Be Cautious of the Wedding Singer

Last Saturday was my brother’s wedding, and obviously everybody had a blast.

However.

One of my brother-in-laws, Vincent, got really drunk, and after the reception, I walked outside and and found him sitting on the curb, with his head down, waiting for chunks to come out.  My sister (his wife, Asia) and my other brother-in-law were there trying to comfort him, they were talking to him, patting and rubbing his back and then out comes the Wedding Singer holding a roll of paper towel.

“I got him, I got him,” The Wedding Singer sat next next to Vincent, patted his mouth with the paper towel roll, and started to rub his back.  My other brother-in-law starts to back off. “I take care of him.  He need to sit here for a while before he can get into the car.”

More back rubbing and massaging ensues, the Wedding Singer looks up at me as I stare in utter confusion and then frantically asks me, “Water. He need water. Can you get it for me?”

“Yeah,” I answered.  I ran back to the restaurant looking for water.  The waiters seemed very occupied cleaning up the area so I grabbed the nearest and cleanest looking glass of water from one of the tables. I walked out of the place and found the Wedding Singer in the middle of a conversation with Asia.

“Everyone go! Go! I take care of him!” He takes the cup out of my hands while talking to my sister, “He my friend. I will help.”

“I’m his wife,” Asia giggled, trying to make the situation less awkward, “And I’m not going anywhere without my husband.”

So we all stayed, waiting for Vincent to puke, while the Wedding Singer caresses his back some more and uses the water to help clean his mouth.

During this time, NOBODY thought of anything.  We just thought the Wedding Singer was being really, really helpful and really, really weird, until…

*BLERHHHH!!!*

Barf galore, barf on the ground, barf on the curb, and barf on the Wedding Singer’s arm.

“It’s OK. I take care of him.  Everybody go,” he motions his hand suggesting us to go away.

He was ok with it. He was much more concerned with us going away so that he could be alone with my brother-in-law then his arms, covered in the thickest, smelliest smellin’ shit puke ever.  And that’s where it hit me and my sister.  We looked at each other, mouth wide open, and we knew exactly what we were thinking…

This guy is dead horny and he wants my sister’s husband, badly.

After the puke fest and realizing the Wedding Singer’s disturbing motives, my sister and I both helped Vincent up.

“Thanks for helping my husband, we’re going home now.”

“Wait, he should sit here longer.  It’s not good to bring him into the car rye now,” The Wedding Singer grabs a hold of Vincent’s shoulder, “You guys go. I do it myself.”

“Dude, you’re not getting ass tonight. Sorry.” I told him.  Without saying a word, he released his grip, and that was the last of the Wedding Singer.

Geez, what a creepfuck.  If I had taken a photo of him, I would have most certainly posted it here to warn people, like what people do when they find sexual offenders, because I have no doubt in my mind that he does this in every–if not most–weddings. I mean, the guy was already equipped with a roll of paper towel, how strategic can you get?

So I have to warn any Vietnamese people from Orange County who are planning to hire Vietnamese wedding singers/bands. I know that there’s a shitload of them out there in this county, but if you HAPPEN to hire a band and one of them has buzzed hair, wears glasses, and speaks terrible English…keep an eye on him after the reception.

*shudders*

My first time in Vegas

I’m back from Las Vegas and boy does it feel good to be back here. I guess I did have fun, but it was a different fun, a kind of fun I wasn’t exactly use to…because I’m kind of a geek. And uh geeks find funnitude in video game conventions and zombie walks, not partying in Vegas.

So where do I start?

The person who invited me was my brother’s fiance, Huong, for her bachelorette party. There was going to be a total of 10-11 girls that were going to Vegas with us, and I didn’t know any of them. Terrifying.

Since my last encounter with a group of females wasn’t the exactly the best time I had, I was a little hesitant on going, but it was for Huong and I had a 101 Things to tackle, one of which happens to be going to Vegas (I’m still determined to complete 101 things).

The girls, surprisingly, were nice and I got along with them very well…except for one (of course there’s one). I mean, we CAN get along, but she was very rude to me. I even have a photo taken in Vegas that actually proves her distaste for me. But to avoid any potential stupid girly drama, I’ll go more into detail after the wedding (this Saturday).

For now, I want everybody to have fun when my brother and his fiance tie the knot.

So for the first night in Vegas, we wanted to check out Thunder Down From Under. The tickets were sold out, but we found something else, something more patriotic…

American Storm. I know, very intimidating.

The show was hilarious. I was thoroughly entertained with their choreography–it was something you would see out of a cheesy 1998 boyband music video. Their movements were very stiff and robotic. Very bad dancers they are, but who cares right? They’re American Storm.

After that, we went to Club Tao and I got really fucked up…for the first time. So fucked up that I had no recollections of that night. According to the girls, I was very hyper and in total party mode. I talked a lot. I held up the rock/horns sign a lot and yelled, “I love rock n’ roll!!!!” and “I love Metallica!!!” I danced with a lot of guys, but half of the times, I’d push kept pushing them away so I can dance with myself. I sent drunken text messages to the guy I’m seeing and professed my love for him. And apparently I got kicked out of the club for being so ridiculously drunk.

I guess that’s how you’re suppose to do it in Vegas, but I certainly wouldn’t want to do that again ha, I REALLY don’t.

The next day, I was really out of it. I slept for the whole day to regenerate for the bachelorette party, but I was still tired and I felt sick. The photos that were taken on the second day (the one where we’re all wearing pink) actually looked like I was having fun. I was pretending to have fun because I didn’t want to ruin the night for the girls. But truthfully, I wanted to go home and sleep.

(for more Vegas photos click here)

So did I have fun in Vegas? No not really. It was OK. I could’ve probably had more of a blast if I never took so many shots of patron, and it could’ve been better if one of the girls wasn’t such being a dick to me.

Speaking of dicks, the only thing I really enjoyed about Vegas was molding playdough into a dick as part of the bridal shower game. But I guess none of the girls shared my kind of sense of humor, because they didn’t like my penis with the hairy testicles. They were really grossed out by it. Oh well, you asked to create the most realistic looking man package, and that’s what I delivered. *shrugs*

A Tattoo Nightmare

I know. There are stars on her face.  Cute, right?

Well, maybe if  they weren’t permanent.

18-year-old Kimberley Vlaminck decided to get supposedly three stars tattooed on her face, but she supposedly fell asleep in the process and woke up with 56 stars. What a moron.

After her new face was revealed to her father and her boyfriend, Kimberley decided to sue the artist for the cost to remove all 56 stars, however the tattoo artist is making claims that she actually wanted all of those (tacky) stars.  He even mentioned that she looked in the mirror a few times as the procedure was taking place (more info  here).

Two questions that comes to mind:

-How did you manage to fall asleep when someone’s stabbing your face with a needle?

-Can I call you Starface? Like Scarface the movie, but uh only not?

I’m not buying her story.  If she was telling the truth, then this was how it probably went down on the night she got her tattoo…

Kim: “Hi I’d like to get three stars on my face, just three.”

Tattoo artist: “That can be done, just have a seat.”

Tattoo artist: *begins to tattoo a tramp stamp-I mean star*

Kim: “Hly cow that really hurts!”

Tattoo artist: “The face is one of the most sensitive areas to get tattooed ya know.”

Kim: “I see. Well, boy am I tired! Mind if I sleep until you’re done? It seems like a really good time to get a good night’s rest right now.”

*snores*

Tattoo artist: “One down and 55 more to go…”

Any tattoo artist would make absolute sure on what their clients would want for a tattoo, especially with something so awfully drastic and bold to be put on their very own face.  And Any tattoo artist wouldn’t throw stars at random places without the client’s compliance.

Despite her bullshit excuse–which I’m sure she was insanely drunk when all of that went down–I feel a little sorry for her. If it was already on a person who looked like a freak, I would be indifferent, but Kimberley, poor ol’ Kimberley, looked completely normal, like the type of girl you’d see shopping at Hollister on the weekends, and now she’s got the entire constellation eating half of her face.

THIS SUMMER IS GOING TO KICKASS.

If I’m not updating this blog as usual starting today, then it probably means I’m having a kickass time doing kickass stuff.

Now what might be some of those kickass things I will be doing that’s so kickass for the summer you ask?

Well, I’m decorating my new bedroom (hey I consider that to be kickass thanks). I want my bedroom to scream…ohhh I don’t know…five-year-old girl with a sick and twisted fucked-up mind? Mebbe. I bought a bedroom set that’s actually meant for younger girls (lol);  it’s really adorable, has a pure cottage-vintagey taste to it, however, I’m planning to add certain things that will add a touch of creepiness to it, just a touch (An understatement? Mebbe).

I’ve already purchased two adorable plush taxidermy from T&A Friendly for my wall:

Next week, I will be going to Las Vegas for the first time for my brother’s fiance’s bachelorette party.  Part of the trip includes seeing Thunder Down Under, which I am a little nervous by, just ’cause I’m not so much turned on by male strippers. I think they’re gross.  I rather, very much, check out female strippers as oppose to seeing a squad of male strippers completely stripped of their manliness-doing awkward stripper dance routines to which I consider is more feminine.

Then there is my brother’s wedding.  And I get to have their place in Santa Ana all to myself for a couple of days when they’re at their honeymoon. There will be lots of furniture shopping, museums to check out, and foods to eat.

Lacuna Coil show in Hollywood with my kickass friends. Three goals I have for the show is to:

1. Rock out really hard with friends.
2. Not get hurt.
3. To add more deadliness into a deadly mosh pit by performing a roundhouse kick of death (but that could conflict with goal #2 wouldn’t it?)

And the best of all, Comic-Con and Video Games Lives in San Diego!  Will be dressing up as the female counterpart of Kakashi from Naruto!!

So there you have it, my kickass plans for the summer.  And if I’m not blogging as usual, you can look at these tasteful photos that was taken recently at Cheesecake Factory restaurant.  My beauty will surely keep you occupied entranced until the next entry…

My patience is being tested

I spent most of the day yesterday at the drugstore waiting at the end of a very long line to get my stuff rung up. After waiting for what it seems like eternity, I was finally next in line to purchase, but as soon as I was about to set my things down, the cashier lady quickly slammed a mustard yellow sign down that read:

CLOSED.

PLEASE GO TO THE NEXT CASHIER

Astonished, I turned around to see the reaction on other people’s face but nobody was behind me. I was the last person in line who waited the longest only to get rejected by a CLOSED sign. I stood there, just lifelessly, waiting for the cashier lady to say, “Oh I can take you since you’re the last person.”

…but no. In fact, she did the worse. She pretended I wasn’t there. I read the sign once more, then looked around to see if anybody was laughing at me, and looked at her again. No eye contact whatsoever, she was staring at the monitor.

Before the situation could get even more awkward, I quickly got over it and followed what the sign had ordered me to do: go to the next cashier.

The line wasn’t long compared to the first one since there were two people already before me. And boy, did it take forever…again. The customer who was at the beginning of the line had a shit ton of items and I believe one of their stuff needed a price check. The second customer, the one right in front me, holy shit, didn’t know how to count change or something, so he was standing there, all fucking afternoon, counting change over and over again.

As I was waiting, looking fidgety as ever ’cause I was tempted to count the change for him, the same cashier lady decided to wake up and be a freakin’ blowjob.  That’s right, she’s a gaddamn blowjob and I don’t like her.  What she did was she removed her hideous mustard barf yellow sign and said to the man waiting behind me, “You know what, I can take one more person, why don’t I take care of your stuff sir.”

I swear Ima kill somebody.

Feeling aggravated and a little hurt, I mumbled to myself, “Ughh…you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

The slow-counting change guy turns around and gives me a stubborn look as he’s counting the numbers quietly.  He then looks at the first half of his change and combines it with the other half.  Then I realized what I had mumbled had disrupted his concentration which lead him to start all over again.

Perfect.

I’m in Dim Sum heaven

About two-three years ago, I was always dragged to eat Dim Sum with my family and I’ve always hated it with a passion because I never liked their food. Today, Dim Sum is my all time favorite type of food.

I have absolutely no idea how I went from disliking it (to a point where I wanted to gag) to loving it…just know that I ate it a few days ago, and then ate it today since I still had leftovers.

There’s still another batch of it for tomorrow.

I took pictures of it, although I don’t think I could entirely capture its true deliciousness:

E3 Expo 09

Yesterday Jules and I manage to go to E3 (thanks to Matt) and we had a blaaaast. I’m not really sure where to start, all I can think of at the moment is, there are a lot of games out there. Shit there are a lot. And there’s not enough time to play all of them-at least the one’s that suppose to kickass. Iuno what to do.

I played the Left4Dead 2 demo, and so far, it feels like it should be an expansion pack of the first Left4Dead because nothing has changed significantly. It was exactly like playing the original Left4Dead, but with added maps, characters, and weapons. I don’t think Valve is that dumb enough to create another copy just to make extra buck, but we’ll see.

Regardless, I’m looking forward to getting to know the new characters. They look really fun! Let’s see, you have a guy sporting an 80’s Miami Vicey outfit; some say he bears a striking resemblance to Julian McMahon from Nip/Tuck. You have this huge black man, who I think is freakin’ adorable, boy is he adorable! He’s the kind where you just want to give a big bear hug and tell him that everything’s going to be ok. You have a hot lookin’ white guy probably in his 20’s…that’s all I have to say about him so far. And finally, a chick, who already reminds me of Zoey because they’re the only girls in the game and they’re wearing pink, but I’m praying that she isn’t just a black version of Zoey, ’cause I’ll be damned if I have to hear another dumb movie quote again.

The special infected haven’t really changed except for tank (that I notice). Tank looks like a giant hillbilly wearing gawdamn overalls.  But what I like about the new and improved(?) tank is he’s capable of picking your body up and slamming it to the ground. Beautiful.

L4D 2 comes out on November 17th this year (my birthday!).

I played a lot of other games, so much that my wrist started to hurt.  Some games and trailers I played and/ saw at E3 that attracted me the most were Uncharted 2, God of War III, Modern Warfare 2, Mag, Scribble Nauts and a few other games I can’t think of at the top of my head.

Now the important question is…how can I find all the time to play all of this when they come out?

Zombie Walk!

I’ve noticed that lately I’ve been on a word vomit writing spree, and as much as I love to talk, and talk…and talk, I think I should give that a rest for today and let the photos (and video) I’m about to post do most of the talking biting.

Last Saturday was Long Beach’s first annual Zombie Walk and “Shaun of the Dead” screening, and I went as a rotting zombie Chinese girl.  Even though my buddies and I were a little bit late for the actual walk, we had such a great time.  The feeling of being in the same area and/room with countless of other zombie fans who are also dressing the “undead” part was quite the delight!

Oh yeah, funny story.  You see that photo of me and the Marvel zombified version of Captain America? I just found out yesterday that we actually know each other online!  But we didn’t recognize each other while the event was in progress. I knew this because he ended up posting a comment on that photo on Flickr that reads, “Hey! That was you???” HA!

I will be ending this entry with a quick video of my friends and I dancing on stage in front of the crowd of cheering zombies.

Note: I was trying to do the zombot (zombie + robot), but the guys had surely beat me with their own gnarly twitching, limping, zomberific dance moves. After the camera stopped recording, the audience was cheering and applauding boisterously, I couldn’t ask for anything better. Acutally, yes, I wish that moment was recorded. =(

Oh well, better than nothing, enjoy!



My milkshake brings all the geezers to the yard?

Last Thursday was my very last day of Vietnamese language class. I sat in the hallway, right outside of the classroom, with about ten other of my classmates as we waited for the teacher to test us on our Vietnamese dialogue individually.

As we were waiting, I was telling half of them about a story how I was asked out to lunch by a 50 or 60-year-old man on school campus last year, and how it grossed me out. It grossed them a little out too (I am 21 years old for those who don’t know). Few minutes later, one of the classmates, Caucasian man in his late 40’s-possibly early 50’s, walked out of the classroom, looking refreshed as ever now that he had gotten his finals done and over with.

He walks towards us and says, “Well, I’m done, it was a pleasure having you guys in my class.”

“Yeah, thanks, you too,” The four of us replied (not in the exact words and time of course).

He turns to me, not looking quite refreshed as he was a minute ago, and starts to blink excessively.

Please don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Please.

He opens his mouth, and after a few stutters, he ask, “Do you-do you think I can get your information?” He hands me his notebook and pen, “I want to keep in touch. And you wanted to take drum class…and so do I.”

I was right. My worst fear of taking this class with him always sitting next to me came to reality. He asked for my number. And not only that, it was witnessed by everybody in my class, whom I just informed–just a few minutes ago–about the other old head who asked me out to lunch last year.

Fucking-a, can this get anymore awkward?

I sure as hell did not want to put my number down for him, yet at the same time, I really didn’t want to embarrass him in front of our classmates either. He’s actually a nice guy. If he was a perverted, horny, dirty-mouthed little fuck, I wouldn’t give a shit. But he isn’t. And I didn’t have the balls to give him back his notebook with an empty page.

Okay, think. Think. Think. I was given a notebook and pen without a gotdamn choice. What could I possibly write down in his black book that would benefit both of us?

I scribble my information down and handed him back his notebook. He looks at the page, his facial expression didn’t change.

It was my email address.

“Well thanks,” he stares at the page, then begins to study it as if it was an encryption to my phone number. After realizing what I had written down for him probably wouldn’t suffice, he takes his wallet out of his back pocket and hands me his business card, “here’s my card, call me.”

Boy I sure hope there’s a working block feature on Gmail.

I wouldn’t have written that recent incident if it didn’t happen that often, but it does, and I’m sad. The average of a young guy (20-30 age range) hitting on me irl is equivalent to getting flu shots: once a year (exaggeration not included). However, the average of a 45+ older white man is, believe it or not, roughly five to eight times a year. *Also, I hope I didn’t offend anyone but I say white because they have always been white..and older.

I don’t know why I attract them, older men. I probably smell like death, or the complete opposite, I exude some kind of magical scent of Asian persuasion that only works on 45+ year old males. Still, I’m perplexed.

Maybe it’s because I talk too much. I’m known to carry very long conversations with strangers of any age, size, and ethnicity as long as the topic interests me-but the strangers I talk to are always a lot older. I guess old people got a lot to talk about. And I guess, the longer you’re willing to listen and converse with them, the more they think you’re attracted to them.

Then again, I tend to display subtle hints or signs to show that I’m not interested…but then again, I don’t think men, of any age really, is capable of reading hints from the opposite sex anyway.

Have I dated any of them?

Yeah, twice, it was weird.

Just kidding.

In all honesty, I can’t date a man who’s old enough to be my father, simply because I don’t think I can relate to somebody who has already gone through at least 20 years of life, 20 years of life of which I haven’t even lived through yet.

Even if they were talented, rich, sexy man beasts like Brad Pitt and Viggo Mortensen–gawd are they sexy–I still wouldn’t do it. I just can’t relate. To relate, ‘least for me, creates connection and bonding, therefore I can’t date older men.

Also, if they had a daughter around my age, there’s a chance she and I would end up becoming one another’s BFFs. Kiss and tell would be a little awkward.

“In my opinion” is a stupid phrase

I find the phrase “imo” or “in my opinion” to be annoying sometimes. I’ve said it very few times in the past, but I don’t like it. I usually don’t like restating the obvious, restating the obvious can make you sound really slow, or sometimes, it can make the person you’re talking to think that you think they’re slow.
When you add “imo” to your sentence, you might as well mention that the grass usually comes in a nice green color if you take care of it, gravity doesn’t let us fall out of the earth, and putting crackers and cheese together happens more frequently than substituting stress balls with cow testicles.

I was able to tolerate the phrase when people have said/typed it to me in the past (by not pointing it out), until today, until somebody who I don’t really like used it.

So here’s a quick background bonus story:

There is a girl, oh let’s call her Hortense (because the name is as disgusting as her heart), who sits next to me in one of my graphic design classes. She has been very rude and disrespectful towards me because the work that I create is more advanced than her’s, and she admits it.

Jealously was the original reason why Hortense acted so offensive towards me. Whenever she looked at my work, she would never say anything good about them, instead she’d say only “sarcastic” things such as, “Oh why don’t you just drap the class?”, “I’m sick of you”, “Please make something bad for a change so I can feel good about mine”, “Dude, just stap already,” etc (she had a funny accent, the kind that would say “bax” instead of “box”).

I’m OK with that kind of stuff, but she just kept on doing it, with every piece I made, to a point where it just became annoying and insulting. My policy for that kind of shit is if somebody is clearly jealous of you or your work and they can’t respect it, brag about whatever they’re jealous of. That’s right, rub it. Rub it all in. Rub cow testicles on their faces if you must.

And that’s what I did. I rubbed cow testicles on her face until she could savor the taste in her mouth (not really). When she would glance over at the projects I worked on, I made sure to tell her it was the best damn thing I’ve ever seen, and she gagged every time.

When she tried to make those stupid sarcastic comments about my work, I would cut her off to tell her how much time, effort, and skill I’ve put into it thus rendering them worthy enough to make love to, and she believed everything I said.

By the time she was fed up with my pretend cockiness, she asked, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“God’s gift to graphic design,” I proudly declared.

“Ugh, YOU’RE gad’s gift graphic design?” She rolled her eyes at me, “I can’t believe you just said that..blah blah blah”

She just never shuts up.

But back to the point, haha, today in class, I was talking to one of my classmates about how I’m going to decorate my bedroom after the renovation, I wanted the walls to be pink, but I wasn’t allowed to paint it to said color anymore.

Hortense hears my conversation, she rudely cuts in and says, “pink’s nat a really good choice for wahlls in my opinion.”

“Well…no shit it’s your opinion,” I responded.

She looked at me in a sort of sad, did you just say that? expression, and then opened her mouth as if to answer, but snapped it back. I almost felt bad. Almost.

Case in point, using “imo” is retarded. To hear it come from her is even worse that I had to be rude about it. What good does it do besides pissing me off and filling up empty spaces on your ten page essay? “Imo” is a very snotty yet convenient way of saying, “everything that comes out of my mouth is infallible…with the minor exception for every ‘imo’ I add at the end of my sentences.”

But the problem is, anybody who uses “imo”, probably uses it randomly! They only say it when they feel like it and it makes me wonder…

You say, “this pizza doesn’t have enough pepperoni imo,” and den you say, “red doesn’t suit Kathy.”

Now since there’s absolutely no “imo” to be found in the second sentence, but there’s one in the first sentence, does this actually mean that it is of actual fact that red actually doesn’t suit Kathy?

BAH, I fart on your fact!

To reduce the confusion and the inconsistent sloppy usage of “in my opinion”/”imo”, there should be a specific rule.

From here on out, for those who will continue to reuse the phrase, make sure to always point out that it is your opinion for every opinion that you speak of. It is also required that you back up your “facts” with credible sources. I accept textbooks, documentary videos, and magazine and newspaper articles. Websites, ehh, aren’t as trustworthy as the other ones aforementioned. Sorry.