and cousin), Dominique, got married. The bride’s name is Chantilly.

They got married at the Palace of the Fine Arts, which was a great setting.

After the ceremony we stood around and snacked on some foods that had been brought out. I was standing with my sister, brother-in-law and some of his family (two cousins – Ira and Luis, and Ira’s girlfriend Shyla). We talked and cracked stupid jokes and got to know each other somewhat. They were all sarcastic and quick-witted so it was a lot of fun.


Buses took us to the site of the wedding reception. My sister and I grabbed some food while Pierre (my brother-in-law) did some more photos with the wedding party. Soon Shyla, Luis and a woman (I don’t remember who) joined us.

I didn’t actually remember this but my sister spent this past Christmas with Pierre’s family and Luis brought it up to her. Either Shyla or the mystery woman were talking about the movie ‘Rachel Getting Married’ and I chimed in with my typical I’m-the-world’s-sarcastic-younger-brother style, and said, “ohhh … yeah … that was so sad with the deaf brother.” There was a pause where everyone (but Erin – who through years of training has learned to assume I’m being a punk) tried to figure out what I was talking about. Eventually they caught on and my inputs were quickly ignored from there on.

I didn’t think all of that was particularly funny, but I think the fact that Luis did was very funny. What can I say, it’s as simple as the fact that I enjoy it when people enjoy me.


After we ate and speeches were made, the music came on. It was my time to shine. Except not at all.

At my sister’s wedding (about a half year before this) I drank a pretty fair amount, which meant I also danced a pretty fair amount. My dancing is like a variety show: it’s sort of funny, you don’t know what to expect, and you’re not sure if you’re laughing along with it or laughing at it … For whatever reason, Ira  enjoyed it (though to be fair he’d also been drinking). I walked up to him and my sister and he told me that my “dancing … is genius!” My sister and I were both pretty amused and surprised. This is high and inaccurate praise for me, but I’ll take, it sober or drunk.

A week or two before Dom and Chantilly’s wedding, my sister brought up Ira’s compliment. I admitted that I felt like the pressure was on. The first time around – who would expect the 6’3″ q-tip to dance? This time my only hope was that everyone would’ve had enough to drink at my sister’s wedding that I could do the same exact dance moves and no one would remember them. Erin (my sister) asked if I had been practicing some new dance moves and I could honestly tell her: sort of. I like to turn on music and dance while doing dishes, which I am sure has won my fair share of neighborly hatred. I didn’t think I could duplicate my success from Erin’s wedding, though.

Turns out I was right, sort of.

Pierre’s mom came up to me while I was dancing with a group and said, “look at you! You have rhythm! We were watching you and you have rhythm!” It was a nice thought, but she didn’t have to sound so surprised when she said it. I told this to some folks, we laughed about it, then I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

Where I ran into Pierre’s dad.

Mr. Pierre: “You’re good out there!”
Me: “Haha … Oh thanks.”
Mr. Pierre: “Where did you learn those dance moves?”
Me: “Ha … I don’t know.” (Seriously, how do you respond to that?)
Mr. Pierre: “Did you learn those in high school?”
Me: “…” (…)

I wasn’t sure if that was an insult or a compliment. Pierre’s family is very nice so I’m sure it was a nice thought, but really, what does that mean! Anyway, the photos I copied to my computer from the wedding are all named ‘High School Dance Moves.’


A group of us stayed at the reception until it ended, and we wanted to continue to dance. We decided to head to someplace in San Francisco near the hotel where everyone was staying, and the best way to get there was the Muni, a form of mass transit in San Francisco.

Yes, the bride and groom came too.

A photographer was on the Muni with us and he asked if he could take our pictures. He thought it was so cool to see a wedding party riding mass transit.

The photographer ended up posting some of the photos on flickr. I told my mom about it and she found the guys’ page with this set of photos, along with a note congratulating the married couple. The funny thing (to me, not as much to her) was that the photo at that time that represented this ‘married couple’ album was of Ira and me. Here are the photos, I’m the white guy (and I’d been drinking): here.


While we were walking to catch the Muni I hiccupped. Pierre’s sister, Sabrina, described my hiccup pretty accurately by saying, “you hiccup like a small dog!” I found this hysterical. Actually, probably everyone who heard this found this hysterical. Again, we’d been drinking.

Not long after that, we were riding the Muni. Sabrina sneezed. I saw this as an opportunity.

“You sneeze like a small dog!” I said loudly, and very proud. Aren’t I so clever?

Shyla, though, had apparently not heard Sabrina’s comment to me about my hiccup. Taken without the context – me yelling very happily to someone “you sneeze like a small dog” – this is a weird thing to say to someone you don’t know all that well. Shyla told me, shocked at my behavior, “that was rude!”

But you know, my strongest association with Shyla and Sabrina are those 3 lines.


Last story, I promise.

We went to a club that was at the roof of some hotel near Union Square. There was a live band and we started up dancing some more. We were tired, and boozy, but it was still a lot of fun. (Below: drinking makes me short.)

After a while my sister and Pierre sat down and I was standing a bit in front of them. I was sort of dance walking toward them when an Asian girl (maybe late 20s?) came up to me.

She wanted to – what is this? – dance with me! Weird! Normally people don’t approach me to dance. I’m not sure why, it could be the flailing limbs.

Anyway, we started ‘dancing.’ This was a cue for my body to shut down. I would look at my sister, then at this tiny stranger, then at my brother-in-law, then the tiny stranger, and so on. How to ‘fast-dance’ (as I still refer to it in my 6th grade mind) with this tiny lady? My dancing, like most of the things I do, is meant to be funny. Strangers might not get that.

Thankfully (I guess) she ended my mental melt-down with some talk. These aren’t verbatim, but it’s the gist of the conversation.

“You’re really white.” (Seriously, this is the first thing she said to me. What an opener.)
“Uh … yep … You’re really Asian.” (I may have muttered the last part.)
“… Where are you from?”
“What?” (I leaned down about a foot.)
“Where are you from?”
“…” (I’m paranoid so I wonder why she’s asking me this, then I decide it’s a harmless enough question.) “I live in the South Bay … Where do you live?”
“I used to live in the South Bay!”
” … Cool …” (?)
[I think she asked something about what are you doing here after that. I may be missing some.]
“I’m here – that’s my sister over there!” (I pointed.) “It’s her husband’s best friend’s wedding!”
“Oh cool! I’m here for [no idea – sister, friend?] wedding! You should meet her!”
” … Uh …” (What?)
“She likes guys like you! Tall and white!”

I look up to my sister, hoping she’ll drag me away or something. I was afraid for my life. I don’t know why. It made sense at the time.

The tiny girl starts dragging me toward another part of the club. I look back and Erin and Pierre are just as casual as can be. I don’t usually meet people at clubs. And by ‘don’t usually’ I mean never.

Suddenly she stops me.

“Are you smart?”

I found this question hysterical for so many reasons – 1, we’ve both been drinking; 2, she’s about to introduce me to a girl for Lord knows what reason but I’m assuming not something you’d preach about since said girl is about to be married; 3, who cares?; 4, you started off our talk by saying “you’re really white.”

“Sure.” (I grin.)
“Seriously.” (And she really did ask it seriously. Wow.)
“I don’t know? Why’s it matter?”
“My friend only likes smart guys.” (Again, the engaged girl on her bachelorette party. People these days.)
“Sure.” (I’m not sure what I said – it was either sure or some overly long answer about how do you really judge if someone’s smart. Either way I proved I was a geek.)

Whatever I said, she found it acceptable because she continues to drag me back to the chicas. I get back there and she introduces me by saying something. One of them stands up and they take a picture of us. I probably looked scared out of my mind. So tiny and, I was assuming the worst, slutty!

One of Pierre’s cousins comes around to tell me they’re leaving. I say ok and jet set out of there.

We get to the elevator where the cousin is politely informing me what I could’ve done to/with/for/had done to me/etc with this girl. I noticed around the time he was saying, “f her over a table” (with charades to go with the words) that the bachelorette girls are boarding an elevator.

I’m pretty proud of my first interaction with a bachelorette party. I’m sure some guys would be shocked at my not going for such an easy thing, but in my mind there is a direct correlation between easiness and the amount of STDs someone has.

These things are ‘Weekly Wackos’ for a reason, people.

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