Saturday Night Feeble

For the second Saturday in a row, I am at home at night. Must be some kind of record. Here's how I've spent my weekend so far:

- Friday, 10:10 PM: I finish my last class of the day, four ajummas who -- here's a rare disclosure of my "work"/work frustration -- bore the everloving shit out of me with their inanity. It's Friday night, ladies; please get the hell out of my home so I can do what I do best: make love to my rice cooker. (I can say that without recourse because, come February, I'm entering the immigration and importing* business, baby!)

- Saturday, 7:30 AM: I usually set my alarm for seven o'clock; let's just say I had a little too much candy floss last night and forgot. Legs wakes me up, hunched over my lying figure like an NYC gargoyle.

- 8:10 AM: My first class of two today begins, a twenty-eight-year-old graduate student who's emigrating to the States soon for his PhD in Industrial Engineering. Naturally, we talk about movies and the current state of copyright laws for the full hour. I get paid to do this. Please remind me why I'm walking away from it. (Oh, yeah, it includes the words "work" and "Saturday.")

- 9:20 AM: Rice and curry, curry and rice: two tastes so great I named them twice!

- 9:30 AM: The Knicks are playing the Lakers at MSG. Remember when that used to mean something? Let me take you back, via the Forbes Capacitor, to my salad days:

It's shortly after seven on a Sunday night. I have just gotten home after finishing a three-and-a-half-hour shift at the arches golden. My old man, Gord bless him, came through and taped the early-afternoon Knicks-Lakers game, as per my instructions (hit pause during commercial breaks, and DON'T fucking fall asleep). For three and a half quarters I am frustrated, wondering why the hell I am** wasting my time with this shitfest when I should be studying for my Physics exam. But then the Knicks pull off a miraculous comeback, and I am validated in my fandom..

Elden Campbell was involved. The 90's were crazy.

- 10: 18 AM: Basketball, it appears, is not in the cards. [Censored], Jehovah's Witnesses, and a pissed-off rattlesnake!

- 10:36 AM: Legs leaves to do some shopping and get a facial...her second this morning.

(I am a bad, bad man. Please stop me. I know not what I do, but I kinda like it.)

1:30 PM: I started a new Saturday class last week, and my wife was considerably shocked when I returned from said class and described my new fifth-grade student as "a motherfucker." So was I, to tell the truth. Well, time to add "cocksucker" to that list of descriptions. I'm sure he's a nice boy deep down, but...no he's not. This kid is evil. Adolf Hitler, Osama bin Laden, Fifth-Grade Student. That's the list! It's going to be nice transitioning into my new job as a drug mule. I am chuffed.

2:49 PM: Speaking of transitions: the very definition of class. Word to Bill Simmons, there are so many chill scenes in O'Brien's last taping -- Freebird! -- that it made my ex-wife frigid. No mean feat, I gotta say. (Class?) For the record, I loved the pluperfect hell out of Conan's mini-message on cynicism. I'm an optimist, unless you hit me in the face full force with a stove pot, in which case you can burn in NBC. (I love the rest of you, though.)

5:40 PM: Legs and I -- with a certain Shih Tzu in tow -- show up at Papa Yoo's house. It will take Herr Yoo and the rest of the Yoo-Tang Clan two hours to arrive. I am not phased a bit. I am placated by back-to-back episodes of High Kick through the Roof***.

8:42 PM: After a memorial service (for Conan), we sit down to eat****. I love my wife and her family to death, but at this point it's time for me to consider stomach stapling. I simply can't keep up with their gastrointestinal fortitude. It's inhuman. On the other hand, they're minor league when it comes to libations. I have a juice glass full of cognac with dinner***** and remain sober (and ashamed of myself, for cognac is NOT a complimentary liquor for any meal); meanwhile, rice wine has felled the oaks that are Legs's aunt and her husband. Only I, Legs, and Papa Yoo remain standing(sitting). Jikko? She's passed out in the bathroom after injecting heroin into her neck.

10:30 PM: Legs, I, and Captain Sniffles arrive back in Bundangbourg. Trumpets sound, the Death Star explodes in 3D. I contemplate a night on the town, then relent. I'm too damn tired. The three of us watch High Kick -- which should have its own channel by now -- and later discuss the logistics of a canine-manned nuclear rocket.

Sunday, 2:14 PM: I guess I wasn't that tired after all. Bon apetit, Constant Retard. For even more enjoyment, read this post again backwards, like a fucked-up escalator.


* Not a euphemism for human trafficking. Not yet, at least.

** not using contractions

*** Post to come on that monument of broadcasting. It'll be longer than a DC-20 aircraft. Just wait.

**** Unless we were prostrating ourselves, we were sitting the entire time, but please allow an old man his culturally negated phrasal verbs and gerunds.

***** That's Korea for you.