That Weird-Ass Time in Florida…(there are no ass pictures in this post)

This was supposed to be a normal human post, recounting my vacation time in Florida. But then I realized: how am I even human in this format? I am a blog-bot, and you don’t know me. YOU DON’T KNOW ME. So a normal vacation re-cap to strangers would be slightly pathetic.

But a WEIRD vacation re-cap?

Why yes strange Internet reader sir (or madam), that you most certainly may have.

Shady-ville
Orlando is a family destination, particularly so within a five-mile radius of Disney World. Nobody does anything after 10pm.

UNLESS…you end up in a bustling wing joint at midnight, while the Lakers are playing the Mavs on the big screen. The woman who was dressed head-to-toe in Lakers gear was more serious than a Canadian Mountie’s face when he’s seriously riding a horse. I went along with the crowd and cheered for the Mavs, not because I like basketball, but only because I wanted to make her feel ridiculous for wearing so much purple. And yellow. She left when she knew the score was hopeless (the Lakers lost, then apparently kept on shitting out terrible basketball for the rest of the playoffs), and probably burned her Lakers clothes whilst still in them. It’s still worse to be a Leafs fan.

I’d also like to mention that this wing joint smelled like cleaning agents used to mop up corpse-residue from corpses that have been corpses long enough to smell like corpses. Mixed with a blue cheese essence. Let that settle in your nostrils for a bit.

Cocoa Beach
This beach in Cape Canaveral was scenic to say the least, but it also had that small-town/down-south American feel to it, which is slightly disconcerting but also hilarious, it you’re seven brown people traveling in a herd. Mostly what I mean is that the people were VERY friendly, but they were also selectively friendly. Since I was the fairest looking of all (this was only day three, so the sun hadn’t yet darkened me into a shade considered “unmarriageable”), the waitress was nicest to me, whilst she was practically flippant towards my darker-skinned brother-in-law. I imply no racism at all, but to me she always said “Sure thing, hon,“and to him she always said “uh-kay.” This isn’t a 20/20 scandal featurette where Barbara Walters’s “let’s make-babies with the candle-lighting on my face” face will suddenly appear and spout off wild accusations. So please, draw your own conclusions.

Harry Potter Theme Park
As a thirty-year-old scandalously-single (sorry mom!) Indian-Canadian woman, the Harry Potter theme park was the obvious highlight of my trip. What pleased me most was to find so many others in my age bracket and beyond. Forty-something women in mom-jean-shorts guzzling Butter Beer in ecstasy, mature-most-definitely-out-of-college men pushing children out of the way so they could photograph themselves in front of the Hogwarts Express, it was glorious! The experience renewed my belief that books about kids, magic wands, potions exams, and first kisses are meant to be read by grown adults with frown wrinkles and upcoming prostate exams, whereas children should stick to this new-found era of “XBox Kinects” and not knowing how to read.

The After-Math
As sad as it is to say, I’d never been on a “lay by the pool/beach every day” vacation until this year. What an idiot I was, for never realizing the jealousy that’s felt towards an ethnic girl when she returns. Let’s just say I’ve been back for two weeks, have gotten almost zero sun since my return, but them pale white bitches STILL be jealous!

It’s all I have, this mocha-chino skin, and I will prostitute it in an office environment for several weeks more. “Excuse me clothing store attendant, give me everything you have in white…”

***
I can tell from your Internet-stranger eyes that you’d like me to go on many more vacations, so I can tell you many more things just like this.

Request granted. Look out Paris, here I come!…

Grateful Moment #7: Disgusting Flowery Perfume!

 

Swarovski Crystals Flowered Perfume, $44.95 on Amazon

 

Join me for a personal shout-out, to the inventors of disgusting flowered essence.

To be honest, I abhor the smell of flowered perfume, but to the grannies of our time who chase the scent like it’s a club-pack size of Depends on sale for $9.99, flowery perfume is a gift!

If flowery perfume had never happened, what would grannies do? Older ladies crave the lavender/rosy essence, it’s in the genetic code (a complicated code that stays dormant ‘till the grannies’ loss of teeth or will to live, or both.)

More importantly, what would I do? Because I’m pretty sure I want to live to the age of “granny”, when my deeds are remembered as epic, and when my younger self watches over the city square as a bronzed fountain. So what would “granny-Romi” do if “eau de fleur” was discontinued?

I’d hit the source is what I’d do, the way a heroin addict hops on a plane to Colombia.

In my case I’d go outside and find the nearest public garden. I would rip a row of aromatic flora from their roots and start to rub. I’d rub those flowers over my neck and when that wasn’t enough, I’d expose my granny collarbone and rub some more.

Okay I have to stop there.

I hope you have seen my point or maybe I have blinded you with it. The point is that convenient little bottles of flowered poison are what keep the world’s grannies in check. In fact grannies should stay behind closed doors as a general rule. That’s not me making an asshole statement, that’s society who stuffs the elderly in their own special compounds, where they’re not allowed to interact with the young and fabulous. An entire building of old-people smell, and teenage volunteers who need “x” amount of bed-pan-changing hours to graduate.

Sorry for the truth bomb, society, but that’s what we do.

So if society has already determined that the elderly should be contained, the disappearance of flowered perfume would interfere with the lockdown! It would be like a modified scene from a zombie movie; escaped, confused, slow-moving grannies with tilted heads, sniffing around for gardens or flower-shops, desperate to rub their collarbones with unsuspecting petals.

Nobody needs to see that. Like ever.

So sure, scrunch your noise at the nearest granny’s nasty flowered essence, but remember ladies, one day that will be us, and dammit we will need the supply.

So thank you, flowered perfume factory, keep the quota nicely humming…

(PS to all the men: disgusting flowered perfume doesn’t help you in any way so I have no consolation. But hey, sometimes the woman’s needs matter more so just be quiet and learn how to deal.)

Grateful Moment #3: NO Bowl Haircut!

If you’re an adult with a bowl haircut, I hope it was an accident. If it wasn’t an accident and you’re proudly shaking your bowl hair at me right now, then don’t read this blog anymore.

As for the rest of you, we are all grown adults, but the danger of a bowl haircut is all around us.

To start, cereal bowls can be found in every house. So can scissors. In other words the two needed weapons are in arm’s reach EVERY day, should a family member want to screw you over in your sleep.

And then there’s the frightening risk each time you go to a salon. Some people trust their hairdressers with their lives. I absolutely do not. Every time I’m in that chair, I suspect she’ll try to give me “the bowl”, just because I’m younger and prettier than her. Whatever. And hairdressers are so damn trained, that they don’t even need a real bowl to execute the cut! They could pull it off freehand and you may not even know until the last chop is made.

That is scarier than an STD, and no one’s even made a movie on it yet? (“You Gave Me “The Bowl” Last Summer“…)

So please feel grateful for your hairstyle, even if it’s greasy and ghetto-ass.

And definitely sleep with one eye open…

Grateful Moment #2: Unicorns Don’t Exist!

So beautiful, so pure, and with a horn containing magical healing powers, we all want unicorns to exist.

NO WE DON’T!

Imagine if unicorns were discovered in our lifetime. Now please imagine World War III, because whichever country these ethereal beasts were discovered in (my guess is Luxembourg), invasion would swiftly follow.

World War III would end on the basis of cloning. The United Nations would promise a unicorn to every man, woman, and child.

But who would be in charge of quality control?

Cloning is all well and cute when you’re simply doubling up on a sheep named Dolly, but exponential cloning of unicorns? It won’t be long before the magic of unicorns is watered down; it’s like cutting lines of coke with powdered sugar, just not the same. Predictably, the wealthy will snatch up all the earliest clones, leaving the poor folk with glorified horses that only have a two-inch horn.

And what about the horses, by the way? Up until now the beauty of horses has been captured in films and books; they are infinitely loved by those who own stables or those who can afford to take a ride.

Well not if the unicorns sauntered in!

The influx of magical unicorns would devalue the plain old horses. They’d be tossed from the stables and left to survive in an unforgiving world. It’s like in Southern Cali where the beautiful people always get by, and the ugly people are homeless or work in valet.

So if you care even a lick for horses, world peace, and the sanctity of unicorn magic, you are as happy as I am that they’ve never been discovered…

The Evolution of Music…and Loincloths

I must be a prude or have a “grandma soul”, because the music of today makes me turn and run more times than not.  Usher’s fixated on “boobies like wow, oh wow”, Lady Gaga sings of “disco sticks” which are not an item from Toys ‘R Us as I’d originally thought, and Akon, a featured singer for bouncing bodies or sexy bitches songs, must be riding a wave of perpetual erectus (I hope someone will be kind enough to relieve him).  Of course, it gets way more detailed than that (please refer to all the songs where half the lyrics are bleeped out on the radio), but I’ll leave that to your own listening pleasure.

So..what’s the final frontier of music? I suppose the physical union of bodies has long been the topic of tunes, but it was so much cozier in the Frank Sinatra days. I mean a long embrace? Now that I can get behind! A long embrace does not require wowzer boobs and an ass shaped like an astronaut (my translation of modern lyrics may not be exact).

It’s not likely we’ll return to the graceful art of subtlety, and maybe “hook-up” music keeps the nightclub culture booming.

So FINE, let’s keep it slutty, but we still have to keep it fresh! I don’t know what’s left in this modern expression of “man hunts, man penetrates woman” (please re-write as needed for the Lady Gaga version), but what about a throwback to the past? I mean it happens with fashion all the time, almost everything is “old turned new again.”

Okay then…which era should we pick for the next generation of club tracks?

-Ancient Egypt!

I know, I know, I give preferential treatment to Ancient Egypt all the time. I’ll admit it’s my favourite era, but this time it really makes sense! Ancient Egyptians had beer and wine, so obviously they knew how to party. They also didn’t wear a lot of clothes due to heat. And let’s not forget that future pharaohs were being married off/crowned in their early teens, which means that “sexy time” amongst the young ones was the norm (take that, concerned parents, we’ve always been whores…)

So let’s set the stage, shall we?

***

It’s a sunny day in Lower Egypt, but heat still burns through your transparent linen gown (you are a woman, by the way). You and the girls are headed for a nearby oasis; trees and sparkling water all around…yippee! A few hours later you realize it was only a mirage. No trees, no water, you have sand in your eyes and your butt-cheeks are starting to sweat.

Night falls, and suddenly an army of man-boys appears from behind a sandy dune. They’re running towards you in all their loincloth glory. Normally you wouldn’t go for silly man-boys, especially not the lowly type confined to manual labour. On the other hand, carrying all that limestone to build the pyramids did a wonder on their forearms, which are veiny and bulbous (just the way you like ‘em).

The man-boys slow to a halt, setting down their bottles of wine, whilst smiling at you and your girlfriends all the time. You blush and look away, as your brown skin glistens through the barrier of linen.

Conversation flows at a stifling pace, but who even cares? Mental stimulation isn’t needed on this night.

You swig the wine, eat handfuls of sticky dates, dance underneath the stars, and then…and then…

Group sex.

The End.

***

I wouldn’t recommend a straight story-to-song conversion, but there is so much potential material:

-Transparent linen gowns, man-boys, bulbous forearms, sweaty butt-cheeks, sticky dates, starry night, heat, group sex

I’m no songwriter, but I think I smell a hit. I’ll let the experts build the actual track, but I would really like a credit when it hits the airwaves.

(saving the world again, but musically this time…)