Somebody needs to give me the present of Kleenex, because using the rough but free (the company provides) paper towel to combat my allergies is the equivalent of cleaning off your camera lens with sandpaper.

I can't tell from my current perspective, nor am I willing to look in a mirror find out, but I'm pretty sure my nose has been sniffled and paper towel'd so many times I look like Rudolph.

Did I mention that tonight, I will be attending a BANQUET? You know, the thing where everyone tries to look their absolute bestest? The thing where (keeping in mind this is for a CHINESE softball league) every other person has a digital camera, and me being so naturally aawesome, will be in my fair share of pictures? The thing where I'll actually be UP ON STAGE!?

It's been proven over and over again, that stuff happens at the most inopportune time:

- Traffic Lights, slow cars and traffic accidents all conspiring to add to your frick-I'm-late-for-work frustations
- Injuring oneself before (arguably) the biggest game of your softball season
- David "Big Papi" Ortiz getting a weird heart condition, contributing to the fastest sinking ship that is MY-fantasy-baseball-winner-league-team
- Leaving your wallet in that other pair of pants sitting at home, on the day cops finally decide to pull you over for doing fifty-five in a fifty-fo'.

Not everything on that condensed bullet point list has happened to me. I was speaking hypothetically. I call it...

... hypothetikanese.

And clearly, when one is making up words, one is allowed to spell them however one wants.

Before, I go on, I must apologize to you my loyal readers, because I feel I have certain obligations when it comes to posting, and my last entry failed to meet a certain standard. You see, there are particular things/themes that I have set out to include in most blog posts, and I will continue beating them into a pulp until I see fit.

SNAKES ON A PLANE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

...will continue to be included in each post until I finally watch the glorious thing.

Back to my point. When bad things (bad things, bad thiiiinngs) happen, as bad as the situation may seem, I challenge you to look past it, and see how it accentuates the good things that happen to you, that so often are taken for granted.

The little victories in life.

If you hit every green light on the way home from anywhere, when you arrive at your destination, you must get out of your car, get up onto the roof, and do a little victory dance.

If you happen to be doing your laundry, which is usually located in the basement level, knowing full well how much of an annoyance it is to walk downstairs twice/thrice, and you walk into the room JUST as the cycle finishes, feel free to jump up in glee.

And, as demonstrated by me today, when one tosses scrunched-up paper towel into a garbage can located 5 feet away, you're allowed to get up off your chair, put your hands up in the air, lean wit' it rock wit' it, let your shoulder lean, two step then let your shoulder lean, do the chicken noodle soup, do the chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side, and then snap yo fingers.

My dancing skills are on par with Sean Paul's ability to enunciate his words.

Non. Existent.

I wonder what the "next big dance move" will be, and I hope it's in the form of "Shake it like a ________ ", where "_________" has (not so) recently been Polaroid picture, salt-shaker, snow-globe, rattle and Michael J. Fox.

What's shakin' bacon?

***-----------------------------------------------------------------------***

Yesterday night, my mother got so excited about the astoundingly low gas prices that she not only filled up her car's tank, but drove home and took my ghetto Jetta for a refueling session as well.

She was so excited she managed to not notice the fact that I had already filled it up, and only discovered this upon over-pumping my tank. If you ever wondered what happens if you decide to ignore the automatic sensors that release the pump trigger (I really don't know what else to call it) when the time is right, then wonder no more. Yes, the gas really does gush out of the tank and all over your clothes and does collect into a puddle at your feet.

Not to rain on anybody's parade, but am I the only person who finds the sudden drop in gas prices supremely suspicious? Almost as if the government has finally figured out a way to dilute our gas with water, and still charge us more than we should be paying, but relatively less than what we were paying. I wouldn't be surprised if cars start exploding mysteriously (unstable oil/water interactions...that...makes no sense), or if some idiot discovers that the oil tastes like Coca Cola.

Remember, if that happens, you heard it here first, at Stupefying Stupidity.

I would like to know what they attribute this lowering-in-cost of oil to, because for one, the Middle East is NEVER stable and has not been for the past few hundred years. For two, last I checked, oil isn't one of those easily renewable resources we find on this earth.

***-----------------------------------------------------------------------***

I'm pretty sure I'll be done after this last bit.

With the liquids-as-bombs plot being foiled last week, it isn't hard to see that terrorists are brainstorming newer and more creative forms of plane-terrorism.

For example, snakes, on a plane.

But, I must begrudgingly admit, this one tops them all. I call it, IDIOT PILOT ON A PLANE. To be fair, the door malfunctioned, but imagine the headlines if the pilot locked himself out of the cockpit for reals, and it wasn't the doors fault, and the plane crashed. Horrifically humerous.

And yeah, I realize that made me sound like a horrible person.

As an endnote, I wonder if George Bush would have blamed Iran for this somehow, and then gone on to preemptively invade them?

Read More...

Summary only...

I wrote this post a long time ago, a really long time ago. But because I am aawesome with two a's, I'm going to put it up unedited anwyways. No downtime this week to put up new posts on current events (such as Celebrity Duets/Survivor/the-fast-sinking-ships-that-are-my-fantasy-baseball-teams). Just know, I'm alive and still kickin'.

The end of my summer signified by the end of the softball season has come. I am relegated back to playing "fantasy" sports (I'm trying my best to ration out my hockey drafts over the next few weeks).

I sat on my lazy-butt the entire past weekend. But unlike the upcoming fall TV season, I managed to sit outside and enjoy nature for all that it was worth - the continuous flow of dust, the on-again-off-again rain, the scorching sunshine, the cool summer breeze, OG's like me eating on sunflower seeds among the tall palm trees.

Half my mind is in sunny California half the time. That's what happens when people ask you "whatsup" and from the hours of 8 (I'm being generous) to 5 (still generous, still aawesome) you look up to see the depressing ceiling of your cubicle jail.

When in solitude, one discovers things about onself. Such as ones ability to make lists. I don't just make lists, I make lists GOOD.

No catchy transitions today.

Things Learned After Yet Another Weekend Over-run By Softball Watching

1. Have your head in the game.
And if you do not do this, at least have your head screwed on straight. Look, I'm no conversation nazi. Nor do I think conversing while watching a softball game is wrong by any means. But if you are so engrossed in conversation, and idiodic enough to duck when "HEADS UP" is being hollered, you deserve to be sporting that shinny bruise wherever the softball lands on you.

For safety's sake, just look up when "heads up" is called. Hold your hands up in front of your face/other important body parts. Clutch on tightly to the person beside you. Let out a girly scream. But BE AWARE.

Let me further simply this:

"Heads Up!" - HEAD UP
"Duck!" - HEAD DOWN
"Goose!" - run around the circle

2. Do not drink more than the equivalent of 1L of *insert liquid of choice* when no washrooms are around.
It got surprisingly hot yesterday, and partially because I overdressed, thinking that if I was shivering on Saturday, then Sunday would be equally cold. When the opportunity presented itself to drink some refreshing apple juice, I downed about 2L. Over a span of 5 hours. Sitting down. Out in the ballpark. With no washrooms.

Most people can put 2 and 2 together, but for the sake of keeping the theme of further simplification going, let's just say that some usually ignored grass in generally unused areas of certain Toronto parks were watered by yours truly, Buttug McOysty. And I am aawesome.

3.

4. The seventh-inning stretch can and should be employed at any opportune time.
A conversation I had with the small of my back this morning:

Me - Hey small-of-my-back. How you doing this fine Monday morning?
S.O.M.B. - Like a fifty year old trapped in the body of a lazy, fat, 21 year old.
Me - Whoa! A talking small-of-the-back!

Me and the small-of-my-back, we're tight (making puns out of my pain is the only plus I can see in this situation).

5. Dreams can come true without the help of the make-a-wish-foundation.
Shoutout to the 2006 CCSA Junior Softball Champions, the Seraphs. Couple years in the making, but I'm sure the pay-off was sweet. Please rep NYCBC well during your reign as champions. Streets is talking, peoples is gossiping, and the childrens are watching.

Upon my re-reading of this post, I can see why I didn't hit the publish button in the first place. Alas, this blog demands something new at the top of the page everyonce in a while, and I was physically confronted today. Here at Stupefying Stupidity, I, Buttug McOysty swear to give the people what they want. I will rise to the occasion. Afterall, that's why I call myself Dwyane Wade

Read More...

Summary only...

Haven't thrown anything substantial up in a while, and that's good because I'm one of those hurlers that hurls when I see someone else's mess, or even my own, thus leading to a very ugly endless cycle. And now my hair is probably long enough that I'd need someone to hold it back for me. Not a good look.

And all the people that think they are Lil Jon say "WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAT".

I feel the need for a preface, because this is quite long. Although not as long as it could've been, but much longer than it probably should've been. And, as an incentive for reading this extra long post, whenever I tangent off or try to come back to a thought (and I do that plenty), I will redeem myself by transitioning extra smoothly.

*If you are oblivious to Jim and Pam's romance, or if you cannot pick sides when it comes to me thinking Lois Lane is a cooler character than Lana Lang, or if you are still confused as to how a House can be a genius doctor, I STILL think you should read this post. But you've been duely warned that it may contain NOTHING AT ALL for you, as I am too lazy to link to explainations of everything I'm about to mention.*

**Except the transitions. Read the transitions. You will regret missing them.**

SNAKES

In honor of the beginning of the return of glorious fall/winter television shows, signifying an end to the CRAP I've been fed over this summer that was only bearable because of the once-every-four-year World Cup Dive Fest (oh, I must not forget the Teen Choice Awards show Joke), kicked off by Prison Break, I decided to find a way out of my cubicle jail.

Yes, me of little courage, and equally little muscle, mustered just enough fortitude to ask my manager for a laptop so I would be able to roam around the premises while working, and the unmentioned option of working off-site (ie. from the comfort of my very own bed).

If you're asking if I did the equivalent of walking up to the warden of the prison and politely asking to be let out, then yes, yes I did. It just doesn't happen that way. Apparantly, an escape cannot be hatched in my courageous, but less than intelligent, way.

ON

Quick sidenote here, and I'll make it quick because I will most probably write up something bigger for this issue, but speaking of less than intelligent, people in the Survivor camp decided that for their 13th season, they would split teams up by their Ethnicity.

Not. A. Good. Look.

I won't lie, it's good to have the option of ranting about TV shows. It's almost like how when I heard Kevin Federline was making music, I immediately embraced that idea, hoping it would be so horrendous that it would provide me an endless amount of amusement just thinking about it. Same goes for Paris Hilton and anything she does.

Call me John, or Kate, or Jack, or Sawyer, or The Others, I'm plenty Lost. Transition time!

A

So color me embarassed upon hearing "Sorry, at this point in time the company simply cannot provide all interns with a laptop", but not to be sobby and broken-hearted about it, I instead am trying a different approach starting now. Gathering materials/resources, over an unnecessary and frustratingly long (sounds like I'm describing my blog posts haha) long period of time, climaxing in one of the most brilliantly engineered cubicle jail break-outs ever to be carried out. I acquired my first valuable commodity yesterday night, and employed it today. Ear-loving, sound-perfecting, annoyance-blocking headphones.

Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was my little Lego fortress I have in the basement of my home, but you don't see that put into a deep, makes-you-stop-and-think kinda statements, but I digress. With this newfound outlook, little by little I will gather more and more useful things until one day, I will have the most valued of assets...

...no, not an unlimited supply of sour-cream glazed timbits...

...no, also not the world's greatest TV remote accompanied by the world's finest television, no, HOME THEATER system, as (pardon my Grey's) McDreamy as that can be...

MUTHA@#!&ING

What I'm talking about...is...TRUST.

Everybody wants to be trusted, nobody will trust everybody.

I'm sorry, did someone say, T-SHIRT. Maybe not, but hey it was my first conscious attempt at creating a t-shirt friendly slogan. If you want to give it a try, by all means, that's what the comment section is for.

PLANE

Equipped with trust, I will then be set free for forever (possibly the worst use of alliteration since seventeen sssseventy ssssssseven (nope that definitely took the cake (this makes the bracket count 3, and inside each other, it's amazing what one man and no censorship can do!)))

HISS

Only to return to prove my true love...of getting that credit for school. Afterall, I do love school, something I realize after only 4 months of "full-time" employment, and a daunting year still ahead of me.

Time to end this post. I'm plum out of transitions. Good night/grief.

Read More...

Summary only...

Similar to SNAKES ON A PLANE. But not really.

I have a couple things that I care to share after an evening of fine dining at a French Bistro this past Friday (my delay in posting is phenomenal). The relationship presented can also function inversely, where I share to care.

As said by a guest pastor at church today, "I don't use powerpoint, but my points are all POWER POINTS."

He laid it down straight.

Five POWER POINTS observed whilst eating le food de les French.

BUTCHER'D.

1. Chilled melon soup is not a good choice for an appetizer.
Given the choice between that, and a house salad, I obviously opted for the new and unexplored territory that was this exotic melon soup. It came out looking like green apple slush found at local bubble tea dealers everywhere. And it tasted like bad honeydew. Granted, I think all honeydew tastes bad, but when my parents both shook their heads in disgust of the "soup", I had a basis for my accusation.

I still ate it all, sour-grape-faced and all. Didn't want to start off the night bad by disrespecting the chef, which I thought I would've done if I didn't finish the soup.

2. The French know their fries.
This cannot be explained. It is simply understood.

A corollary to this is that the French also know their poutines.

3. SNAKES ON A PLANE.

4. If I need to bust out a French-to-English dictionary to figure out which washroom I should walk into, the system needs tweaking.

Luckily because of the 1/125th hood in my blood, I figured out "hommes" and "dames". Only a couple letters off from the more commonly used words "homies" and "dimes".

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of my father, who had to come back upstairs from where the washrooms were located to ask which one he should enter. I told him he should've just waited outside for the next person to enter/leave a washroom to judge for himself. He did not find that as amusing as I did.

One more washroom thing. Apparantly over in Europe, the setup I'm about to describe is employeed commonly. But for me, it was just awkward.

Instead of the individual genders having separate washbasins, there was one big one located in between the two washrooms. At first glance, it was a decent idea. Saves the cleaners from having to clean an unnecessary amount of sinks, and leads to more interactions between the genders.

But after using this one big sink basin in the company of others, it just felt wrong. Just like the fries, I couldn't explain it.

And now I don't know where I'm going with this. But it's plenty awkward, so let's move on.

SNAKES ON A PLANE

5. Mousse does NOT EQUAL Mousse CAKE.
As with all of the above items, I found this out the hard way. I had just downed an incredible meal of fries with some steak on the side, and I was looking forward to downing some incredibly rich chocolate mousse cake with possible chocolate sauce drizzled over it, and maybe some strawberries (good food fuels my imagination, bad food fuels my anger). Out comes the waiter with a cup of chocolate pudding, or so I thought, and he proceeds to lay it in front of me and in his quasi-French accent exclaims "Enjoy your dessert sir".

I ate it all just to spite the misleading menu. Spited it good. I did.

Read More...

Summary only...

Similar to Jon Stewart, I can't wait to see what this movie is about.

August 18th. Samuel Jackson.

What more can I say?

*edit*

SEQUEL! THAT'S WHATSUP.

Read More...

Summary only...

Some of you may wonder why I decided to post on another blog a little while back, while not writing an equally entertaining post for my own blog. Slaving away in my cubicle jail makes me wonder how I keep from going under. Stevie Wonders.

OH. I mustn't (...awkward) forget this:

With all that finally said, I, list-maker extraordinaire, ButtugMcOysty, would like nothing more than to present to you:

Five Reasons Why I Post On Another Blog

***I know I have only done this thrice in my entire life, so you may be inclined to think I'm totally full of it. To those that think that way, I think I see a brick wall in your general vicinity that you should go walk into. Let us proceed.***

1. Because I'm a helpful person.
Somewhere deep down inside of me, beneath the manly exterior, I have that quality. I really do care, evidenced by my constant sharing. And when a friend has runneth dry on ideas/topics to post on, and hasn't posted in almost a month, I am more than willing, more than able, and more than grateful to step in and put up some new and delicious blog fodder for his/her readership. Just to hold them over until said friend's next post, which, with any luck, should be inspired by my guest post.

2. To attract a newer, but not necessarily better, readership to my own blog.
This one is painfully obvious. And I mean getting hit in the nuts, TWICE, painfully obvious (go back a few posts for that video).

I see guest blogging as the equivalent of when a politician campaigns at different voter ridings, or when one of the Wayans Brothers appears on a late night talk show in an attempt to hype up another craptacular movie of theirs. Getting your name out there, passing up no attempt to shamelessly promote oneself.

Furthermore, when I post on another blog, I tend to mention my own blog. Obviously, in my own blog I will mention that I posted somewhere else, and most probably link to it. This is known as Internet Cross PollinationPromotion. You have just been business school'd.

3. Yesterday, my hit counter laughed at me.
I employ a simple web tool that tracks how many visitors have dropped by this site. And by web tool, I mean I signed up for a free service somewhere else. I don't actually have the mental capability or focus to make my own web tool.

And yesterday, being all too curious, I decided to check in on my blog statistics, only to be laughed at upon the web page loading. Embarassing, to say the least. Add this to the list of telling signs that I need more readership, and I need it fast.

I later on figured out that it was only one of those annoying ads with the smiley faces that make sounds when you mouseover them, but the damage to my blog's ego had been done, and could only be repaired by MORE READERSHIP.

4. My material (and not surprisingly my grammar and spelling) drastically improve.
When attracting new readership, one must put up a very good front. Displaying one's finest talents, just as one would put only the best of products in a store window to attract unknowing customers inside.

The new readers do not know I tend to be slightly ri-donkey-less, and I tend to ramble on amusingly, but unnecessarily (although they may have figured that out by now, I'll let them judge for themselves).

Somehow, I've received glowing reviews on all posts I have put up somewhere else. First impressions are everything it seems, and I elevate my game in the clutch. They call me Dwyane Wade. Shaq calls me Flash.

You know what. I'm just going to come right out and say it. I am Dwyane Wade. Minus the skills, the money, the championship ring, and the black.

5.

Read More...

Summary only...

Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Captain Crunch and the Yellow Power Ranger all conspired to give me a big birthday present, seeing as how those characters collectively managed to forget my first 20 birthdays. The present actually came in the form of a whole lot of smaller presents.

Yes, I received a couple headaches, a few muscle aches, a free trip to my bed at any given time during the day, and a "Keep Your Mom Up at 1am Because of Your Coughing, Free" card.

Thanks characters, thanks a lot.

Honestly though, thank you to everyone who I had the priviledge of seeing over this weekend, and to everyone else who sent me birthday wishes.

Including a representative from State Farm Insurance, who personally sent me a very impersonal birthday card, but I gotta hand it to him, he was on top of his "retaining customers" game.

I may just have to blog about "Things You Can Do To Prevent The Flu From Getting To You" very soon. We'll see how it goes.

Read More...

Summary only...

The post for today is over here. Go check it out. Please remember to use Internet Explorer when viewing my posts, I have no clue if my formats hold over for Mozilla, and consequently, am also too lazy to investigate.

Happy birthday to my boy out in Calgary. He gets enough attention as it is, so no need to link to him, you know who you are. That is all.

Read More...

Summary only...

For the first time ever, you the priviledged readers, get a look backstage at my home-life for the past two years. Of course, the apartment was a lot nastier than usual because we were in the process of moving out (this was our last night together, forever).

In total, the video spans 18 minutes, and I personally think it's all gold, but that's because it brings back great memories for me. Emotionally invested I say.

But for those of lesser attention spans, it's pretty much one big build up to to the 13 minutes 50 seconds mark. And then one more time to 16 minutes 45 seconds. But it's pretty hilarious from 13 minutes 50 seconds out.

And that is how two plus years of friendship culminated. Such a painful, yet beautiful story.

Read More...

Summary only...

***I would like to pre-cursor this post with a notification to any reader that I plan to utilize plenty of stereotypes in this entry. If you think I need to rephrase certain things in this particular post, or you would like to give me a one way ticket to jail, please feel free to drop me an instant message of some sort, or just go play checkers by yourself.***

I just witnessed a "championship" match of doubles ping pong, where one team had their butts handed to them on a silver platter. And as such, I feel the need to propose a new rule of life:

Competitive Ping-Pong Should Only Be Played By Chinese People

The only exception I see to this rule for a non-Chinese person is if you are playing doubles and your partner is Chinese (ala the winning team in this particular match witnessed by yours lie-detector-be-darned-truthfully ButtugMcOysty).

You don't see us Chinese people invading other competitive sports, and the NBA doesn't count here because if you're over 7 feet tall, no matter how scared of the ball you are or how your most stunning quality is your ability to pull off the "deer-caught-in-headlights pose" (see SHAWN BRADLEY, the crash dunk dummy) you're going to get drafted.

But you for sure won't see us Chinese folks bashing each other around in a hockey arena or a football stadium, for the simple reason that Chinese people like math.

Now, I didn't say that all Chinese people are good at math, because there is living-breathing-proof of this phenomenon known as "the inability to put two and two together, literally". No single race is exempt of stupid people, and that is indisputable.

But you see, we, the Chinese, do math FOR FUN. Think about our national past-time, mah-jong. How much more mathematical can you get than that? Putting things into sets of threes, with your whole game based around odds of stringing together consecutive numbers or matching numbers. THAT IS WHAT WE DO FOR FUN.

And we love it to death, unliterally.

Meanwhile you have other races, that will drink tea and eat crumpets for fun (Brits) and listen to and buy up rap music like it was the gospel (WHITE FOLKS).

Speaking of the Brits, did you know the American version of the Office is a very blatant if not total rip-off of all the jokes done by the UK version? I originally thought that the US version was going to be LOOSELY based on the premise of the UK version, but I've heard exact lines (only with the weird British slang they use, like "wanker").

(looking at map of blog, I am here in tangent-factory-land, and I need to get back to original-idea-encorporated by following this cleverly inserted paragraph)

Ping Pong. The sport of mathematicians. Because that's basically all that it is. Physics. And so during the game as the little ball is batted around the table, the mind's of the players are racing to calculate where the ball will drop and at what angle their racket needs to be to successfully hit it back over the net.

And naturally, we as a race have the advantage in this sport. Whereas other races may have evolved the natural ability to jump higher and run faster, we have the ability to see numbers in our head and use them to our advantage. Something not very practical when it comes to sports, but feels oh so good when we can calculate the tax+tip of the dinner bill before all others with some time to spare for those other nagging questions in life (like if I were to plug pi into the theoretical equation of relativity, what would life be like then?).

Except for ping-pong. I claim that as the Chinese national sport. If your race has yet to lay claim to a national sport, then there are still plenty more available (including the aforementioned...yes...it really does seem like a long time ago...playing checkers with oneself). Feel free to choose from those.

Because this is something that should not be shared, even if you really do care.

Read More...

Summary only...