Monday, March 5, 2007
Pronounciation isn't My Fort
During today's discussion of paying respects to one's ancestors, I was a bit feisty. I posited: "What if your family was full of assholes? Should you still give em gat?""If you don't, dead Uncle Frank is gonna slap you upside your head!" Teacher replied. "Till you give him some juice."
"Shit, if he slaps me he's CERTAINLY not getting any juice" I let him know. "He can kill me, then see how much he gets."
A girl in class told me "You better watch out when you talk like that."
Teacher agreed. "Something bad is gonna happen to you today, man. That's bad juju right there."
Maybe, I thought.
I killed time on campus waiting to lift. I lunched on some Thai noodles. A pair of esurient-looking dudes, obviously homeless, strolled past, commenting on the aroma. I wanted to buy them lunch, but they disappeared on bicycles before I was able to finish mine. I took off for the library where I dozed happily on a table.
At lifting time I opened my backpack to find my protein shake had erupted over all of my possessions (my books, thankfully, were spared). Refusing to lift without powder and pants, I parted. I bid my partner farewell and we diverged. I had a job interview.
While biking, I was in the zone. The path was littered with hazards, but I was dodging hills of ice and snow and plowing through wet patches like a pro. But I was totally unprepared for the green sedan that hit an oversized puddle of streetwater as it passed by me, spraying me with guttersludge. I stood frozen, calculating my response. "Fuck you cocksucker!" I screamed after the car as it sped off, apparently oblivious to its perfidy.
Surveying my situation, I trucked to the bus station for towels. In the bathroom, I washed up. As I dried my pants, a friendly but toothless man tried his hand at conversation. "I fyuna get ma a may po byua mayta fwa tey a maka diy no fyusu, HA-ha-ha! Ha, yah." He laughed.
"That's right man," I reassured him. "You know it."
"Fo-tee ah brika ma layka me, a ho me A-HA-HA!" I had no idea what the fuck he was saying.
I stepped out into the street. Some kids ran by me, hollering. "Man that drunk guy was crazy! 'Ho bay me a lika wayyy!' Haw haw haw. LET'S GO TELL YOUR GRANDMA!" The kids ran away towards a white luxury sedan. Apparently the bathroom babbler had made some more friends.
As for the job, I arrived looking sharp and radiant. But there was no interview. Just a piece of paper. I filled it out and gave it to the fine-ass waitress in red. I left.
What does this tell us? Does juju exist? If so, should we submit to the power of our ancestors? What do they want anyway? If we ignore them will they stop bothering us? Logic tells me yes. On the other hand, dead people have plenty of time. They could be knocking 24 hours a day. They got all night, every night. That's some boring shit.
MYW at 10:53 AM
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