Category Archives: Funny

New Year, Old Me

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I don’t know if it’s my age or not, but having celebrated 30-something New Yearseses, the event is really starting to lose its thunder for me. Even more deflating are the annual declarations we make called resolutions, which are ultimate assurances of failure. Come January first, all forms of communicable media is gushing with messages of how to improve, enhance or further yourself into that gleaming shining star buried deep within your flaws. Read here for 6 easy steps to tightening that neck. Click this for the secret to building muscles on your eyelids. Why are we so drawn into that lure of bettering ourselves? What could possibly be wrong with the way we are now?

Every New Year, I head out and join throngs of intoxicated homo sapiens to count down, drink, scream, and inhale in the new year. And surely enough, once the celebrations have died down and we have located our abodes and dignity; there is always that talk of resolutions. It’s really funny when you see people who in the span of 12 hours go from trying to inject tequila and sniff detergent to singing up for Tai Chi and yoga retreats.

There is a fine line between what our perception of ourselves is and what we actually are. If asked to describe ourselves on a sheet of paper, I’m sure many of us would use words like “kind, smart, creative, funny” where in the same instance, we wouldn’t dote these adjectives so freely on other people and might opt for more expressive terms such as “genetically challenged” or “religiously bound to idiocy”. Point is, even if we think we are better than we actually are, the project of improving yourself is tantalizingly exciting and too hard to pass up.

Unfortunately, the resolution system is inherently flawed. The sheer fact that you need to wait until a specific date to adopt better practices for your health and life carry the same risk of failure as “I’ll start my diet on Monday”. If you can’t say no to those 400 snicker bars now, chances are you’re not going to magically acquire the strength to stop licking butter bars on a certain date. It’s an old cliché but the “there’s no time like the present” has stood the test of time because of its veracity. If you decide on December 3 that you’re going to quit smoking on the first, this means you are going to spend the better part of the month over indulging in a bad habit; trying to suck up cancer through every hole in your body. And unless you’re one of a few talented females in Thailand, I don’t think you can pull off that trick smoothly. Nevertheless, not only will you smoke more, but you will also probably just hold up the resolutions for a matter of nano seconds, so you might as well have not made the damned resolution in the first place, and saved yourself a charred asshole.

While it might be fun to reinvent yourself come January, remember not to pour too many resources into a project with such a high failure rate. I mean, let’s face it, if you had kept all your resolutions, you would be God by the time you were 28. This year, the only thing I’m resolving is to stay as fabulously imperfect as I am. The only thing that will change is the date. I’m going to greet 2017 with the same love handles, renegade grey hairs and copious cursing that have colored my glorious days. There’s a good chance you will too so throw in the towel now and join me in my quest for un-resolving to change.

 

The Medicine of Meat

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When I was a kid, it was a very noble claim to aspire to be a doctor. After all, doctors were the healers of dreams, the saviors of lives and the experts of health. That was 30 something years ago. I don’t know what happened in the last 3 decades but apparently something changed allowing all kinds of idiots to become “healers” and embark on long fruitful careers of endangering lives, scribbling reckless prescriptions and becoming agents of a scary trend: the profitable business of health.

It’s very unfortunate but it seems that there are no more “good doctors”, rather very differing and subjective experiences. You walk into a clinic with a mild fever and suddenly you are prescribed antibiotics by the truck load for treating bubonic plague. You suffer from pain in your back and up jumps the man in white walking you through a surgery where they will implant metal rods into your spine because let’s face it, everything is solved with a metal rod up your… back. Your nose is running? Holy shit, it’s a sign that your brains are turning to liquid and unless you swallow 75 kinds of multicolored pills, you will surely turn into a zombie and be responsible for the destruction of humanity.

The pharmacy industry has made great strides in giving us wonder drugs, sure, but it has also intruded on a sacred trust that anyone should be able to have with ANY doctor. Technically, it is illegal and immoral for any doctor to push pills to honor any sort of agreement, but with the rate of over prescription seen with so many cases, one wonders if the clear cut line has not faded into an indistinct gray.

When you’re sick, it’s a shame to run into one of these representatives who have completely eliminated the “care’ from health care and replaced it with “business”. It’s a shame when instead of asking a few follow up questions, the person immediately scribbles drug notes, while avoiding eye contact, for all sorts of ailments you don’t suffer from. A while ago, I visited a doctor because I was suffering from a horrible cold. He examined me and said “I’ll take a swab of your throat but if it’s a virus, there’s no point in taking antibiotics. Just drink plenty of fluids and rest.” I was amazed and extremely saddened by the encounter. This great man should be the norm, not the exception!

We do have one weapon on our side though: easy access to knowledge thanks to the internet. And when I say knowledge, I don’t mean blogs, promoted websites, Wikipedia (http://www.bbc.com/news/health-27586356) or astrology consultants. I mean WebMD, NHS, and medical association sites. While it’s always a good thing to do some research on your own, bear in mind that no amount of reading will make you a doctor and you cannot diagnose that mole as cancerous because of an image you saw online. Resources are there to help, not diagnose.

The world has changed and so have doctors. It seems that nowadays just about any idiot can enter and pass med school. Maybe standards have gone down, maybe this is the price we are paying for having too many idiots in the world, maybe somebody fell asleep at the wrong place at the wrong time. Even though it’s sad that many healers have evolved into pill pushers and incompetent assholes that get to wear white lab coats, the good news is that when you do come across a horrible experience, it is well within your right to give this person a piece or two of your mind. By keeping silent, we are relegating ourselves to the shelf, like quiet pieces of meat in a factory. And whether I’m wearing a hospital gown or a skimpy dress, I am no piece of meat.

Get the nuggets out of my box

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TV commercials; we all hate them, we are all forced to watch them sometimes. If you’re not quick enough to record a movie, you are stuck sitting through long minutes of asinine drivel about disgusting products you would never buy. At least, I’m referring to advertising here in the region. Yesterday I was unfortunate enough to have to watch a movie streamed live, and hence the clash with tortuous ads, 95% of which were trying to sell me fast food garbage.

The only time I’ll walk into a fast food mess is when I’m considerably inebriated, everything is spinning, and I feel the vomit churning in my tummy, wondering which exit route to take. That is the only time I will shove fast “food” down my throat, and clearly because by that point your body needs the insane amount of grease to reestablish your center of gravity.

It was really quite sad: out of 4 commercials, only one was nonfood related; it was about cleaning products and the script/acting/production were so bad I wanted to crawl into a corner and chew my own toes off one by one. The rest might as well have been advertisements for how to block your arteries quickly, or a vacation to the afterlife to meet your maker because surely regular consumption of this garbage would have you in a body bag in no time.

This was unbelievably frustrating. Why are there no ads for healthy food? Aren’t salads sexy enough? I would much rather watch a cabbage unfurl slowly than processed cheese ooze out of some deep fried crust of saw dust and rat droppings! And it’s not like we don’t have the products to advertise; the Abu Dhabi Farmer’s Market has really taken off and they have been producing great local produce. Ripe Markets in the UAE are bringing excellent organic products, and there are many places that boast healthy menus. So why don’t these entities have a voice in the ad slots?

It’s 2015. The cat is out of the bag; fast food is unbelievably bad for you and obesity levels are rising alarmingly in the Middle East. How are these chains still thriving? Even in the US, the source of this fat mess, the tide has started to take a turn (http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/mcdonalds-to-close-more-stores-than-it-opens-in-us-for-first-time-in-40-years-10333642.html). Why are we allowing a rejected trend from its point of origin to proliferate in our backyard? And it’s replacing a healthy and balanced cuisine! It should be a criminal offence to replace Tabbouleh and grilled meat for a big mac and fries.

I would really like to meet the person who is in charge of regulating ads in our region. I would like to strap him in a chair for a week, and each time a fast food ad came on, I would force him to eat that product in its entirety. It’s not fair that only the poisonous shit gets ample representation on the idiot box. In the interest of democracy, I’m not advocating the complete ban of fast crap (although that would be pure bliss). Rather, I would like to see some hot salads, blushing fruits and slutty greens parade on the screen as well. I believe it’s high time for equal representation; bring out those polygamous broccolis!

Running away from jogging

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“Do you run or jog?” This is one of the most infuriating questions I get slapped with whenever I mention the sport I’m into. At first I used to answer “a bit of both” because frankly I didn’t know the difference and I didn’t care to ask. The question always annoyed me for several reasons, one of which was it seemed as imbecilic as asking someone “Are you a couch potato or a lazy lump of breathing mass?” or “Do you masturbate or molest yourself?” or “Do you breathe or live?” The list could go on, but I digress.

At some point into my craze, I looked up the difference between the two, officially. Many modern sources have stated that the difference lies in the pace, with running obviously being the faster of the two. However, an interesting source named the origination of the word “jogging “as a playful British term that entered the scene in the mid seventeenth century (http://runrunlive.com/the-difference-between-running-and-jogging), to describe movement.

In the 1970s, jogging became a term associated with non-competitive running, and the rest is history. Here’s my issue: when I think of jogging, I picture couples dressed in matching 80s track suits, flitting through park lanes, smiling and chatting about last week’s cocktail party. I don’t know where this comes from, but I have a feeling it all started with ads for track suits. So I blame the world of advertising for ruining the connotation of something that should be beautiful (not referring to track suits themselves; those belong in the past and/or hell’s fire). When I run/jog, I come back home red, sweaty and in pain, all of which don’t fall in line with the picture of the track suit wearing couple.

Even the sound of the word works against it. It takes your mouth longer to say “Jog” thank it does to say “Run”. Run is associated with so many states of emergency. For example, when you’re in danger, you ‘run’ for your life, hence the seriousness of the term. No one ever jogged away from a tiger or charging hippo. Let’s take another example: Diarrhea. We’ve all been there; don’t roll your eyes just yet. There’s a reason it’s called the “runs”; if it was a jog you would have time to stroll to the bathroom with your dignity intact, instead of charging like the previously mentioned hippo to avoid standing in the middle of your office, covered in feces, with everyone pointing at you, laughing and uploading your misery onto social media. Also, people don’t jog away from their problems; the expression is clearly “running away from your woes”.

Despite all this, it needs to be said that there is absolutely nothing wrong with jogging. As a term referring to movement for the movement’s sake, it stands for something great, and the only thing ruining it are the idiots that ask for the distinction. I am proud to say that while I do run, I will henceforth have no issue being labeled a jogger. However, if you do ask me which of the two I do, prepare to jog away for your life.

jogging

Unnatural Selection

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Life is all about change. You change partners, jobs, countries and friends. Last Friday, I changed ideals. I ventured to one of my favorite outdoor events; Groove on the Grass, for a good dose of dancing and entertainment. The dancing was great; the entertainment was met with mixed feelings. At some point during the evening of merriment, the area was filled with many people hoola-hooping (henceforth known by its official name among members: hooping).

It was quite nice to watch; many women were quite dexterous at it and effortlessly flitted from one sequence to another, with nothing short of style and grace. Then I noticed the men. I’m not talking pretty little effeminate boys, I’m talking bearded, could-probably-start-a-fire-in-the-wild, please tell me what’s wrong with my car- men.

I was quite surprised by the sheer number of masculine oscillating hips. And even more surprised by how good they were. These weren’t a few sheep trying out the sport to find an in with these beautiful ladies, like that one jerk that always shows up to that yoga class and drools over your ass in downward dog. Nay, these were men that had seriously adopted and obviously been practicing their swirling and sashaying skills.

I have to admit that watching them at first didn’t sit well with me. It was a little like watching a female wear a strap on to jerk off. Then it hit me. This was the product of my gender-defined upbringing. When I was a kid in the 80’s, girls wore pink, boys wore blue, girls played with dolls (and hoops) and boys played with cars.

I’m pretty sure that if my brother had gone up to my dad in those days and asked “Dad, can I have a hoola-hoop?” my dad would’ve been like “No son. You don’t hoop. You fuck bitches.”

Fast forward 3 decades and in ushers a new era where such delineations are rendered null and void, and gender boxes and traits morph into masses of fun activities for all. I tried to imagine if cavemen hoola hooping in the Stone Age would’ve been allowed to procreate. Yet in today’s day and age, these norms no longer apply. In today’s world, you can hoop and fuck bitches, probably while eating your cake too.

man hoops

Of Nice and Men

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I’m a firm believer in the power of Nice. Life could be much better for most of us if we were just a little nicer to each other. This is much easier said than done, however assuming we are rational animals capable of evolving, it is within reach to brighten up our world just a tad.

When I was younger, I remember our teachers and parents telling us we should play nice and be polite. Fast forward a few decades and suddenly everyone in the corporate world is baring their fangs, throwing daggers at any exposed backs, and behaving like packs of mindless, rabid dogs. What the fuck happened? Where did the tipping point occur? When did it become ok to evolve into bloodthirsty, smartly dressed corporate whores?

Sadly, it’s not just the workplace. Driving to work, we have all faced that one idiot in the morning that either won’t get out of the way, or is driving so close you can examine his teeth. Then it continues; there’s the angry security guard who thinks “if I act tough, people will forget I don’t have a gun or any real authority”. Or the hundreds of passer-bys, that scowl and growl.

All these angry specimens around me made me wonder at where this aggression originated from. And while some people are just bad apples, I have narrowed down a few causes that can make most of us lean to our darker side.

Lack of sleep: yes, it’s not just burping and pooing babies that get cranky when you interrupt their Zs. Many adults need their 6-8 a night and tempers flare easily when they haven’t dreamt enough of your demise in lala land. Better to be lynched in REM than real life.

Hunger: ah, the starter of wars and the catalyst to our own fantastic (?) evolution. Like lack of sleep, hunger makes you angry and mean. Unfortunately, many people choose daily to ignore science and skip breakfast. By noon time, tempers are hot and chances for a squabble are significant. If you notice someone in your home or workplace that seems to be short-fused for no real good reason, try throwing a cookie in their vicinity and see if that helps the situation. This trick has worked wonders for me. Sometimes said idiot will refuse to eat because they are on some irrational diet. If they refuse the cookie but are visibly hungry, keep some greens at hand for them to graze on.

Sexual frustration: I strongly believe that most cases of anger and cruelty are linked to a sheer lack of sex. When you have that physical closeness with someone, the intimacy nourishes your inner good side. Actually, that may be bull. I think it’s the incessant pounding and head bangs on the board that beat you back into a pleasant submissive state. And whether male or female, if you notice someone slouching around with an aura of hate around them, you should look into hiring a few hefty Nigerians to fuck the nice back into them.

Apart from these basic reasons, some people just think that being mean gets you further in life. This belief, apart from being archaic and stupid, has no real basis or foundation. I think it’s time we shed these old notions and make a clean break, with more tolerance and free smiles. I’m not advocating the other extreme though. I don’t think you should flit around life, skipping and singing, and thanking everyone who spits in your coffee. But it wouldn’t kill you to let that car pass, smile at the security guard, or let those Nigerians finish what they are doing to you.

Smoke This!

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Let’s face it; there is a great social divide, clearly demarcated by a thick trail of dancing grey fumes. Society has embraced this and has divided cities and territories into smoking and non-smoking areas. I used to be a smoker myself and while I never minded being herded into small spots to suck on my fag, I never realized how annoying being on the other side of the fence would be.

Since I quit and got my sense of smell back, I am constantly astounded by how desensitized smokers are to the unbearable stench. Even when I was a smoker back in the day, I was always painfully aware of where the trail of dancing fumes went from my cigarette, and I put in an effort to not let it wind up in someone’s face. It seemed like a common sense and minimally-courteous thing to do. Now that I am on the other side of the fence, I am appalled by the sheer lack of decency out there. It’s almost as if most of them believe that if I could just get a decent whiff of that sweet carcinogenic stench, I’ll fall to my knees in rapture and convert on the spot.

During our lunch break, I have literally seen (for the sake of clarity, let’s say people) light one cigarette with another, lest they should tarnish their lungs by breathing lone oxygen for a second. I mean, who the fuck wants plain oxygen when you can enhance the breathing experience with some Acetaldehyde, Arsenic and some yummy chunks of Beryllium? I’m always left wondering “why don’t they just set themselves on fire and get it over with?” It wouldn’t be the first instance in history. At least this way, you could really light up a conversation.

I find it extremely unfair that some outdoor spots become uninhabitable for non-smokers because the cancer chasers flock in groups to the ashtrays. It’s not fair that I have to stay inside and miss great weather because you keep trying to barbeque your lungs. I think non-smokers should be allowed to walk around with methane-farting cows, which would help us maintain a boundary in outdoor areas. I’d choose methane over cigarette smoke anyways, and let’s face it, cows are cute.

Some people smoke only to get out of the office for breaks. To these I offer the following advice: go for a walk. Help out by licking the toilets clean. Anything you choose will be better for your health. And if you’re that desperate to put something in your mouth, I have many suggestions.

Then there are the night crawlers, who roam around socializing with a drink in one hand and a torch in another. I don’t care how inebriated you are, if you burn me, I should get to return the favor. Why are you branding me? Did you win me in a bet behind the scenes that I am unaware of? Approaching someone with a cigarette is also not sexy. “I burn for you baby,” doesn’t work when you’re actually burning my eyes.

The only thing I can say I appreciate about smoking is the oral activity. I mean, anyone that committed to always having something in their mouths wins some of my respect. Hats off to your insatiable and misplaced yearnings.

Yeast the Beast

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(A message from a vagina that cares)

With my 36th birthday just around the corner and having been blessed with a womb, I’ve had to contend with a few yeast infections along the road. I can safely report that the experience is always cumbersome, and to date I am still vague about why this phenomenon occurs. However, my most recent affliction has shed some interesting light on this vaginal dweller, and I happily pass on the wisdom to you.

My doctor solemnly told me “it’s an aggressive yeast.” I was unaware they had personalities but apparently, this time I was unlucky enough to be paired with a real grouch. And anyway, what did aggressive mean? Did it push other weaker yeasts out of the way? Did it have a short temper? Did it yell and punch holes in walls like beefed up steroid slurping dudes?

She also ordered me to stay off the sugar, saying the sweets irritated the yeast. “I’m not applying it topically!” I yelled back, indignantly. Apparently, my aggressive womb-mate shared a propensity for sugar, which literally made it flourish, kinda like us humans gaining weight when binging on the stuff. Well, at least we had that in common. Maybe beast wasn’t all bad. It obviously had good taste.

After prescribing a host of medicines for every single orifice, she threw a box of probiotics at me. I was bewildered. “These will help, having bad gut flora is sometimes tied to infections.” There. At least I learnt something new from this unfair liaison. It seems having the beast was akin to being trapped in a bad relationship. Everything I said or did could inflame the situation and I had to be very cautious until I was able to make my silent escape.

“So why does this happen from time to time?” I asked. A valid question; every single site on the topic lists reasons as vague as the number zero. But I soon learned that the beast’s dating criteria truly was vast. Things such as synthetic clothing, stress, a fever, those 11 donuts you nibbled on before din din, all or one of these could render you fatally attractive to a single desperate yeast.

Thus, if you are paired with an aggressive yeast, follow these simple steps to freedom (also effective on leech-like SOs): act natural but silently slip it medication. Once it is heavily drugged, wait patiently for it to fall dormant. During this time avoid the sugar; it can sense its presence. Finally, make your exit, and proceed with a happy and prescribed-medication free life.

Partying Without

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Last Friday night, as a social experiment, I decided to try this sober-partying thing for a change. I ventured out into the night jungle with my friends to one of my favorite hot spots; 360.
The Experiment
I had heard from others that partied sober that they literally got drunk on the vibe and the atmosphere, and I was curious to see whether I could experience this phenomenon for myself.
The first few minutes were a little nerve wracking. Friends and acquaintances were already decently tipsy and were starting to lose their elegant dance with gravity. I, on the other hand, stood among these swaying masses as stiff as a tree.
I had to deal with the question “Why aren’t you drinking?” being slurred into my ear. Then came a few “OMG! Are you pregnant?!” comments which really made my night.
After assuring said inquiring minds that the bloat was probably just gas, I tried to enjoy myself. This wasn’t hard; the music was great (Nice7 were tearing the proverbial ‘it’ up on the decks).
I closed my eyes for a few seconds and let the beat in, and soon found myself smiling and oscillating in unison with the drunken hordes around me.
The first 2 hours of this experience were pleasant; I felt like I got a decent work out, no one seemed to notice that I was an imposter and I actually did feel a little inebriated.
However, as the night wore on, and the masses continued consuming drinks, the gap between our wavelengths got considerably wider. I remember the exact moment I lost my buzz; some drunken cow masquerading as a desirable female sunk her heel into my foot and gave me a look as if I was in her way.
The Deluge
One hour prior to the club closing, things got unbearable. Parents don’t warn you of this, but drunken people spit! Even the civilized ones. Conversations became nightmarish. Between trying to make sense of random strings of words and dodging attempts at baptizing me with saliva, I started to enjoy the surrounding less and less. People began to speak faster and spit more; trying to get whatever they could out of their mouths.
I was suddenly surrounded by a confused mass of idiots, mumbling and stumbling, soaking me with their drinks. The lighters being lit around me were now a source of real fear.
The Great Escape
Conversation became very linear but I developed a great technique to help anyone along these situations. When asked where I was from, I would answer “My mother’s vagina” and turn around. By the time the person registered or understood what was said, I had enough time to slip away. I strongly recommend trying this technique; it’s a great way to remind everyone to call their mums at 3 in the morning.
The Lesson
Once I was back on my way home, I compiled a To Do list to help anyone who wants to party sans the drinks:
– Make sure you party in an open air venue, as the smoke will bother you less;
– Wear steel fortified shoes, preferably Doc Martin army boots, and you can enjoy “stumbling” on the feet of all those high heeled uncoordinated tramps;
– Keep a bottle of water in your hands to avoid the temptation of sipping a drink;
– Anticipate that the last 2 hours will get more violent, so if you’re not up to battling the throngs of limbs and lubrication, leave early;
– And don’t forget where we are all from!