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Oh, right, I was going to call people and try to strong-arm them into giving me a job. Obviously, the correct response to this plan is to STAY UP TILL THREE THIRTY READING ABOUT JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES.
No, I am not reading the Watchtower.
I once hypothesised, with a Jewish friend, that because the Jehovah's Witness publication we'd just been handed was printed in Brooklyn, epicenter of American Jewry, obviously the JWs were part of the International Jewish Conspiracy. (Which is actually headquartered in Brixton and consists of two men and a dog in a boiler shop.) You may have to have lived in a house where "camel jockey," "smelly Jew," and "bloody American" were how you said good morning to your housemates to appreciate this; we called it the House of Racial Epithets (our previous house, with four other people, had been Ethnic Klashistan, since we had an American, a German, an Israeli, a Greek, an Italian, a Spaniard and a ... Dutch) and we loved it. We had a very long routine about how I had to paint a Green Line across the table every morning to stop the Jew from stealing the Muslim's food by annexation. We trotted out the special insults for important times like interviewing prospective roommates and parental visits. Otherwise, it was pretty much just "Falafel Hut" and "Salad bitch" and that sort of thing.
We also REALLY liked terrorising people on busses by theorising about how the International Jewish Conspiracy was working to use Hitler's Brain In A Jar (according to the National Enquirer, his preserved nose is growing a moustache, so the brain must be up to Mr. Ed status already) to clone Hitler and bring him back to do to the Palestinians what he did in WWII as an act of atonement. It's amazing how quickly you get seats on the bus when you start talking like this. It's even MORE fun when you start personalising your commentary for people you know, which is why the reunification of Czechoslovakia and the resurgence of a Communist Soviet Union is IMPERATIVE.
But NOTHING was as awesome as Achmed, the Used Camel Salesman, who had a Used Camel Emporium on Aleppo's Camel Row, and would sell you waterproof camels that would make it halfway across the desert and featured a baby seat in the second hump: excellent family vehicles for watching the stoning of seventy adulterous virgins on camelback. Also, for just a little more, you could get a snorkel for your camel and it would take you under the Mediterranean! As I recall, there was also bits about ESPN-Middle East and how a Used Camel was the best way to get to your next jihad.
If it were not for the fact that I'm fairly sure it would be a bad idea, at least from a technical standpoint (Achmed requires a LOT of shouting) I'd totally podcast that so that I could ensure my place in the special hell. As it is, you'll have to imagine.
While you're at it, imagine my standup/improv comedy routine about life in a WWII concentration camp that my partner and I did for college because we were fucked off at the class we were in (the brain trust in that class tended to say things like "I look at the pictures in my book and then I look at the evening news and the images are the same," because it was the height of the Sarajevo conflict, and obviously the Serbo-Croat fighting is exactly parallel to shots of concentration camps). I will point out that black humour is an accepted response to extreme stress, which ... undoubtedly explains the prisoners trying to escape, the Nazi guards hitting on each other, and the jokes about train travel in that skit but probably doesn't explain the part about the chicken wire, because that's dependent on knowing that we once put a third of that class into a concentration camp and left.
By the end of that class, the chicken wire and us were CLOSE FRIENDS.
It's possible that the only politically correct humour I enjoyed in college and uni was the time my director housemate was talking about wanting to film porn in null gravity. PORN ... IN ... SPAAAAACE!* Or, you know, blow-up dolls, since real humans have a tendency to explode when dropped into outer space naked. Let me tell you, an impression of a blow-up doll in space is NOT TO BE MISSED. (Fancy-ass dinner party setting optional, but definitely have racist cookies for dessert.) That was also the conversation that "Falafel Hut" and "the falafel assistant" came from.
Bear in mind that I am saying this to Livejournal. WHAT WILL I SAY TO EMPLOYERS? "My name is Cass; I have come from Paris to have sex with your family?"
Also, the book is called "I'm Perfect, You're Doomed." I recommend it.
* Please do say that like "Pigs ... in ... spaaace!"
No, I am not reading the Watchtower.
I once hypothesised, with a Jewish friend, that because the Jehovah's Witness publication we'd just been handed was printed in Brooklyn, epicenter of American Jewry, obviously the JWs were part of the International Jewish Conspiracy. (Which is actually headquartered in Brixton and consists of two men and a dog in a boiler shop.) You may have to have lived in a house where "camel jockey," "smelly Jew," and "bloody American" were how you said good morning to your housemates to appreciate this; we called it the House of Racial Epithets (our previous house, with four other people, had been Ethnic Klashistan, since we had an American, a German, an Israeli, a Greek, an Italian, a Spaniard and a ... Dutch) and we loved it. We had a very long routine about how I had to paint a Green Line across the table every morning to stop the Jew from stealing the Muslim's food by annexation. We trotted out the special insults for important times like interviewing prospective roommates and parental visits. Otherwise, it was pretty much just "Falafel Hut" and "Salad bitch" and that sort of thing.
We also REALLY liked terrorising people on busses by theorising about how the International Jewish Conspiracy was working to use Hitler's Brain In A Jar (according to the National Enquirer, his preserved nose is growing a moustache, so the brain must be up to Mr. Ed status already) to clone Hitler and bring him back to do to the Palestinians what he did in WWII as an act of atonement. It's amazing how quickly you get seats on the bus when you start talking like this. It's even MORE fun when you start personalising your commentary for people you know, which is why the reunification of Czechoslovakia and the resurgence of a Communist Soviet Union is IMPERATIVE.
But NOTHING was as awesome as Achmed, the Used Camel Salesman, who had a Used Camel Emporium on Aleppo's Camel Row, and would sell you waterproof camels that would make it halfway across the desert and featured a baby seat in the second hump: excellent family vehicles for watching the stoning of seventy adulterous virgins on camelback. Also, for just a little more, you could get a snorkel for your camel and it would take you under the Mediterranean! As I recall, there was also bits about ESPN-Middle East and how a Used Camel was the best way to get to your next jihad.
If it were not for the fact that I'm fairly sure it would be a bad idea, at least from a technical standpoint (Achmed requires a LOT of shouting) I'd totally podcast that so that I could ensure my place in the special hell. As it is, you'll have to imagine.
While you're at it, imagine my standup/improv comedy routine about life in a WWII concentration camp that my partner and I did for college because we were fucked off at the class we were in (the brain trust in that class tended to say things like "I look at the pictures in my book and then I look at the evening news and the images are the same," because it was the height of the Sarajevo conflict, and obviously the Serbo-Croat fighting is exactly parallel to shots of concentration camps). I will point out that black humour is an accepted response to extreme stress, which ... undoubtedly explains the prisoners trying to escape, the Nazi guards hitting on each other, and the jokes about train travel in that skit but probably doesn't explain the part about the chicken wire, because that's dependent on knowing that we once put a third of that class into a concentration camp and left.
By the end of that class, the chicken wire and us were CLOSE FRIENDS.
It's possible that the only politically correct humour I enjoyed in college and uni was the time my director housemate was talking about wanting to film porn in null gravity. PORN ... IN ... SPAAAAACE!* Or, you know, blow-up dolls, since real humans have a tendency to explode when dropped into outer space naked. Let me tell you, an impression of a blow-up doll in space is NOT TO BE MISSED. (Fancy-ass dinner party setting optional, but definitely have racist cookies for dessert.) That was also the conversation that "Falafel Hut" and "the falafel assistant" came from.
Bear in mind that I am saying this to Livejournal. WHAT WILL I SAY TO EMPLOYERS? "My name is Cass; I have come from Paris to have sex with your family?"
Also, the book is called "I'm Perfect, You're Doomed." I recommend it.
* Please do say that like "Pigs ... in ... spaaace!"
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