for lack of a better adjective

I don't understand winter sports. Winter mentalities. Winter people. Now that Spring's subjective arrival is finally upon the city, and the clean, symmetrical office landscape is no longer punctuated by fat twintips and slender tellys leaning against every other cubicle, I'd like to take a moment to look back on this past winter, and the alien species I spent it with. Our differences were immeasurable; when I was strapping on fenders and cursing the skies, they were already long gone--juiced on coffee and red bull, skipping work in the frozen pre-dawn drag race to the mouth of Little Cottonwood. And when I was leaning the wheeled, cro-moly popsicle against my desk, scraping brown sludge from the calipers and seatstays, and chipping layers of ice from my very god-forsaken bone marrow, they were already barefoot, lounging around the office in their poly baselayers and basketball shorts, comparing shred stories from the morning's many trips up and down the mountain--trips whose overall success would be based proportionately on their chronological proximity to first tram, amount of snow/ice frozen to one's beard, and/or the starkness of skin contrast from one's own goggle tan.

Perhaps by studying their native dialect I might learn more about what drives the deranged mind of someone batshit insane enough to actually pray for snow. I already have a foreign language degree--through a process of total immersion, another would be painfully simple. And so began a careful inventory on all the completely foreign vocabulary I was able to glean from time spent in close conversational proximity with this small army of skiers--an indigenous tribe of fascinating, yet generally unhinged "winter people:"

The best kind of rash

Remember how I hinted that our students weren't exactly the glimmering intellectual beacons of compulsory education?
Well to reiterate, we're currently in the preparatory phases of homestay pairings for our big 3rd grader (15-year-olds) Australia trip in June. The following are some painfully adorable excerpts from the "Tell us about yourself" obstacle course at the top of the participant application:

"...I have one dug. I like to readabook. Say hello to."

"I dream. Tennis prayer."

"I have a dog, her name is Koro. She is 13 years ago."

"Iam happy."

"...But lets we be friends. And I'm looking wored to meat you."

"My skin is atopic dermatitties."

Don't look at me, smartass. I'm supposed to be the music teacher.

One step forward, light years back

I may be narrow-minded to a fault, but I guarantee that know a totally sweet opportunity when I see one.

Having thus gone through "all the trouble of obtaining a native speaker," I was commissioned this afternoon by our school PR suits to write up some catchy English jangles to emblazen on a fresh batch of colorful tote bags that we'd be handing out for promotional purposes at school events later this year. It was today, that I learned the true evil workings behind the all-consuming Engrish idiocy machine.

After my cutsie inspirational one-liners were systematically AA-gunned out of the sky ("If you can dream it, you can Richu it!" I know, award-winning PR material--eat my ass), I was dutifully instructed to return to my drawing board and just hammer out some grammatically correct phrases that didn't "...necessarily have to have anything to do with the school" and "not to worry if they [students] couldn't understand." It was also suggested that the phrases be "several lines long," and contain "upper-case lettering" because it "looked cooler." As I headed back to my desk, I was asked to include "a number--perhaps the current year..."
For placing it in the immediate relevancy of present-tense, I'm certain.

So here I am, back at my desk, sipping a lukewarm can of bitter coffee after hours, smelly innards of the blissfully ignorant Engrish jabberwocky spilled out over my keyboard. It is here, dear reader, that I offer you the opportunity of a lifetime:
give me your original Engrish masterpieces--something that Engrish.com would be proud of.
If the suits take the bait, and this gets turned into an honest-to-god tote, you'll get full credit when I submit the photographs for the Pulitzer. Just make sure it fits the above criteria. And in case you have issues with following along, or reading from left to right, the "above criteria" conveniently includes "just about fucking anything as long as it's grammatically correct."

Shoot me an email, or just have at it in the comments.

Make me proud.






** As of about 5:30 Thursday afternoon, the following are my brilliant, grammatically impeccable suggestions:

NEW GALAXY:
2008 is the year that children with pervasive developmental disabilities get strapped to a experimental rocket pack and launched into the farthest reaches of space! Reach for the sky in '08!

HEY GET BENT YOU OLD FART
Lap dances are fine but touching is not!
In '08, we bring the g-string thunder: Nation-wide prefectural legislative reform!

'Frank and beans' is a recipe where hot dogs are cut up and cooked in the same sauce as the baked beans. BEANS ARE AWESOME!! Also referred to as 'Beanee Weenee,' the brand name under which it is sold by Van Camp's. Sometimes versed as an addendum in the closing credits to "Beans: The Musical. Fruit." the Broadway production, currently in production.

BUKKAKE IN 2008: NOT JUST FOR UDON ANYMORE
Dear Jesus, I wish this wasn't true.

IF YOU HAVE A MUSTACHE, everyone will love you. In fact, who wants a mustache ride? Like in that hilarious movie "Super Troopers" where the Mexican-but-not-Mexican guy throws out the offer, and the ditzy German chick was like "Ooh, I do! I do!" and he was all like "Whatever." 2008.

** UPDATE: Reader Submissions **
Bob suggests classic American cinema:

MONGO LIKE CANDY!
Blazing saddles is the exegetic film you need to gain deep understanding of the American psyche. The eructative flatulent cowboys of 1974 are a touchstone that has yet to be surpassed.
HOW ABOUT MORE BEANS, MR. TAGGART?

Zach B. likes balls. And walls:

BALLS TO THE WALL: In a place of chaos; where you can hear pigs being slaughtered, women weeping, children crying and men gnashing their teeth. Join us in a year of trepidation. There is no weaksauce for you in 2008.

Anonymous eschews bodily function and stays classy with T.S. Eliot:

"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.

Adam sets up a neighborhood watch for flying pies:

BURRITO SUPREME
A tasty treat for any auspicious occasion! 1992 was the year of justice, so change your clock to go back in time. Terrorists. WATCH THE SKIES FOR FLYING PIES! Bite hard, but close your eyes for extra taste! The world may never know. Utilize for a better tomorrow.

Putting the 'homo' in "homonynm"

...actually has nothing to do with the post.

Thought it sounded funny. Get bent.

A timeless dilemma. Guy loves girl. Girl does not love guy back, yet still leaves blinds open. Guy falls out of tree with pants at half mast.

Ok, so there isn't a tree (that I know of), but I know a dude--a kind of romantically clumsy and lovesick young chap who seems to be torn between powerlessly watching the girl of his dreams from afar as she ignores him, or using a high-powered lens to watch her from much closer through her window as she dresses.
Most hilarious, is how he brings these pent-up frustrations with him to the office. An anal-retentive stickler for grammar (as most skilled Asian ESL speakers can often be), when he's not asking me if I've seen her, what she's been up to lately, or for advice on how to approach her, he often finds the most maddening English questions to ask me during his spare time. Most of them are usually in preparation for gleefully handing his students their asses during a grammar quiz (or perhaps something less innocent), thus he wants to make sure every phrase is connected by the proper clauses, and in the most archaic and diabolical manner possible.

So, the DI's advice?:
Leave "Open the window, won't you?" and "Open the window, will you?" off the goddamn test. Nobody cares about your stupid windows, your epic failure with this chick, or whether or not these cumbersome and unusable sentences are correct. Ain't nobody ever use propah engrish ennyway. Shyaddup.

Ah yes, and you may kindly stop asking me for the grammatical difference between "as she is doing X" and "while she is doing X."
I know, what you're trying to ask, but I have no interest in assuming that you're touching yourself "as she is undressing from the third floor window."
Might want to lay off the unhealthy preoccupation--you're starting to come to work with dark circles around your eyes. Sleep much?
Binocular eyestrain?

Poetic training wheels

Just farted this shiny little limerick* out
during a meeting a few minutes ago:


If Stu's muse chews blue shoes, may Stu choose the shoes he eschews?
Then what shall we do when Stu chooses to screw Lu's two Jews?
We peruse.
Or rather, how many screws could the Charlstons chew if the Charleston Chews got screwed?
Rolling red wagons.
Downhill.
Shit, I forgot my earmuffs.

Yeah, you're welcome.


*Not an actual limerick.

Your an idiot

I honestly don't think I'll ever tire of seeing helpful how-to guides like this. Endless amusement on days when the post office mysteriously closes before 5, the NHK man comes to collect money I don't owe, and when the entire dinner mackerel ends up on the floor and not in my mouth. Damn the post office, damn NHK and their shitty programming, and damn the Japanese with their slippery lacquer chopsticks.

But thanks Google--your my hero.

Now if I can just get my garbage disposal working.

Where does the good go?

There's no grass here. Plenty of concrete ditches, highway overpasses, electrical wires, asphalt, and fencing. Sandwiched between mountainsides are bustling cities linked by smaller towns and villages--an endless, nauseating urban sprawl. No backyards, no hilltops, no open air. In a land where seemingly nothing goes wasted, vacant space for wandering, sleeping, and vacant thought, goes inevitably wasted. Foreign expats living here, learn the exceptions to the ways and means to "rebuild" their previous lives, in a fraction of the space. You can have almost anything you once had--if you know where to look for it, and if you have enough money. Quaker Oats from underneath the train station. Organic peanut butter on Kencho dori. Real fish and chips from Tabloid near Ito Yokado. UnderArmor from Kurashiki. Chrome bags on special order. A Sirrus Sport from Osaka. Just about anything, up to a Hummer (from Tokyo), can be found somewhere within Japan. But those things don't belong here. They seem every bit as out of place here as a patch of green grass or a hillside without a major power line. I feel guilty about needing things that don't belong. Things that are only contributing further to the metropolitan suffocation.

I accidentally stumbled across another Japan blog the other day. Familiar regurgitation, going something to the tune of this:

ther r vending mashines wit beer in em!! i can b krunk 24/7!!! and then last nite I accsidenttly ate a bunch of wasabi ("wah sah bee") becuz i thoght it wuz gwacamoley!!!11 LOL im such a n00b!!! my host familys daughter is a babe! jap gurlz r hawt!!!

The evening express train I was riding into Osaka over the weekend struck and killed someone who allegedly jumped off a pedestrian overpass onto the tracks. I prayed every night since then, that it was this idiotic tosser, and not simply another victim of the reality of living in Japan.

Welcome to the "clue" train, last stop you

Innocent Engrish? Or the most hilarious and cleverly-disguised front for the adult film-making industry ever? On most days, I'd chalk it up as a charming coincidence, best not shared with the under-12 crowd. But the rest of the time, I wouldn't be so quick to put this past the Japanese, who like their porn to be "readily available" at best. And inventive, but you didn't hear that from me. This little storefront would circumvent both of those requirements with a certain well-oiled 'ease', I'm sure.

And is it just me, or does not the key vaguely resemble a penis?
Just wondering.

Myspace: Hillbillies with keyboards

On the rarest of occasions, fished from the slough of nonsensical idiocy that is my collective 'creativity,' is a shiny, limerick* nugget of the purest gold; so divine, so masterfully crafted, and so delightfully hilarious, that it would be a colossal waste not for me to share it with the adoring masses.
Without further adieu...

"Teh myspace grammer lol"

By Zach

There once was a 'tard with a Dell
Who never once learned how to spell

"Thier," "Ur," "Arnt," "Thanx"

His noggin quite thick
So his ass I did kick
Without reason except to "mach schnell!"

You're welcome.


* Technically, not quite an actual limerick