Snark Scribe

Not all of us can meet people of quality

Monday, October 30, 2006

Colostomy Bags

I decide to test the theory that one could buy anything on eBay. I wondered, what is the most ridiculous thing that someone could sell on eBay?

I'm not sure how it occurred to me, but I decided to look up colostomy bags.

Not only were there colostomy bags for sale, but there were many sellers selling poop pouches.

Then I realized the disturbing thing is not that there are sellers, but there are buyers.

On a regular basis, someone has to think "Hey man, I can get a good deal on my medical supplies if I buy from a stranger on the internet."

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Saturday, October 28, 2006

Turnstile Jumper

A group of friends and I were leaving the Train station when we saw a fifty-year-old man climbing over the turnstile to avoid paying. As we left the station and went out onto the street he approached us and started talking to us like he was part of our group.

"So, where are we going today?" Mr. Cheap said, with the peculiar brand of friendliness associated with certain types of mental illness.

We tried ignoring Mr. Cheap and Crazy but he kept following us down the street.

I, who was holding the map, tried to quietly direct my friends towards the direction we should be going.

Mr. Cheap & Crazy & Persistent, who was apparently old but not deaf, turned conspiratorily towards a member of my group and said "I wouldn't believe her."

We increased our speed to get away from Mr. Cheap & Crazy and & Persistent & Paranoid.

As I hustled everyone into a Federal Building (with armed security standing near the entrance) Mr. CCPP turned away (but not before shaking the hand of the one he had "conspired" with).

Moral of this story: Crazy people can still understand guns.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Mark Twain on Steroids

I used to have a landlord who had a bushy mustache and a slightly unusual hairdo. I felt he looked familiar . . . After a roommate commented that he seemed Southern it suddenly occured to me. My landlord looked like Mark Twain.

Except for a few things:

Landlord was short.

Landlord obviously worked out a lot.

Landlord was very hairy.

Landlord wore little tank tops with little shorts.


Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Dishonorable Intentions

I once took a hobby class with a mixed variety of students. One student, a balding Caucasian man nearly twice my age, approached me on the first day and informed me he "grew up in a very diverse neighborhood."

FYI: I'm Asian.

Oh, I thought. He's insecure about his whiteness and wants to assure me he's PC.

I gave a passive tilt of the head.

"Yeah, there were Hispanics in my neighborhood, and Blacks and Asians, and all kinds of people. It was really diverse. You know, a real mix of different people."

I started looking around to see if there was someone else to talk to. Everyone seemed busy. Drat.

I grew up in a really diverse neighborhood around different types of people, so I have no problem with anyone. "

Yes, I get that. Is there a point to your speech?

"Yeah, so I have no problem dating Asian women."

Oh dear holy toast with jam, he has a point. And an agenda.

"In fact, all my girlfriends, except for the last one and the mother of my daughter, have been Asian."

1. Dating almost exclusively Asian women doesn't show you're not racist. It actually implies otherwise.
2. Perhaps this is harsh, but I believe when you have a kid you forfeit the right to pick up anyone else that can be referred to as "kid" (e.g. "college kid").

I took his last comment as a sign to extricate myself from the "conversation" and pretend someone else had summoned me.

Later, after insisting he was a "writer" he proffered some of his work in a notebook. To be polite, I reluctantly took it, opened it up, read the first line on the first page, slammed the book shut and handed it back to him.

Snark Scribe: "I don't read porn."
Old Pervert: "It's not really porn."
SS: "I don't read erotica."

After that I tried avoiding him. He thought I was playing "hard to get."

I said "I don't like you." He thought it was my way of being "friendly."

I resorted to making mean comments. He said "You're a woman of mystery."

No, I'm not a mystery. If a girl teases you, smiles in a coquettish manner, minces away while stealing glances over her shoulder, she may be flirting. If she insults you with a straight face, crosses her arms and then walks away without turning around, she Does Not Like You.

Thankfully, he eventually turned his attentions to another girl in the class. A girl with the same age, hair color, eye color, skin color . . . well you get the point.

After I was informed of the details I had two reactions:
1. Howling laughter and giggle fits
2. A realization that I actually got off easy

Rather than just showing her his "erotica," he decided to write a special piece just for her. He handed her a letter that contained phrases such as "I can imagine our bodies pressed together." The kicker was that he concluded his letter with "But my intentions are purely honorable."

The girls in the class thought this was absolutely hilarious.
"Wow, this guy really doesn't understand the meaning of irony."
"Or honorable."

Or "I don't like you."

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Pukey Limbs

I was waiting for the train when the Bicyclist (who was riding his bike on the platform) rode past me a little too close.

Then after I got on the train the Bicyclist sat 2 seats away and proceed to stare intently at me during the trip. I refused to make eye contact, hoping I was being paranoid and he wasn't really that fascinated.

When I got off the train and out of the station, and started walking to my destination, the Bicyclist followed. I began to feel genuinely creeped out because despite the fact that I was on foot and he had a presumably more efficient mode of transportation we appeared to be averaging the same speed.

Sometimes he rode a little ahead or a little behind, but never very far away. He also seemed to have trouble maintaining a parallel distance from me because he occasionally veered uncomfortably close, and once closely enough to force me off the path.

He was rather buff, and had a close-shaven haircut. I was starting to imagine scenarios where I could swing my bookbag and knock him off the bike when Big Bald Bicycle Boy spoke up:

"Hey, did you go to ____ Middle School?"

I paused and made eye contact because indeed, I did.

He said, "Uh, you don't remember me do you?"

It was my turn to stare intently. Suddenly it came to me. Sure, he had shaved his head and put on 30 pounds of muscle, but I knew that goofy grin.

I smiled. "Did you puke on your arm in the 6th grade?"

He looked down in shame. "Yeah."

I squealed in triumph. "Edward!"*

I don't remember that much else about him, but I do recall with vivid clarity he tossed his cookies onto his left arm while sitting at his desk in our history classroom. I sat across from him (but with a big empty space in between) so I had a good view without being splashed. The janitor had to come sprinkle green stuff on the upchuck, which made it 100 times less appetizing, and then sweep it up. It was rather educational because up until then I assumed one mopped up peristaltic byproducts.

You may think you've grown up and escaped grade school, but people will remember you for the strangest reasons years from now. If your nickname was "Diaper Rash" someone will remind you at your 20 year reunion. It's hopeless. Bicyclist Boy will always be "That kid who threw up on his arm in the sixth grade."

* Name changed to protect the barf-prone.