Category Archives: Humor

A Trip to the Taiwanese Dentist

One of the first queasy expat moments comes when seeking medical care for the first time. Here we’re at our most vulnerable. It is a genuinely uncomfortable needing medical assistance and facing support staff, nurses, and often dentists or doctors who do not speak English, or speak medical jargon and have that confused with English. Seeking medical attention in a system different from what you’re used to tests the mettle of many.

Luckily I’ve not faced major health issues for most of my time abroad, but even insignificant health problems can be a bunghole tightening experience. My first toothache crashed down on me early in my Taiwan stay, twenty two years ago. I had a cavity that was impossible to ignore. I tried. However, eating was an obstacle course of pain and nerve twinges food had to run through my debilitated beerhole. Every morsel I masticated, every sip I supped, had me skittering around like a cat being ambushed by a cucumber [Video]. There was no getting around it, I needed a dentist, but I didn’t know where to turn. I’d seen many dental clinics walking around Taipei. Usually through the office window you could see a straining dentist hunched over an antsy patient. Window shopping for a dentist didn’t ease my mind. My friends were know-nothing newbs—totally unhelpful. So, I did the only thing I could think of, I went to the lone dentist advertised in the English newspaper. He claimed to be Harvard trained—that sounded reassuring.

Like anyone embarking on a dangerous mission, I did a little recon first. The clinic had nice modern looking chairs and cute dental assistants. What do I know about assessing dental competency from a brief walkby? I made an appointment.

At the appointed time and hour I timorously made my way to the clinic.

A little background information is necessary to explain my apprehensions. Before coming to Taiwan I had lived in Korea. While there, I had talked with people who’d gotten dental care. In Korea, at that time, it was common for dental work to be done without anesthesia. My roommate had some cavities filled without freezing. She claimed it was fine. She wore headphones to drowned out the drill’s noise, which according to her made all the difference. She was delighted to save a few won skipping the injections. Color me skeptical. I really don’t think a Walkman is any substitute for the oblivion offered by modern pharmacology. I personally was horrified. I’m pretty sure these dental practices were mentioned in a book of medieval torture I read in school. I belong to the knock me out as much as possible school of thought. If someone is going to be drilling, cutting, yanking, or otherwise messing with my mouth, I don’t want to feel anything—damn the expense. My foremost priority on my Taiwanese dental adventure was to ensure that I got novacaine.

Different from a dental office you might find in the West, the dentist in Taipei had a waiting area that was not really separated from the his workspace. The receptionist’s counter partially obscured the view, but waiting clients were privy to much that was happening in the business end of the clinic.

After waiting, and watching, it was my turn. I made my way to the dental chair. When I sat down in the chair the dentist found I actually had two cavities, one on an upper right side molar, the other on the lower left side.

During the examination I maintained a laser focus on my priorities. Number one: freezing. The dentist grabbed a needle—without prompting—and froze my lower left molar. My stress flew away. I relaxed knowing whatever happened I wouldn’t feel it. The dentist then grabbed his drill, buzzed it menacingly a few times, but I remained nonchalant. Then he proceeded to drill the upper right—unfrozen—molar.

Bastard!

The tension that shot through my spine bowed my body into a banana shape, with only my heels and head touching the dentist’s chair. (I used to have abs). My pelvis and legs were shaking in a pretty decent parody of Josephine Baker’s Banana Dance. I’d have leaped right out of the chair, but with the buzzing drill in my mouth, I was scared of being cut to ribbons. I kept my gaping maw as still as possible, but it was at the end of two hundred pounds of wildly flailing protoplasm, so, you know, accurately drilling out a cavity was probably tough. The dentist gently cooed at me to take it easy. It worked a charm—I calmed right down. Idiot. Despite the power drill screwing into my tooth I managed to make it absolutely clear that the molar was not frozen. He seemed to already be aware of that, and just laughed and told me to calm down. Yeah, right! I don’t know why he was drilling the unfrozen tooth. I think maybe he was conducting an experiment to see if a white patient would put up with the same shit an Asian patient would. Nope.

He continued drilling; I continued reverse twerking.

I have to admit, despite being a freaky sensation, the drilling did not hurt. It was just weird—and then he exposed the root.

My heels and head lost contact with the chair as I basically hovered above it like a yogic flyer, only just descending to the chair long enough for the skin on my back to contract and launch me back into the air. My feet and legs were shooting out in all directions. Eventually the dentist gave up, reached for a syringe, and with a condescending laugh froze my upper jaw…and everything calmed down.

I’m tall, so the receptionist’s counter did little to hide my legs dancing like a criminal’s on the end of the hangman’s rope. The entire waiting area sat enthrall to their every quiver. They also heard my gurgling high pitched moaning. When I left, I was greeted by five very anxious and pale faces. It seems like the layout of Taiwanese dental offices needs reconsidering.

It took an inordinate amount of time for my upper molar to heal. It was a mass of jangling nerves for at least a month. The slow healing was a direct result of the lack of local anesthetic. I left that office feeling physically abused. Over two decades later, I still feel enmity towards the dentist. I must admit that he, apparently, did very good work. Every dentist that I’ve seen since, both in Canada and Taiwan, have complemented his handiwork. All I know is it was too painful. When I told the tale of my tribulations to my Taiwanese girlfriend, expecting a healthy dose of sympathy sex, all I got was laughed at and called a pussy (孬種).

Is this namby-pamby attitude towards dentistry just me, or are all foreigners the same?

 

Women Are from Venus: Men Are Hopeless

This week was final exams week. I’ve been busy and haven’t prepared anything to share with you. However, through last night’s drunken haze, I remembered this little anecdote. Since I’ve been in teaching mode all week, here is a teacherly story.

Have you heard the old adage (I just made up): Women are from Venus; men are clueless. University students, more than other demographics, embody this truism. Most remember university as a time of growing sexual awareness and exploration; a time to test new-found freedoms. As a university instructor I have a bird’s eye view of these mini-dramas unfolding during the most [unintentionally] comedic period of human life. It’s fun.

One of my sophomore classes had a reigning king and queen. The pair were the most popular kids in class. It was easy to see why. Sylvia was on the school’s cheerleading team—a big deal at that school. She was fit, attractive, bubbly, and smart; the class spark plug. If there was anything fun or exciting happening she was at its center, making sure everyone had a good time. She was universally liked. Stan was tall, muscular, ridiculously handsome, charming—dumb as a stump—and super personable. As his teacher I should have found him irritating; he definitely wasn’t the sharpest nut in the candy dish, but it was impossible not to like him. They were LANG-208-47-B5 class’s power couple.

As a teacher, standing at the front of class, you see everyone’s reaction to everything. It gives you a strong sense of what’s going through student’s minds. On this Monday, our hero looked like the goose that swallowed the golden egg. He was the picture of barely contained giddiness. Sitting beside him was Sylvia, and there was definitely something rolling through her head too. I couldn’t quite read her expression, but the wheels were clearly turning.

I gave the class a writing assignment—in one page describe your weekend. Most of the essay’s ranged from “I slept” to “I played online games”. Ho-hum. Then I came to Sylvia’s essay. It was like nothing I’ve ever gotten from a student. It was oddly poetic. Dappled moonlight was gently brushing flower petals. Birds were crying sweet tears of joy and sorrow, while clouds looked on knowingly. It was beautiful, romantic, and totally incomprehensible. I liked it, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Then I read Stan’s essay. He had pressed the definition of a one-page article to its utter limits, and I can quote his entire essay here: “Last night I went to Yangmingshan and touched a boobie. Score!”

Ahhh. I see.

His happiness bounced off the page with every pen stroke. He was a [very] simple young man, with an equally simple dream, a pure dream, a noble dream—to touch a boobie. God bless him, he lived his dream. But, from my perspective at the head of the class, the meaning of Sylvia’s facial expressions became clearer. Sylvia had different, more complex, aspirations. They didn’t end with an inept boob fondle. Sylvia was revving up to turn his existence into a raging hell; and so the dance of life began for Stan. The poor naive bastard had no idea what was coming. On that day, in that class, he sat fully three inches taller than normal, looking left and right with his shit-eating grin, just a happy-go-lucky guy—contentment personified. For that brief moment, before his world came tumbling down, you couldn’t help but want to be Stan.

Being a teacher has its entertainments.

Dancing Octopus Legs

I have mentioned in passing some of the odd foods available here, and there are some doozies, but the weirdest dishes passed my palate while living in Korea. There was the ever-popular street food—silkworm pupae. I came to quite enjoy a cup of worms as I strolled around window shopping. The taste and smell are not the best, but when you bite into one there is an initial crunchiness followed by a spurt of goo. Very satisfying. Then there was Korean dog soup, a favorite on cold winter days. The meat is dark, tangy, and shockingly delicious. It reminds me a bit of moose. I only ever had it one time. I was hungry when I first tucked into the bowl and well-able to power through, but as I ate, I became less hungry, until eventually every time I raised the spoon to my mouth I thought: “This is dog. This is dog. This is dog.” And, that was the end of that. Still, by far the weirdest food that I’ve eaten came in a high-end Korean sushi joint.

Now, personally, I can pretty much choke down anything. I may not enjoy it, but I get it done. It is one of the social graces I’ve developed living in Asia. If you’re invited to have dinner with a friend’s family, you should suck down your lightly boiled pig’s intestine, roasted pork fat, and under cooked chicken—and smile. This is the story of a newbie to Korea, who lacked my gustatory disposition, and a formal dinner party we attended together.

Tammy was a fresh graduate from an Ontario university. She was about 22 years old, and spending a year teaching in Korea was to be her first big international experience. It all seems romantic and wonderful when you’re young and sitting in Canada, and then you get here. Tammy arrived in my little corner of Hell—living in rural Korea thirty years ago really was a horror—a giggling mass of excitement and good intentions. The school director was happy to see her as he was short-staffed. I was happy to see her because I’d been living as the lone white guy in that Korean fishing village for months and I was going stark raving mad.

To celebrate Mr. Lee took the entire staff out for a nice Korean dinner. At that time in Yeosu (여수) if you wanted to go out for a decent meal you had two choices, sushi or Korean barbecue. Mr. Lee chose sushi. Yeosu’s sushi was hardcore, as you’d expect from a Korean fishing village. There were slabs of raw fish, uncooked mollusks and sea urchin, which if you’ve never tried is really tough to get down—there was none of this California Sushi Roll shit.

So, off we went to a restaurant. As we were a group of perhaps a dozen, we were able to get our own little private room, that had one of those tables with the legs cut short so that you could sit cross-legged on the floor while eating, Japanese style. The table ran parallel to the back wall of the room, so nearly half the people sat against the back wall, with the table in front of them. Tammy, as the guest of honor, was seated in the center of the table, with her back against the wall. There were at least two or three people on either side of her. On her left sat the boss, Mr. Lee, and on her right sat Mrs. Lee. The rest of us were randomly gathered around Tammy, who was the evening’s focal point.

As I’m telling this story, you have to bear in mind that this was 25+ years ago, and the availability of different types of food around the world has increased exponentially since then (The WTO and My Waistline). This was a time when not every gas station in Canada was serving sushi rolls. Most small- and medium-sized cities had no sushi. For the adventurous western Canadian, you could go to Vancouver and try it. Probably Toronto had sushi restaurants too.

So, this was a new experience for our girl Tammy. She bore up under the strain pretty well. It was very obvious to me, watching her face, that she was not enjoying the meal, but she managed to put on a reasonable show. You know, smiling, nodding, joining the conversation, complimenting the food, having a bit of Soju, and just generally holding her end socially. Neither the boss, nor any of the other Korean staff seemed to suspect just what a difficult time she was having choking down the food. Of course they wouldn’t. It was a really fine, high-end, dining experience—they weren’t looking for signs of dietary distress or nausea.

But, Tammy was showing all the classic signs. She was barely touching her food, while doing her best to appear to be enjoying the meal with all the fake gustatory verve she could muster.  But, a slightly closer look revealed she was green around the gills. Whenever she put some raw seafood in her mouth you could see that it wasn’t going anywhere. She would chew, and chew, and chew, trying to get it down, but it just stuck there. Inevitably she’d have to take a drink, and try to swallow it like a pill.

I’m not as fully evolved as I appear, I’m definitely capable of enjoying a bit of schadenfreude from time to time. I especially enjoy watching people suffer through culture shock, I suppose because I’ve spent so much of my life doing the same. I was seated opposite Tammy, and had a terrific view of the whole spectacle.

The meal was coming to an end, and Tammy, realizing the ordeal was ending, was visibly beginning to relax. I was proud of her. Then the final dish arrived. The table hushed in anticipation as the server came from the kitchen carrying the pièce de résistance. I knew something was wrong when I saw Tammy turning from sickly green to pale white. I looked over my shoulder to see the waitress carrying a large platter of slimy looking things—and they were moving. I had never seen the likes before. It looked like a heaping platter of wet writhing worms.

I turned my head back to the table, just in time to see Tammy, who was trapped between Mr. and Mrs. Lee, move her head to the left, and forcefully puke down Mr. Lee’s side, from ear to waist. Such a pity, she had done so well.

But, on the plus side, I thoroughly enjoyed the show. Mr. Lee was an ass—it was awesome.

What had been delivered to our table turned out to be Korean-style Dancing Octopus Legs (video here). According to Wikipedia San-nakji (산낙지) is a raw long armed octopus (Octopus minor), a small octopus species. They are killed before being cut into small pieces and served. The octopus’ complex nervous system, with two-third of its neurons in the tentacle’s nerve cords, allows the octopus to exhibit a variety of reflex actions without brain activity. In other words, the tentacles move on the plate posthumously.

As a meal, the San-nakji was tough to stomach, but as dinner entertainment, it put on one hell of a show.

 

 

 

Arachnophuuuucckkk!!!

Arachnophobia—the irrational fear of spiders—is not always so irrational.

When I first arrived in Taiwan, I shared an apartment with two other teachers. One day I came stumbling home from work, late at night, exhausted, and tripped through the darkness into the bathroom. As I closed the door and switched on the lights, something ran across my foot. It was hairy and had mass. I assumed it was a small rat.

I was quickly disabused of that notion when I spotted a spider the size of my head clinging to the tile wall over the tub. He apparently was trying to avoid being noticed. Small chance of that—it’s hard not to notice every twitch and muscle spasm of a spider the size of a human baby when you’re locked in a space little bigger than a closet with him.

I freaked.

I made an effort to fight down my fear, channel my coureur de bois ancestry, and do something to rid our domicile of this eight-eyed hairy invader. Actually, I don’t know if he was really hairy, but in my mind he had a full Fu Manchu. I desperately searched the bathroom for a weapon. When my eyes lit upon the toilet brush in the corner, I hastily grabbed it, armed and ready to join the battle, I screwed my eyes shut and waved the brush in the general vicinity of the spider like a spastic preteen majorette trying to swat an epileptic fly with her baton.

That’s when I realized the spider was fast. It jumped off the wall and started racing around the room like Speedy Gonzales on bennies. It ran across the wall, and then somehow jumped and skittered across my midriff, all the while I was banging the toilet brush in its wake. Somewhere in the back of my mind I must’ve been heartened to realize that anything that fast would not be poisonous. However, the frenetic speed of the spider was disconcerting. He ran to the left, zigged to the right, deked left, deked right, and jumped about five feet into the air, bringing us face-to-face. We looked each other in the eyes, he let out a terrified squeak, at least I assume he did, as I couldn’t hear it above my own girly cries, and then we both took off in opposite directions, leaving nothing but a pair of vapor trails.

I slammed the bathroom door behind me and quickly locked myself in the bedroom, hoping that the spider wouldn’t come a hunting. Who needs a bathroom anyway? I cowered in my room, contemplating leaving the house to the spider and finding new digs. When my roommates arrived home I was still in the bedroom, fear and laziness battling to see whether I was distressed enough to actually pack, a chore I despise.

As soon as I heard the front lock open, I ran out of my bedroom and excitedly told my roommates of the eight-legged behemoth currently making use of the facilities. I could almost see it, perched over the bowl, idly leafing through that month’s Penthouse while smoking a cigarette.

My roommates—big, strong, healthy young men both—were gratifyingly dainty in their reaction, and join me in a trembling group as far from the bathroom as possible. We huddled together and in quick nattering voices discussed what to do. None of us had a plan beyond avoiding the bathroom’s vicinity.

Into that cringeworthy huddle of masculinity strode one of the guy’s Taiwanese girlfriend, a cute little slip of a thing saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it”. She marched past us, picking up a broom on her way to the bathroom. She quickly slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind. From the bathroom there came grunts, some excited yells, and the sounds of banging and thrashing, while we three men excitedly clutched each other outside the door and chattered about what might be going on inside.

Suddenly the bathroom door burst open, we collectively jumped back, and out she strode—triumphant—with one hand holding the broom over her shoulder like a shotgun, while holding the dead spider, dangling by one leg, in her other hand. Our hero.

I was a little disappointed to see that the spider was not really as big as my head. It was only it’s long legs which made it appear so large. The body was big, perhaps a little smaller than a ping pong ball. Someone later told me it was a banana spider, disconcertingly fast, but ultimately harmless.

Profound Musings

This week I haven’t got a post. Life got in the way. However, I do have this decidedly off topic piece I prepared to celebrate passing my first half-century. It was my birthday this weekend. Here’s what I’ve learned from 50 years of living. I hope you enjoy it.

50 Years of Wisdom with Darren

1. Never fall in love with a stripper. If you fall in love with a stripper, don’t buy her new boobs. If you buy her new boobs, make sure you have touching privileges.

2. Scotch from China is not Scotch.

3. Never answer when your wife asks, “How does my _______ look in these ______ ?”

4. Always buy a couch that’s long enough to sleep on.

5. Karaoke is never a good idea. If you can’t avoid it, then own it. Sing loud, proud and off key.

6. That hot Thai chick with the Adam’s apple is a dude.

7. Go to 2nd base. She’s likely the most beautiful woman you’ll ever get, but avoid 3rd base – it’s frightful.

8. Middle aged white men can’t twerk.

9. Writing your name in the snow looks better after taking your vitamins.

10. 18-24 year old Asian girls really are better.

11. Don’t play sports – there’s no upside.

12. Hone a vacant disposition. It’ll serve you well in all your endeavors.

13. Spare no sympathy for vegetarians. It’s their own damn fault.

14. Don’t piss into the wind. (Same advice goes for puking).

15. Your ultra-healthy friend is just as likely to die as you, probably over their post-workout non-fat, no foam, chai soy latte. That’s no way to go.

16. Any penis worth its salt deserves a cool nickname.

17. If you’re doing what everyone else is doing, you’re doing the wrong thing.

18. Perfectionism is an inability to prioritize.

19. Bacon is good on everything.

20. Alcohol is a temporary solution only if you stop drinking.

21. Marry a woman who makes less money than you. There’s less pressure to compensate in the bedroom.

22. My wife did not settle. She compromised. It’s different.

23. I’ve never met a happy couple where the husband is smarter than the wife.

24. Edible panties are best eaten straight out of the package.

25. Telling your love that her eyes are deep and piercing like two piss-holes in the snow (high-romance in Canada) does not translate well into Chinese.

26. When you get married don’t let your wife throw away all her g-strings. (She’ll want to).

27. Don’t stop your friend if he is about to unwittingly pee on an electric fence. (High-quality free entertainment is hard to find). Don’t stand behind him.

28. The problem with being a conservative is that you’re always on the wrong side of history. Time never flows backwards.

29. Single ply toilet paper builds character.

30. Salad is not food. It’s what food eats.

31. Men, don’t be embarrassed about your cleavage.

32. Men have difficulty expressing their emotions in words. Say it with interpretive dance. Chicks love that.

33. I once dated a Vogue model. There’s no deeper meaning to this entry. I just want everyone to know.

34. Skirts are best for car sex. Bing, bang, boom, and you’re back at the mall.

35. The problem with women is they always think you have potential. Potential for what?!?

36. If you find yourself shopping for vegetarian cookbooks as part of a grand scheme to get into some hottie’s pants, just walk away. It’s not worth it.

37. It takes a lot of time to do nothing.

38. Listen to no sense; speak no sense; anything less would be wasting the privilege of being old.

39. Strive to be just slightly above average in all that you do. Under-performing brings stress. Over-performing brings more [unpaid and under-appreciated] responsibilities, work, and stress. Just slightly better than average – that’s your sweet spot.

40. Women like it sweet; men like it dirty; and never the twain shall meet.

41. Don’t try to sit on a squat toilet.

42. Date pessimists – they don’t expect much.

43. Never give the object of your affection a romantic gift basket of deodorant. It seems no different than soap, bath oil, and perfume – yet it is (apparently).

44. When flying, always ask the head stewardess where and when that plane’s chapter of The Mile High Club is meeting, because you just never know.

45. Trans fats are the best fats.

46. The squeaky wheel is annoying.

47. If I could travel back to 1978, I’d kiss Wendy Hayes right on the playground. If she beat the crap out of me – so be it.

48. Smooth is good; honest is better.

49. Kissing was invented to prevent guys from saying something stupid right when they have the most to lose.

50. When you’re married, hotel sex is the closest thing you can get to the excitement of a new partner – doing it on a different bed, in front of a strange chair, while looking deeply into a mirror you’ve never seen before.

51. Peeing in the woods – macho good times. Pooping in the woods – just plain disgusting.

52. A great head of hair can hide most other social failings. Always use conditioner (f*ck Pert+, a separate conditioner – condition like a millionaire).

53. Never argue with a women, instead patiently explain to her why you’re right. That’s chivalry.

54. At formal functions, business meetings, PTA gatherings, job interviews, etc. follow church rules (i.e. put your booze in a thermos).

55. “That’s what she said,” is not witty repartee when talking to the female judge hearing your case.

56. Despite what your mother says, all the cool kids do not wear bedazzled slacks to high school.

57. When ending a long term relationship always put a puppy with heart eyes emoji at the end of the text. That’s class!

58. Only sleep with people crazier than you. I’m not sure this is really good advice, but it always seems to work out that way, so you may as well embrace it and try to enjoy the ride.

59. If everything seems to be going well at work, you’re out of the loop.

60. Should you find yourself at a hair waxing salon, in a curious/adventurous/metrosexual mood – do not try the “Between the Cheeks” special.

61. If you do, have Johnny Cash’s cd queued up. The lyrics to Burning Ring of Fire will never be more personally meaningful.

62. A full Brazilian will not make your penis look larger.

63. Paradoxically, Brazilian barbecue makes it look like you have more meat.

64. Your parent’s stupidity is inversely proportional to your maturity.

65. Look upon the world with wry humor in your heart and a smirk on your face, for then the world will never disappoint you.

66. Yogi Bear 3D is the movie of our generation.

67. The advantage to dating young women (besides the obvious) is they can’t tell the difference between intriguing and fucked up.

68. Black and white is for the young, when you get older you find only hard and harder decisions.

69. Skidmark is not as cool a nickname as it sounds.

70. If life hands you lemons, buy salt and tequila.

71. Even people who are total shits may have an underlying good; even a turd can contain a kernel of corn.

72. The microbial flora in your intestines has more to do with happiness than your bank account.

73. A baculum might be nice.

74. When one has a penis such as mine, one does not do dishes.

75. When you reach 50 you can no longer distinguish between the hip trends and the ones that are just stupid. Frankly, it’s a relief.

76. Young children are an unending source of joy and wonder for fifteen minutes.

77. You realize how insignificant you are when you pee in the ocean.

78. You can’t ruin a friendship with sex, that’s like trying to ruin ice cream with chocolate syrup and sprinkles.

79. Moody self-obsession is only attractive in men who can play guitar.

80. You can lead your mother to the dough, but you can’t make her pinch perogies.

81. Never throw away (delete for you young whipper snappers) porn.

82. I haven’t got a problem with God, it’s his fans that annoy me.

83. Men don’t like taking instructions unless it involves really complex lingerie.

84. If you forget your wife’s birthday – don’t panic. You can make a romantic handcrafted gift from easily available household items. With just a pair of her old panties and scissors you can create a lovely pair of crotchless panties.

85. Whatever happens in Bangkok doesn’t count.

86. The best way out is by going through.

87. Faster horses; younger women; older whisky; and more money. That’s what it’s all about.

88. I don’t care what you’re excuse is – grandma panties are never okay.

89. At least once in your life you need to rock a unitard.

90. Believe or don’t believe; you can only follow the path your senses reveal to you.

91. If a woman is dressed in such a way as to expose half her boobs and I look – I’m the pervert. If I expose myself and a woman looks – I’m the pervert.

92. Marriage brings many positive changes if you keep an open mind. For example, when we got married my wife insisted that we buy a second towel. I thought she was crazy. Now I like it – very opulent. It’s nicer than using the bath mat.

93. Never regret the stupid things you’ve done; regret the stupid things you could have done.

94. Rum is a natural laxative. Do with that what you may.

95. It’s only kinky the first time.

96. Never make snow angels in a dog park.

97. You get all the greens you need from grass fed beef.

98. Everything in life truly worth doing can be done in the shower.

99. Never take two steps when one will do. If that leaves surplus free time, that’s why God invented sofas.

100. Never miss the chance to do something nice for your fellow man in a really dickish way. Doing good pleases the soul. Being a dick thrills the id.

101. All I know is there’s more than I know.