Ireland Again and Again and Again.
If you're like me and not happy with today, then waste your morning like I did on Ferry Halim's ever-brilliant orisinal.com. My personal favourites are HIGH DELIVERY, SUMMER WALK, POCKETFUL OF STARS, THESE PIGS, A CUPID'S DAY, THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA, CHICKEN WINGS, SNOW BOWLING, and THE AMAZING DARE-DOZEN.
Many of you already received the draft version of WIT-FARTS IN IRELAND. This is the final version, with amendments, corrections and one brilliant wit-fart addition at the end. It's hott.
WIT-FARTS IN IRELAND.
Some of you will have already heard this story, because I love you so dearly I had to share it with you earlier. Consider yourselves privileged.
I have absolutely no work ethic, which is the most inspiring thing in the world. The only problem is, once I'm inspired, I still have no work ethic, so instead of being blase and getting nothing done, I'm very excited and getting nothing done.
Marathoners, on the other hand, get something done. I'm not sure if they're blase about it or excited - I suppose it depends on if you're a first timer or a veteran marathoner - but they sure get something done. 26.2 miles is no slouch. For those of you who don't know, legend has it that a Greek warrior Pheidippes ran 26.2 miles from the Batlle of Marathon back to Athens to inform the city of its first victory on land against the Persians.
The distance has been estimated by the International Olympic Committee as only 21.4 miles and apparently the poor bastard dropped dead after arriving. That last detail, however, was added 500 years later by Plutarch, and not recorded by Herodotus, the famous historian who was born in the year of the Battle.
I'm going to say I believe Herodotus' account, mostly so I can drop the following Fart of Wit. For those of you not in the know, a Fart of Wit (also known in its informal sense as a wit-fart) is named for its dual-faceted inconsequentiality. A wit-fart has both a shallow amusement factor as well a complete lack of intellectual depth. See if you can figure out the shallowness in this Herodotus-based quip: It's a good thing Pheidippes was Greek, not Roman, because how much would it suck to run that far and then get killed?
[insert cymbal crash]
Anyway, a couple of Mondays ago there was a Bank Holiday here in Ireland. It was also the date of the Dublin City Marathon. The route ran past my house and up to the city centre. A couple of hours after the leaders had gone by, there was a tremendously insistent banging on our door. My roommate opened it to find a gasping runner begging to use the toilet.
Now, myself, if I were running a timed event, I would just wet myself and keep going, because I'm hardcore. But this poor lady was too civilized for that and so we let her on in. My roommate went back to the living room and I to my bedroom.
She took a good five to seven minutes, and I was just astonished at the time she was wasting. I mean, it’s a marathon, lady! Sure, you don’t have a chance of winning, but it’s still a race. You have to finish it. And wouldn’t you rather do that in the best time possible, instead of saying to your friends, “Yeah, I could have done it in five hours twelve minutes, but I stopped to piss in Ballsbridge and they had such a lovely toilet I was just caught up in admiring the candles on top of the toilet tank and their cute little pink toilet paper!”
Turns out, she wasn't there for number one, she was actually down for Number 2. By number 2, I don’t mean like the second second-in-command on a ship, I mean poop. And it was a NASTY number 2. The stench of ass was everywhere. She literally stunk the whole house up. We had to lock the door after she left the house in case any more constipated Scots showed up at the door.
You might say we experienced our very own wit-fart.
After laughing my ass off, the rankness was still unbearable so I left the house and headed into town. There were lots of Canadians in the marathon for some reason. I met a couple from Fredericton and asked them if they came all the way over for the marathon. And they did. And they weren't like professional marathoners who travel the globe for big prizes. These guys were three hours behind the winners. Silly New Brunswickians. Oh well. They gave me a flag.
On Hallowe’en night, I was off in search of jazz when all I found was three guys wearing ZZ top beards sitting on a sofa behind a turntable occassionally riffing on a shared electric guitar and screaming, "I hate this this I hate this it really really sucks!" (It's really quite charming with an Irish accent). So I'm sitting there (why would I leave?) and this other dude who's trashed because it's his birthday (on Hallowe'en) does a brilliant double-take straight out of the Ham School of Amateur Dramatics and points at me:
"I thought you was Craig David!" (It's really quite charming with an Irish accent).
So I blush and smile (is that appropriate in such a situation?) and I'm all like "Nope, sorry. I get that all the time though." (Now this is true, dammit. In a kung-fu class once, I got called a ‘Craig David looking mother-fucker.’ You’d think people would just fight, not call names in such a place, eh? Also, at Parkdale a couple of summers ago, a group of kids were in to visit the clinic, saw my picture and apparently squealed ‘Oh! Does Craig David work here?).
His friend then follows up with this one, straight out of left-field via some asteroids outside Mars: "Are you Hispanic, then?"
Now I'm just confused so I just say no (which I should have done long ago when I was asked if I would mind posing for that magazine, yes I know, let's not dredge that up again, shall we?).
I'm too polite to ask the obvious follow-up ("What does that have to do with ANYTHING, you drunken little geography-challenged letch?"), but a THIRD friend saves me from my curiousity and asks the all-important “Why?”
The response, from Friend (where the hell is the number sign on this stupid keyboard? I mean, don't these Europeans have a use for it? Oh, found it - underneath the SQUARE BRACKETS? like, seriously...anyway) from Friend #2 is (and this is classic):
"Yeah, you know…Craig David's from the Dominican Republic."
Now that’s the ultimate in wit-farts.
Impressed with such pungent wit, I went home and got out my trusty pen and notebook. In honour of my jazz-less encounter and Craig David confusion, I wrote the following limerick/wit-fart of my own:
Asad Kiyani
(Untitled)
10-31-2004
Asked if I was a David named Craig/
I said "No, though it's a compliment for which some would beg"/
Asked if I was Hispanic/
I said "No, just a little manic..."/
"...You know, a little hairy in the leg"/
I thought I had reached the apex of wit-farts with that one until last night. A kid in the university newspaper here told me he voted for George Bush because he wants Hilary Rodham Clinton to be president in 2008.
Thank you and good night.
The End.
Many of you already received the draft version of WIT-FARTS IN IRELAND. This is the final version, with amendments, corrections and one brilliant wit-fart addition at the end. It's hott.
WIT-FARTS IN IRELAND.
Some of you will have already heard this story, because I love you so dearly I had to share it with you earlier. Consider yourselves privileged.
I have absolutely no work ethic, which is the most inspiring thing in the world. The only problem is, once I'm inspired, I still have no work ethic, so instead of being blase and getting nothing done, I'm very excited and getting nothing done.
Marathoners, on the other hand, get something done. I'm not sure if they're blase about it or excited - I suppose it depends on if you're a first timer or a veteran marathoner - but they sure get something done. 26.2 miles is no slouch. For those of you who don't know, legend has it that a Greek warrior Pheidippes ran 26.2 miles from the Batlle of Marathon back to Athens to inform the city of its first victory on land against the Persians.
The distance has been estimated by the International Olympic Committee as only 21.4 miles and apparently the poor bastard dropped dead after arriving. That last detail, however, was added 500 years later by Plutarch, and not recorded by Herodotus, the famous historian who was born in the year of the Battle.
I'm going to say I believe Herodotus' account, mostly so I can drop the following Fart of Wit. For those of you not in the know, a Fart of Wit (also known in its informal sense as a wit-fart) is named for its dual-faceted inconsequentiality. A wit-fart has both a shallow amusement factor as well a complete lack of intellectual depth. See if you can figure out the shallowness in this Herodotus-based quip: It's a good thing Pheidippes was Greek, not Roman, because how much would it suck to run that far and then get killed?
[insert cymbal crash]
Anyway, a couple of Mondays ago there was a Bank Holiday here in Ireland. It was also the date of the Dublin City Marathon. The route ran past my house and up to the city centre. A couple of hours after the leaders had gone by, there was a tremendously insistent banging on our door. My roommate opened it to find a gasping runner begging to use the toilet.
Now, myself, if I were running a timed event, I would just wet myself and keep going, because I'm hardcore. But this poor lady was too civilized for that and so we let her on in. My roommate went back to the living room and I to my bedroom.
She took a good five to seven minutes, and I was just astonished at the time she was wasting. I mean, it’s a marathon, lady! Sure, you don’t have a chance of winning, but it’s still a race. You have to finish it. And wouldn’t you rather do that in the best time possible, instead of saying to your friends, “Yeah, I could have done it in five hours twelve minutes, but I stopped to piss in Ballsbridge and they had such a lovely toilet I was just caught up in admiring the candles on top of the toilet tank and their cute little pink toilet paper!”
Turns out, she wasn't there for number one, she was actually down for Number 2. By number 2, I don’t mean like the second second-in-command on a ship, I mean poop. And it was a NASTY number 2. The stench of ass was everywhere. She literally stunk the whole house up. We had to lock the door after she left the house in case any more constipated Scots showed up at the door.
You might say we experienced our very own wit-fart.
After laughing my ass off, the rankness was still unbearable so I left the house and headed into town. There were lots of Canadians in the marathon for some reason. I met a couple from Fredericton and asked them if they came all the way over for the marathon. And they did. And they weren't like professional marathoners who travel the globe for big prizes. These guys were three hours behind the winners. Silly New Brunswickians. Oh well. They gave me a flag.
On Hallowe’en night, I was off in search of jazz when all I found was three guys wearing ZZ top beards sitting on a sofa behind a turntable occassionally riffing on a shared electric guitar and screaming, "I hate this this I hate this it really really sucks!" (It's really quite charming with an Irish accent). So I'm sitting there (why would I leave?) and this other dude who's trashed because it's his birthday (on Hallowe'en) does a brilliant double-take straight out of the Ham School of Amateur Dramatics and points at me:
"I thought you was Craig David!" (It's really quite charming with an Irish accent).
So I blush and smile (is that appropriate in such a situation?) and I'm all like "Nope, sorry. I get that all the time though." (Now this is true, dammit. In a kung-fu class once, I got called a ‘Craig David looking mother-fucker.’ You’d think people would just fight, not call names in such a place, eh? Also, at Parkdale a couple of summers ago, a group of kids were in to visit the clinic, saw my picture and apparently squealed ‘Oh! Does Craig David work here?).
His friend then follows up with this one, straight out of left-field via some asteroids outside Mars: "Are you Hispanic, then?"
Now I'm just confused so I just say no (which I should have done long ago when I was asked if I would mind posing for that magazine, yes I know, let's not dredge that up again, shall we?).
I'm too polite to ask the obvious follow-up ("What does that have to do with ANYTHING, you drunken little geography-challenged letch?"), but a THIRD friend saves me from my curiousity and asks the all-important “Why?”
The response, from Friend (where the hell is the number sign on this stupid keyboard? I mean, don't these Europeans have a use for it? Oh, found it - underneath the SQUARE BRACKETS? like, seriously...anyway) from Friend #2 is (and this is classic):
"Yeah, you know…Craig David's from the Dominican Republic."
Now that’s the ultimate in wit-farts.
Impressed with such pungent wit, I went home and got out my trusty pen and notebook. In honour of my jazz-less encounter and Craig David confusion, I wrote the following limerick/wit-fart of my own:
Asad Kiyani
(Untitled)
10-31-2004
Asked if I was a David named Craig/
I said "No, though it's a compliment for which some would beg"/
Asked if I was Hispanic/
I said "No, just a little manic..."/
"...You know, a little hairy in the leg"/
I thought I had reached the apex of wit-farts with that one until last night. A kid in the university newspaper here told me he voted for George Bush because he wants Hilary Rodham Clinton to be president in 2008.
Thank you and good night.
The End.