I Went to Thailand Part II: Text!

John: The Tour Guide That Just Don’t Give a F#$k

I’ve been on a lot of tours in my day. This includes trips in Asia, Europe, Australia, and the U.S. That’s four continents of tours, and let me say, I have never had a tour guide quite like our tour guide, John.

John, to use a colloquial phrase, just don’t give a f#$k. At one point, Loren and I were thinking of climbing up some rocks near a waterfall. The climb was pretty steep and slippery and John came over to us. “You can climb. You fall – you fall.” He then took a drag of his cigarette and walked away.

John aside from being ambivalent to his passengers general health and well-being, also didn’t really put much time into planning his discussions while on the tour bus. He may have had a diagnosable case of Tourguide Autism, because he would get stuck on one piece of information and repeat it and repeat it and repeat it. For example,

“You should all go to the night market. If you go out of the hotel and take a left, you will be close to the night market. It’s just a left out of the hotel. If you walk out, turn left, you’ll walk a ways and get to the night market. It’s just a quick left out of the hotel. You can buy things and see some of the sights. It’s the night market. You can find it by going out of the hotel and turning left.”

I wish this were an exaggeration, but… It’s not. Also important to note is the fact that he never once explained what one could purchase at the night market or really where it was (aside from left…) and what the actual name of the market was. Another important bit of information he left out was the fact that the Night Market is housed in the same building as the Ping Pong shows and sex bars. The next morning was interesting when all of the middle-aged women whispered about seeing Thai ladies in thongs and bras dancing through beaded doorways all along the strip.

Tapioca was also a favorite topic. This John Classic began with the following exchange:

“Do any of you know where we get the tapioca from in the tree?”

Bus Silence.

John Silence.

Doesn’t one ask a question so as to get an answer or open a discussion with the answer? What kind of alternative, new-agey tour is this John?

The Tapioca Trend continued through all of day four. Never once did he describe what tapioca was used for, why it was so popular to grow, or really anything aside from his loop of:

“Tapioca is made from root. (Yes, he finally told us where it came from) If you eat it from root, you die. It’s filled with cyanide, you have to expose it to the sun so the cyanide is broken down. You get the tapioca from the root and its full of cyanide. The cyanide only goes away by exposing it to sunlight. When you get the tapioca from the root you have to be careful! It’s full of cyanide!” ad nauseum.

Tapioca day ended with John leaping from the bus, asking a tapioca farmer for permission, then wildly ripping up an entire tapioca tree so he could show us the root.

While I can’t really tell you anything about tapioca, at least John made sure that I knew it was full of cyanide, and now I know what it looks like being ripped from the ground by a 55-year old Asian man.

John’s final favorite topic was square footage of property he owned… Yes, that was also something he referred to at least four times in two days. He was using it as a jump off point to talk about Thai real estate, but the conversation never really got there. It got stuck at:

“You know Thai real estate has gotten more expensive. When I buy my house it was… It was about 10,000 – no 12,000 Baht. I buy the house and it have three bathrooms, two bedrooms, a nice kitchen. My son’s room about 8 by 7 – maybe 6 by 9? It have a nice porch with a patio. The patio is not that big, maybe 3 by 2.”

This conversation dragged on for thirty minutes as he discussed the exact layout of his house and his apartment that he bought to make extra money. Don’t worry, this conversation hadn’t bored any other tourists previously, I know this because he had no idea what his facts and figures were.

“My house maybe 500,000 Baht or maybe…more…. That equivalent to, maybe 500 million dollar – no… - haha! That maybe, like 18,000 dollar. I think, maybe it about…. No, it about 21,000 dollar.” This lively self-debate continued on for some minutes.

Another favorite episode of John Didn’t Plan It! was when he was talking about the King of Thailand.

“King of Thailand actual really good jazz musician. He write two very famous jazz songs. You know them. He write… (silence) I don’t remember.”

Not only did he disappoint with bus conversation, but he also had a knack for not preparing us for the events of the week, including dress for temples. When we showed up at one temple and 8 people had to scrounge up scarves, pants, and shawls to cover up their shoulders and legs to get in, the group was less than happy.

A concise feeling of the group came from one older white lady, who was…what I would call disgruntled in general.

“Sometimes John doesn’t really plan things out. He doesn’t realize his actions affect others. You know… He’s kind of an idiot.”

I feel it would be remiss of me to not mention that John did do some cool stuff, like takes us to tiny markets, a school, and some sights that are well off the beaten trail. He also told Loren and I to pull down a sign that said “Do Not Enter” and take pictures in an off-limits part of a temple. While some of these things may have gotten us all thrown in a Thai prison, it also made for some fun experiences.

That being said, I wouldn’t really recommend John for any tour other than one of his house. ‘Cuz girl knows every detail about that.

Revengeance of the Oppressed, Middle-Class, Middle-Aged White Woman

I know I’ve mentioned before that my time at Banana Republic taught me that the worst people on earth can be middle—class, middle-aged white women. For some reason this sect of human has a knack for being grumpy, mean, and condescending to a degree that other age, races, and genders can only ever strive to attain parity with.

This tour was no different. The amount of Lady-Rage present during certain parts of the tour was off the charts. I already mentioned the lady who flat out called John an “idiot,” along with her there was a general battle cry after we had had six days of Thai Food.

“What’s for dinner,” says White Lady 1. “You can take a good guess it will be THAI food!”

For some reason the older people on the trip didn’t really realize that WE WERE IN THAILAND. Yes, we are eating a lot of Thai food. And yes, you’re an idiot if you think this is somehow an affront to your enjoyment of the tour.

I mean, can you imagine going to a cereal factory and be given a bowl of cereal, only to say, “Oh brother! Cereal!” What?

Along with forgetting the whole I’M IN THAILAND thing, these ladies also failed to remember that WE ARE IN A TROPICAL CLIMATE. Thankfully, during most of the tour we had cloud cover, which kept a thick blanket over the seething rage that erupts from White Ladies who begin to break a sweat on a vacation.

Poor John wasn’t so lucky on Day 5 when we took a tour of a summer palace. It happened to be 90 degrees and there was almost a mutiny.

As John was standing with all of us in the shade, describing the architecture of the palace, one of the White Ladies tottered passed and just yelled, “Let’s keep it moving! It’s hot!”

Lady! If you hate the heat and Thai food, why didn’t you stay home?! Go to McDonald’s and get a cappuccino because that’s the kind of cultural exposure you deserve with this attitude of yours.

That being said, it’s also worth mentioning that along with breeding some of the most vile sort of person, White Ladies can also be of the most compassionate and caring variety.

When Loren sprained her ankle slipping on the bus stairs, a line of the old matriarchs was lined up with health advice, ice, and ibuprofen.

*Warning this next bit is probably offensive to everyone

Our tour group split into two groups after about 6 days in. Half of us were shipped back to Bangkok and the other half were continuing on with John to see some more temples to the north. This led us to getting a new tour guide, an androgynous-looking female named Ronnie. Because her name is Ronnie and I have seen the following:

She will hereby further be referred to as Shy Ronnie. So Shy Ronnie turns out to be an immense improvement over the WTF tour leadership stylings of John. She said helpful things and explained history and avoided the topics of tapioca and square footage of rooms in her house.

But Shy Ronnie also decided that she should address the issue of transgendered peoples in Thailand. I feel it necessary to reflect her tone and grammar (see above note about being offensive) because it was like a Michael Scott from The Office leading a gender discussion in broken French.

“You may heah in Thailand we have many of da Lady-Man. In Thailand we no afraid of Lady-Man like in America. The Lady-Man have feelings. The Lady-Man have dreams. I work for long time for Lady-Man.”

I don’t know what kind of PR nightmare the US has on its hands in terms of transgendered peoples, but evidently Thai people think that we still debate whether they belong to the human species. We ask ourselves questions like: Does the Lady-Man breathe Oxygen? Does the Lady-Man really eat locusts in order to complete their transformation from Male to Female? Because of their more muscular thighs and calves, do Lady-Men have an easier time in heels?

I mean… what? “The Lady-Man have dreams.” Is that something that we didn’t know? Also, if Thailand is so open why is their no politically correct term for “The Lady-Man”? These questions and more ran through my head as I put my head between my legs and tried not to laugh out loud on the bus thinking of Martin Luther Lady-Man giving her famous “I a Lady-Man and I have a Dream” Speech.

I Went to Thailand Part I: Pictures of Nothing of Historical or Cultural Importance!

My friend Loren and I recently went on a one-week tour of Thailand. It was awesome. It also created some scenarios that are worthy of attention. To begin with, because it’s more fun, here are some quick pictures and descriptions of events.

This is Dom. For 120 minutes of our lives, Dom and I were best friends, as can be told by this sequence of Best Friendsies Pictures taken over the course of previously mentioned 120-minute period.

Thanks, Thai Mom who supervises bathroom signage at the airport.

I sometimes misspell things like Bus Assistant. I hope he got his tip.

Thai cigarettes tell us that smoking diseases your foot? Maybe if you drop a lit cigarette on your gasoline-covered shoe?

These bottles were sold at restaurants. On the menu they are described as “whiskey” on the bottle they are ambiguously classified as “Blended Spirits.”

Because I’m a millennial, selfies are a required picture at every stop. Because it’s about ME being wherever and YOU seeing it on social media. Because I matter.

Thai Urban Haberdashery

Lens flares allow me to believe I’m good at photography. And as cool as JJ Abrams.

Speaks for itself. 

In Thailand Vampires find work as spokesmodels for cars.

Our tour guide love talking about tapioca, so a senior picture in front of the plant was required.

In a museum of the future this will be called Millenial with Oversized Ticket.

Selfies on elephants are harder than regular selfies.

We finished our tour at a temple in a town, all thinking that our hotel was in the same town as the temple. Tourguide John got on the speaker and says, “Okay, we drive 1.5 hours, then hop on the boat to take to our hotel. This is cool, but also annoying when all of your plans require being close to the city center. #whitetouristproblems

This cow is so happy.

Thai boxing was so awesome it deserves three pictures, followed by self-indulgent shot of me wearing a tank top that matches my beer can.

This guy has luxurious hair and also somehow kept getting beers bigger than ours. Hair is important in Thailand. Nate Berkus would be a god.

Nate Berkus.

This Buddha Child is terrifying.

The world's first openly gay Buddha. You can almost hear it say, "GURL!"

Thai guardians have big booties. This probably serves some defensive purpose. The tails probably do as well.

This is the picture one (who is a Millennial) takes when one walks 3 miles in the rain to see Thai Boxing and find out it has been canceled due to political protests.

In Thailand water bottles wear coats.

To conclude: Selfies.

That One Time(s)? I Got a Haircut and a Bunch of Weird Things Happened

(I don't know why this blog reads like an article... Oh well... That's what happens when you write on planes.)

When I was 11, my stepdad and I both needed our haircut, so we went to Bo Ric's. Usually we were met with a few overweight, mousy haired women from the country outside of Springfield, but that particular evening I got to encounter my first homosexual and a...something else. I can remember my 6th grade self looking at the two people behind the counter and being terrified of both. Obviously sixth grade Tedd thought homosexuals were evil and express-bound for hell (see previous entries regarding emotional baggage and therapy) and then the other…person?… was about 6 feet tall, wearing heels and a power skirt-suit, with “her” (I guess…?) Frankensteinian visage topped off with a coif of spiked platinum blond hair.

I think my stepdad and I both were assessing the homosexual and Frankencutter with the same big question mark hovering over our heads. To be honest, I was hoping for the gay, because I didn’t know what to expect from Frankencutter and I think my stepdad was hoping for the Frankencutter, because he assumed the gay would hit on him.

We both got our wishes, so I was sashayed over to the gay, whilst my stepdad was sat down by Frankencutter. I was obviously rigid and uncomfortable because my gay started cutting my hair and asking me questions like, “What’s your name?” to which I would respond in my high-pitched child whisper voice, “mhjmkteddhmhi.”

“He’s shy!” The gay said meticulously cutting. “This is a shy boy!”

My mother had come with us and tried to keep her eyes on the magazine that she was reading to avoid homosexually-tainted discourse. My stepdad was nervously sitting as Frankencutter clacked around him in her heels and assessed his hair.

I remember leaving the haircut wondering if anyone was going to mention the fact that we had entered (in Springfieldian terms) a freak show. I was actually really shocked when no mention was made of what had happened. Leaning forward from the backseat, I kind of brought it up, “That was…the guy who cut my hair?”

My mother just fiddled with the radio.

“Let’s hear some Oldies,” my stepdad said.

Fastforward 15 years and I’m living in homocentral and wondering if I should go in for one of those super gay haircuts with the sides of my head buzzed and the top partable and floppy. Another part of me was sick of my hair in general and wanted to just get a buzz.

That’s when I was called up to the Haircuttery seat by Daniel.

There is no question about the orientation of any of the men at this Hair Cuttery. Far from the conservative bowels of Springfield, there is no question what private parts a man cutting your hair in Edgewater prefers.

The last time I had been to this same Cuttery, a portly gentleman had cut my hair and asked, “You want your eyebrows waxed?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Okay. I just didn’t want you leaving here looking like a mess.”

Wait, what?

So Daniel sits me down and throws the plastic bib around me. It happened to be Halloween, so I had dressed up for work. The place I work now is hip and trendy and so I believed that people would dress up and be super-crazy-fun! Sadly, I wore overalls and a flannel shirt, claiming to be a farmer. By 9 o’clock after I had been at work for forty-five minutes, I realized that NO ONE had dressed up. Out of our 200-person company, our “Halloween” picture comprised of six of us wearing lackluster costumes.

I will never participate in anything again.

But I was wearing my flannel and overalls and Daniel was like, “You Farmer Joe? Cute.”

I didn’t know if Farmer Joe was…like something? But I said, “Thanks.”

Then Daniel put his thick hands around my neck and says, “Really cute.” I looked up in the mirror to catch a coy smile. He then got prepped his buzzer and went to work. He’s about a third away around my head when he goes, “So, girlfriend? Wife?”

“Oh, I’m gay,” I said.

“Oh, really? I would have never pegged you.”

“Must be the flannel,” I said.

So Daniel and I start chit chatting and he asks about my family. I tell him I have five brothers and he is duly impressed.

“I once dated a guy with a gay brother.” Then, without being prompted in any way, he answered the question on the tip of all the homo tongues gathered getting haircuts. “He wasn’t cute.”

We all laugh and then the guy cutting hair behind me goes, “I once knew gay triplets! None of them were cute, either.” Another chortle moved around the room and then guy says, “Like triplets. Would you believe they looked alike. Like exactly alike! Hair – same! Smile – same! Same height! Same weight!”

“Now, that’s genetics!” Daniel piped in.

This whole exchange struck me as the weirdest ever. Triplets? Yeah, they look alike… And…. Yes, it’s because of genetics. It would be equivalent to me coming in and being like “Notebook paper! Can you believe it? It’s lined and white!”

“That’s for writing!”

Any number of inanimate objects or items of genetic variance could have been the subject of discourse in that Hair Cuttery.

“Sandwiches! Meat between two slice of bread – do you believe it?!”

“That’s for eating!”

I was trying to fathom how the discussion took the sharp left turn into inanity-ville, while the lady getting her hair dyed chimed in with, “Yeah triplets that look alike – that’s rare!”

Meanwhile, Daniel had lost interest in the call and response and began probing me further.

“How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, “Are you interested in older, bearded men?” (Ok, that last one was made up, but heavily implied in the tone and aggression of the occurring haircut.)

At this point a group of Trick or Treaters piled into the shop. It was raining and the floor was covered in water. This, of course, led to a bunch of the children collapsing on the floor and skittering around like water bugs.

So the scene was unfolding like this with circular conversation occurring as children fell on the floor like bowling pins and Daniel was probably about to ask me to join him in the alley after the haircut for…something of a blow dry, if you catch my drift.

I was relieved when the tarp was pulled of and I paid. I actually gave Daniel a big tip, because he was nice, and despite his almost police detective-level of questioning, I think he was just having some fun with a guy in a terrible Halloween costume.

As I left the place, I couldn’t help but think it may have been one of the weirdest haircuts I’ve ever had. So much was happening, and so many children were almost injured, it kind of resembled the Children’s Crusade of Hair Cuttery experiences.

At some point in the future I may have enough money to go to some place that serves crushed juniper flowers in orange juice, as patrons enjoy a scalp massage from a stylist/masseur trained in Nepal, but I’ll probably stick with the Hair Cuttery, especially when I have children.

“Kids, we’re going to Hair Cuttery. It was while getting my hair cut that I encountered the Frankencutter and discussed the importance of heavy objects.”

Tedd’s child: “They’re heavy!”

“Very good, son. Now put on these cleats. We don’t want to lose traction on the tile. Remember, the Hair Cuttery builds character.”

In Which Nintendo Imagery is Used to Describe My Ineptitude at Volleyball

I don't know if y'all know this, but there's more to volleyball than just smacking it over the net. Right?! It's like how I learned in 4^th grade soccer that you don't just blindly chase the ball, you have to play a position... Which is when I started to be bored by soccer.

Well, I recently joined a volleyball team. I will describe how I came to be on the team just as I described it to the others who had no idea who I was:

“Oh, well, I played volleyball against James's team this summer and then you know, Pete? Well, I know Pete because he works at Southie Bar and he invited me to his Pride party. So I went to the party and met James, who is the boyfriend of Jack, who is Pete's roommate, so James was there and asked me to be on the team.”

All this translates into I know no one on the team. And I don't really know how to play volleyball. James saw me play beach volleyball, which is like watching someone play NFL Blitz on the N64 (Nintendo Reference #1) and asking them to be quarterback on your inter-mural football team. There's some correlation, but then there's all this weird stuff that happens that I just don't get.

At one point during our practice tonight, a team member hit the ball over the net. What happened after this can only be correlated to what happens with the Hammer Brothers in Super Mario 3. (Nintendo Reference #2) If you don't know what this is, I'll explain it. In the map in Mario 3, there are these turtles who move around the map. They shuffle around after you complete a level or die. They can majorly suck because sometimes they shuffle in front of you and you have to beat them before you play the next level. Anyway, any time you complete a level they move randomly around the map to block your progress. I looked for a good twenty minutes to find this clip (8:09, watch the green turtles).

And that's what happened at volleyball. Serve. Shuffle. And I'm like, “Wha happened?!” Everyone ran around and ended up on opposite sides of the court and upside and somehow tapioca pudding was involved. I guess this is a volleyball thing. You can switch positions for some reason and evidently sometimes you just move totally around the floor and “push up”? I wish I had any idea of what that is. Basically everyone got really irritated that I didn't know what was happening and roared like Bowser hitting a banana (Nintendo Reference #3).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BpmD5UvJpA (Won't let me imbed this! RAW-RAWR!)

Prior to even starting playing they were talking about where people were playing and everyone is like, hitter! Middle! Tapioca Pudding! And I had no idea what was going on. I mean, I could kind of assume what was happening based on the word “Hitter!” and then the position the person took on the floor. This was true in all cases except for the one girl on our team who stepped forward and says, “I can play libero if needed.”

I swear wind chimes played and a mandolin somewhere played a few notes.

“You see... You didn't know, but all along, I was...the libero!”

I'm pretty sure that's either an Antonio Banderas movie, or that song for the fire temple in Zelda (Nintendo Reference #4).

This basically devolved into hammer brother shuffling, Antonio Banderas Libero-ing, and people yelling at me every thirty seconds to move.

“Okay, Tedd, they're going to hit the ball and then you're going to run to the opposite side of the floor.”

“Wait...why?”

“Go!”

This made especially little sense to me when people would be running to another place and a ball would hit between the two people switching places.

Eventually I just kind of got it and was moved around the floor. We did okay and I spiked it really hard a couple times to get points, kind of making me feel like:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYx34GpuRlo (Sigh... This either...)

(Nintendo Reference #5)

I don't know how this season will go, but I hope volleyball doesn't continue to be as frustrating as a Hyrulean Water Temple (#6) but rather as awesome as getting the hyper beam in Super Metroid (#7). Either way, I think everything will be pretty tapioca pudding, and if not there's always writing the script for Libero II: Bumpo, Seto, Spiko! Featuring this as the theme song:

The United Church of Pescetarians

Spreadsheet Icarus

My previous blog entry has a bland story about a spreadsheet. To recap, I regale readers with a story of me creating a spreadsheet for a work lunch and everyone thinking it was awesome.

Well, the day of the lunch showed up and I sent around the menu again.

“Hey everyone! Put in your orders, because it’s Team Lunch Today!” said my email, dripping with my smug exultation of my own spreadsheet genius.

About 5 minutes later, I get another email:

“Hey everyone, the menu for the restaurant changed. Here’s the update.”

I immediately went online and checked and, sure enough, the menu had changed in the week since I originally sent out the email. This is weird.

Once everyone has entered a meal in the spreadsheet, I had to walk around the room and ask 6 people to update their orders because what they had put in was no longer available.

After this is completed I got our team card and went into an office to order.

“Hello, the number you are trying to reach is disconnected.”

My jaw just kind of hangs there. WTF? What am I supposed to do? If you don’t know me, when I get nervous, I just start to sweat. It’s what I do.

So I’m starting to sweat and run out to my desk and grab my computer. I Google the number again and find that I had everything correct. My other option is to go through Grubhub, which has another number listed for the restaurant. The sweat starts to recede as I dial the number and am connected.

“Thank you for calling Grubhub. Hold one moment.”

Waiting…

“Hello, the number you are trying to reach is disconnected.”

At this point sweating begins double time. I look across the table in shock (I perform very well under pressure.) and whisper at Cindy.

“Hey… Uh… The restaurant doesn’t exist.”

Cindy kind of looks at me. “What?”

I quickly turn away and start typing into Grubhub. There is an order online option, so I click one of the meals that was ordered.

6.95 meal + 89 delivery fee = 97.95

I could have basically gotten out of a pool at this point. There was so much sweat.  Almost 100 bucks for one meal? What?

“Cindy,” I say again, “it doesn’t work… What should I do?”

“Order some place else,” she said.

So I’m panicking, which I believe Cindy is suddenly aware of, and she walks over to me.

“Let’s just order like Mediterranean Grill. It’s the same kind of food.”

“Yeah..uhh…yeah…”

I get online and go through the menu. Rather than having normal food, the only thing you can order online are these bowls.

“How should I handle this?” I ask Cindy.

“Just take your computer around and take orders.”

So I open up my browser and go to my first coworker.

“Hey, Steve. Want to pick an item? The other place was closed.”

Steve looks at the menu. “I want a plate. I don’t want a bowl.”

“Bowls are all they have.”

“I want a plate.”

Remember, I’ve only been working at this place like 3 weeks, so I don’t really want to seem like I’m in charge or anything, so I’m just like,  “Bowls are all they have.”

Steve proceeds to click out of the menu and look for a plate.

At this point, the whole debacle has taken me about 45 minutes.

Steve can’t find the platter, because they only serve bowls, so he gives the computer back and says, “No, I don’t want anything.”

“Uhhh…. Okay…”

This continued through the rest of the 14 orders that I had to take. Surprisingly there are a lot of nuances with bowls and lots of people liked to ask questions to me, the guy with the computer.

“Well, do they put hot sauce on the side?”

“Umm… I don’t know.”

“Because I want hot sauce, but I want it on the side.”

“Uhhhh….”

“Can you ask them to put it on the side?”

“It’s…all electronic.”

“I want it on the side.”

By the time I had all the orders, I kind of wanted to kill myself. Everyone was riled up and the complaints about the menu had turned into complaints about being hungry.

The order was processed, the food turned out great, my sweat dried, and everyone was sitting down and eating. All animosity had left as everyone ate delicious Mediterranean Food.

“Nice work, Tedd!”

“Thanks for the work, buddy!”

Just as I shall never ride Megabus, I hope to never order Team Lunch again. I have also been humbled by the Spreadsheet. I now know that flying to close to the sun just gets you covered in hot sauce and ill will.

The United Church of Pescetarians

One time my friend, Tristan, and I were out. We had been drinking on a weeknight and were interested in pizza. Tristan is the oldest in his family and I am the youngest. Also, in size, Tristan is 6’6”, so in his family and in height, he’s kind of like the big brother in our friendship. We’ve pretty much been best friends since the second time we met. This also means that sometimes Tristan can be a little condescending to me, the little brother.

We were getting pizza and Tristan says, “Oh, I want meat on my pizza, but I can’t because of my diet…” (I would hope this line of dialogue alone would indicate Tristan’s sexual orientation.)

“Why not?” I asked

“Well, I’m actually a pescetarian. You probably don’t know what that is.”

“I know what it is –”

“It means I only eat fish. That’s what it means.”

“I know I –”

“I only eat fish. It’s like kind of a new thing I’m trying – a new diet.”

I’m not like the smartest guy in the world, but I also know enough that if you put pesca- in front of something it means it’s fish-related, unlike putting Presb- in front of something, which means that you like Jesus and may be from Scotland.

Once we had sobered up and I recounted this story, Tristan thought it was hysterical, too. He was totally acting like the goth girl in the back of the room in high school, who is like, “I’m vegan. I couldn’t possible eat anything from the body of a precious animal.” Then three weeks later she is on a carnivore diet because she’s dating a guy in a band called MEAT.

Well, the other weekend I was visiting my friend at IU in Bloomington, IN. Bloomington is this weird, wonderful nexus of farm folks, frat brothers, and super liberal hippies. Everyone lives together in peace in harmony. At the center of this ecosystem is the beautiful IU campus with its castle-like architecture and leaves that seem to be perpetually in that perfect, fall color schema.

My friend, Marlene, who I was visiting, had just got a new roommate, Troy. Troy is 23 and an absolutely beautiful homosexual. He is studying some sort of environmental policy and is brand new to Bloomington, so he hasn’t yet made enough friends to have better things to do than hang out with Marlene, me, and my other friend, Alice.

Our last morning in town we went to brunch, and Alice, Marlene, and I, being good Midwesterners, ordered what might as well have been called The Fatty Fatty Fat Fat breakfast. It had eggs, bacon, and two giant pancakes. Troy ordered something with crab(?) in it. Is that a food?

So we were discussing food and Troy mentioned that there are a lot of options for vegetarians in Bloomington, and it being the Frat-Liberal-Country-Nexus that it is, I really believed it. This kind of turned into the talk where everyone says that they, “don’t mind vegetarians, but…oh brother, vegans!”

This reminded me of Tristan and his pescetarianism. So, I tell the story and say something like, “Yeah, my friend Tristan can be really pretentious sometimes and so he… [story]”

Marlene kind of looks at me like, “You stupid moron. We’re eating with an attractive homosexual, what do you think you’re doing?”

I had a split of second to think, “Blaaarrrggghhhh…” before Troy is like, “Oh. I’m a pescetarian.”

Luckily for all of us, we’re so much older than Troy, he was obligated to chalk it up to my old-tymey ignorance, rather than any animosity toward pescetarianism in general.

The rest of brunch continued and I ate most of my Fatty Fatty Fat Fat breakfast. I devoured my bacon.

And I don’t care what anyone thinks.