floorpie

I had squid and peas pizza for lunch today.

You just can’t get good squid and peas pizza in The States. Whenever I order it, they look at me with blank stares or throw-up on my shoes. This is one of the ways that Taiwan is superior to the U.S.

There’s an article in today’s China Post that goes as follows:

I don’t know who this one guy is, but he is clearly very very depressed. Someone buy him some ice-cream, post-haste.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: the views expressed by the author are not necessarily those of floorpie.net and it’s subsidiaries. Poking fun at the dead, although hilarious, is not an official part of floorpie.net policy]

The thing about Taiwan, see, is that everyone is Asian.

Please hold your shock until the end.

Seriously, though, everyone here is Asian. They don’t call America the “melting pot” for nothing, it seems.

The unfortunate U.S. reality is that, in many cases, personal economic status seems to follow along racial lines. In most cases, not all cases. I do not say this to be racist, I do not say this to be judgmental; I say this to give attention to a situation over which I as an individual have no control.

More to the point: the guy that does the gardening back home is Mexican. You know what I mean. The guy that does the gardening here, though: Asian. The woman behind the counter at the Asian Gap: Asian. The trash collector: Asian. The high-powered CEO: Asian. The English-speaking motivational speaker a la Tony Robbins who assures you that with these 7 steps to success you can do it: Asian.

Everyone is Asian.

I do not have a problem with this, and rather enjoy how sorely I stick out in thumb form. I wonder, though, what the implications of this are. Are there more subtle racial lines that I am unaware of that delineate the population? Are people stereotyped by variations in speech patterns, the way they comb their hair? Or, is this some kind of shangri-la, where there really isn’t any kind of appreciable prejudice, where everyone starts out equal and with the same potential. I hope it’s the latter.

Did I mention that I was in Taiwan now? No?

I’m in Taiwan now.

Also, for those of you on the west coast, I am some 16 hours ahead of you and experiencing your future. I’m not telling you what to do, but you may want to stay inside around 4:00 PM Monday afternoon. Let’s just say that… well, you’ll see.

Did I mention I was going to Taiwan this weekend? No?

I’m going to Taiwan this weekend.

I look forward to partaking in mass quantities of Chinese food… of course, they just call it “food” over there. Hopefully I’ll have time to check out the area without too much pointing and staring (“they” at me, not me at “them”). Perhaps my one-quarter Filipino heritage will be more evident to people living so close to the Motherland.

I have this theory that hott chicks don’t commute. Before all the hot ladeez in the non-existent audience take umbrage, I respectfully suggest that you really understand what I am saying:

Hott chicks don’t commute.

They drive to work, yes; but commute? Listen I commute. I drive over an hour to work on four freeways, average a good -14mph in some areas, and have a crying baby in one ear and someone else blowing smoke in my face. (No, I don’t know where the baby or the smoker came from, I assume they’re a package deal). ADG, on the other hand, (a very hott chick) has to wrestle with clear backroads and happy motorists for maybe 20 minutes per week.

Further evidence: if given an hour plus on the freeway each morning and evening, a large portion of which you are actually driving in reverse, you have a lot of time to look around. If you don’t, you will, of course, go insane. After memorizing the license plate of the car predominantly in front of you (MH74PQY, Blue early-model Honda Accord), you tend to look around or play some games. My game at the moment? To carry a harmonica in the car and talk through it like the Cylon’s in Battlestar Galactica.

Voo va huck voo voo zink voo arrr…. vazzz-vole!

You think I’m kidding.

I’m not.

To continue: you have a lot of time to look around. Try this one next time you’re stuck in traffic: see how long you can stare at the person next to you before they eventually notice. When they glance over, keep staring. When they finally turn their heads and look back at you, suddenly shift your gaze. Another variant: keep staring. It’s family fun.
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To really continue: you have a lot of time to look around. In so doing, I have never ever seen any super hott chicks. Or, to be more specific, I have never seen any super hott chicks commuting. Ditching work to go to the beach, or in a car full of girls on the way to what could only be a lingerie pillow fight, or driving home from obviously partying all night at someone’s mansion, or even (like super hott ADG) driving the quick three blocks to work… those I’ve seen. But hott chicks with a glazed over, sad look, coffee in hand, talk radio on, and the weight of drudgery on their shoulders? No. Never. Guys I see. Unattractive she-males I see. But no hott chicks. Why? What is their secret? How do they do it? How can I do the same?
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All hott chicks, please e-mail me with your secrets to success.
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[EDITOR’S NOTE: The views expressed in this post do not preclude hott chicks from commuting. They instead mean that the author simply has yet to see any]

Turkish woman locked husband naked in bathroom for three years

My question(s) to you is(are):

– How do you let your wife lock you in the bathroom?
– Once there, how is it that you don’t break out?
– What rich industrialist doesn’t have People that check in with him more often than once every three years?!

I mean seriously, even a recluse like Howard Hughes had assistants and underlings. There’s a lot to be said, though, about living out your existence in the bathroom. Shower, toilet, sink. Add a mini-fridge, and I’d say you were about set.

Of course, living there while you can hear your wife partying with other guys in the next room would be somewhat less than fun. I acknowledge that guys are sleazy… but with the husband locked in the bathroom? Really?

What’s that noise, baby? It sounds like someone screaming.
Oh, that’s just my husband. Don’t worry about him, I locked him in the bathroom.
Ah, OK. That’s cool.
*porn music ensues*

I know guys are desperate for the ladeez, but I didn’t think we were that desperate.

You may have heard about a little thing called the grocery strike here in the greater L.A. area. Local markets have been blocked by picketers since October 11th, driving business to smaller, locally owned establishments. I haven’t crossed the picket lines, feeling that reducing healthcare benefits is just, well, wrong.

To be more honest, though, I really just don’t want to be harrassed. Buying my chips and cheese isn’t important enough for me to be heckled. But I digress…

For whatever reason, the union has pulled the picketers from Ralph’s markets, but the strike is still on, and the scabs are still in full-effect.

And how.

Ralph’s isn’t bothering to outfit them in uniforms, so their various sweatshirts and T-shirts are a bit disconcerting. As is the incessant error-message ringing of the cash register. “Is that you?” “Yeah, the thing is ringing… I don’t know how to make it stop! What do I do?” “How should I know? My real job is at The Gap!”

Hilarity ensues…

What the huh?
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My floorpie domain has the ability to check e-mail remotely on the web. For whatever reason, said interface puts these tiny little heads in front of messages it deems “personal”. For instance:

  09:52:03 AM   hott4teacher@aol.com    RE: Enlarge your penis size in 1 day!

  08:43:22 AM   studmax@juno.com        RE: A safe Viagra alternative!

  08:57:46 AM   butu@africaroyal.com     RE: A Valuable Business Proposition

Who’s head is this? Who drew it? What kind of residuals do you get on something like that? Is it a self-portrait? Will the hairstyle change as styles dictate? Clearly, I have many questions.

I’d love it if my claim to fame could have been something so innocuous:

“You know those little tiny heads next to your e-mail when they’re personal? Their mine”
…
“Hello?”

You’d have to carry a notebook just to keep all the ladeez’s names and numbers straight… and preferably a Polaroid for easy cross-referencing. Little head guy, whoever you are, we salute you.