Peace Signs and Snake Charmers

I recently had a very large house party. Well, there was 35 people. If only 35 people showed up to one of my parties I had in highschool, the kids would have thrown used condoms at my face. On the plus side, I may not have been on a first name basis with the local police.                                                                      “Hey,Jerrica”                                                                                                       “Oh hey Matt, I mean Officer Bla Bla.”                                                               “I’ve received sixteen noise complaints, it’s 3am and time to get out of the pool and put your bathing suit top back on.”                                                              To which I classily replied, “Ares yours shure ya don wanna joiwn this in?”             I later dated that officer -when I became legal drinking age- on my older sister’s ID.

Since I now live in Sweden and my friends who speak English are all foreign (as I technically am, if you consider white being foreign) the rainbow of human flesh at our party made our house look like a G20 summit. And I was pretty goddamn proud of it. It made me feel like I’ve evolved.

A few weeks ago when visiting my old office, I asked how things are now that I’m gone, to which they responded “cocksucker is said a lot less and our elderly immigrant constituents are no longer afraid to come visit”. (I may or may not have refused meetings with a few oldies- I’m sorry I didn’t have any patience to pretend to understand your thick Italian accent and hear your fake Nazi stories, all while trying to ignore the fact that there is a stray cat suffocating in your jacket who you just found on the side of the street that you will put into a stew later.) Typical Italians. (This is my head shaking)

So, at work and in the comfort of my own Caucasian on Caucasian home, I feel pretty safe being myself. By that I mean, being ignorant to anything politically correct.

I recently watched a movie called Cloud Atlas which proves that 1- Tom Hanks is the white Tyler Perry and 2-God is actually a Korean female robot. And if you’ve learned anything about me by now, it’s that I love terriyaki sauce and hate human emotions. So, dear plastic surgeon Rosenjewish, forget about a Kardashian ass and make me Asian. (Don’t be one of those assholes that says “Asia includes India too“)- I cut.

I’ve grown up in a household where my father would sing a “fuck you” song (the only lyrics being fuck and you). The song eventually evolved into a group sing-a-long which went something like “let’s all sing the fuck-you song, f-uck y-ou”. I also grew up thinking it was normal to hear my dad call out “turban!” whenever he saw a brown person in public like he would get some sort of bonus life points for finding them. He wasn’t so crude to only point out people who wore turban’s- he’s not racist- he did it to just any sort of darker skinned individual. One time he shouted “turban” at a man who happened to be my friends’ dad- who was Turkish. When I corrected him, he responded “same thing”. So from that moment on, I indulge every crazy and offensive notion because crazy and offensive is basically all I know.

My dad is knowledgeable of many historical facts and events, yet chooses to seem void of cultural respect. And you know why he does that? Because he is a fuckin genius. It keeps people constantly entertained and guessing what he’ll do next. Sometimes they get embarrassed around him, which entertains him even more. And when he does choose to spew out an intelligent fact, people are impressed! If he chose to be intelligent all the time, people would be annoyed. He’s got it down to a fine art. Genius.

So you see, it’s better to enjoy political incorrectness- and you’re a goddamn liar if you disagree. It really does make life a little lighter. If everyone just stopped taking themselves so seriously, we could all find ourselves one day in my backyard pool with our tops off. And just to keeps things interesting, we’re bringing the key-bowl theme back from the 70s. Officer Bla Bla, you’re invited. Wink!

Line it up! Oh- Heeeyyyy!

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