Gargh!

Hooooly crap! I haven't posted on here since the end of November! This is completely unacceptable! I shall remedy this problem by posting this:




Someone posted this on a forum I frequent. Apparently, it was found after doing a GIS for the word "Ironic".

Delicious.

So loyal yet anonymous fanbase, I bet you're wondering how that test went, eh? That CFA Exam I monstrosity, born from the collated bowels of hellfire succubi, and weaned on the decaying flesh of cute stone-cold puppies, eh? EH?

See what I did there? That was melodrama, and there was much of that to be had when you get a thousand nervously sweating test-takers piled into the same convention hall, all praying to various higher authorities in hopes of passing an $1,800 exam. If only it were tax-deductible, damn it.

In any case, the first thing that struck me was the number of Asians, Indians, and Jewish folk reletive to, well, everyone else. I'll throw a ratio out into the ring: 80:20. My second thought was,"Haha! Talk about perpetuating the stereotype! Snort, snort, chortle, chortle, wink, wink!"

Then there was a small pause, as a voice in the back of my head tried to yell something over the din of my amusement.

"Hey! You stupid bloke! What does that make you?!"

And so my third thought was:

Fuck! I'm becoming a real Asian! I'm a real Asian boy!

If an old man wearing spectacles and sporting a white handlebar mustache had walked by at that point, I probably would have punched him in the face. Screw you, puppeteer!

(I jest, of course.)

In any case, the test was difficult. I was so nervous for the first 3 hours, I forgot a lot of my formulas, and ended up rushing the last few sections. So I decided to eschew common sense for the second section, and ended up stopping by a nice Italian restaurant for lunch and a tall glass of delicious rose wine.

Needless to say, I feel I did much better on the second half. The cogs were well-greased at that point, if you know what I mean. Heh heh heh. Heh heh.

Hooo boy.

So results come in end of next January. Everyone wish me luck!


And scene. Cut!

Happy Thanksgiving-ish, folks!

Apologies for not posting more frequently. That CFA exam is coming up next Saturday, and I'm starting to lose my mind. But this is okay, because I am heartily proficient at finding lost minds, especially my own. And I know that if I keep typing whatever comes first to my mind-I-am-losing, that stream-of-consciousness will only prove to provide further evidence of the mind that I've lost.

(What the hell did I just say.)

To whit- and I've yet to learn the difference between whit and wit- I've the wherewithal to post here a link which should make up for all the aforementioned craziness. As some of you may know, I'm a big fan of Lord of the Rings. I'm also a big fan of Engrish. So why not combine my two loves into a single Great Love:

http://public.www.planetmirror.com/pub/engrish/ttt_captions/00-20.htm

Buahahhah! It's gold, Jerry, comedy gold!

Will is out.

(The return to sanity will commence after December 4th.)

That damned test is coming up...

Dear Loyal and Semi-Rabid Fans,


So the first Chartered Financial Analyst examination is coming up on December 4th, and time is running out for this ol' codger. I'm starting to get really nervous, because this is a lot of material to absorb, and I don't feel particular confident in my mastery of it. In fact, I'm starting to freak out a little bit:





Yeah, just like that. Startingly enough, this expression is similar to the one I expressed when my little god-sister/cousin-thrice-removed Ariel decided to kick me hard in the shin and take a picture at the same time. (And in fact, it is.)


Ah, and in case you were wondering, this is her. Ariel, that is:




If she looks like she's high as a kite, it's because she is, and that's the spoon we use to bake the coke, coppers.

It's okay though, because drug use runs in our family. Witness exhibit B:





That's my brother Hubert after three vials of the crack-baby crack, baby. And now we come to the mastermind of the operation, the raison d'etre of this street operation:



Good God. It's alive.

Okay, in all seriousness (and obviousness, if that's a real word), there's no crazy coke binge. If you're worried because this is the second straight drug-high related post, it's because drug jokes are funny, and pictures of Asian people looking high are funnier. By the way, that last picture is a snapshot of my best friend Ian, and we were all just messing around at the Majestic Buffet last weekend. Great buffet, and that actually brings me to a specific rant:


I want to touch on the concept of "buffet names" for a moment. (This is your daily dose of banality here, folks.) In other words, what gets me about buffets nowadays is the utter lack of imagination that goes into the naming process. Once you've heard of one buffet name, you've heard them all, right?

I mean, for Christ's sake, we have the East China Buffet, Great Wall Buffet, Great Eastern Buffet, China Wok Buffet, Great Wall of China Buffet, Emperors Buffet, Heavenly Buffet, Shanghai Buffet, Golden Dragon Buffet, Great Emperor's Shanghai Wall of Eastern China Buffetarggghhhhhhhh!!! Yes, we get it, you're an Asian-themed buffet, and you all serve the same bloody food!

You got that? It's simple marketing logic here, restaurant owners. If you all are producing the same basic product, you need to differentiate yourself through your brand name. Otherwise, it would be like taking all the supermarkets around the country and rebranding them with names like "Food Supermarket", "New Jersey Supermarket", "Local Supermarket", "Supermarket of East Bumblefuck", and etc. Ever heard of Minado? Exactly. Follow their lead, please.

If you're going for the Asian theme, you might as well go all out and start throwing together words that shouldn't belong together. "Golden Wok Monkey Buffet", "Godzilla Sushi Stir-Fry Buffet", or even better, "The Frying Dragon Buffet" (which nets you that double-your-pleasure dose of humor, because it works even with a Chinese accent)!

Then again, I kind of like the name "Majestic Buffet". It's like they decided,"Hey, screw all the conservative names, we're better than that! We live on a higher plane of consciousness, we are the descendants of the Heavenly Bounty, we are friggin' Majestic." And then they swathed the entire building in fake marble and threw up a bunch of Ionian columns. Awesome.

In conclusion, I would like to note that everytime I say "Golden Wok Monkey", it sounds kinda dirty, and consequently, I start giggling like a 3rd grader. In fact, from now on, anyone that makes a good dirty joke in my presence will be called a Golden Wok Monkey.

Now that I've added to your burdgeoning wisdom, I think I'll go get a snack.

Will is out.

Toodles,

Willer

Whoa, wait, Wilson.......

I have a confession to make.


This is what I do when I really need something to take me away from this cynical, cynical world. I just take a pinch, like this, with just one sniff, like so......

.....the white man's powder allows Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey to journey into the spirit world and confer with the spirits of his ancestors. It is certain, they say. The buffalo hunt will be good this year. And the harvest of maize will bountiful and plenty. It is time for the young hunter to take up his spear and tomahawk, don his cap of white-man-scalp, and search the plains for his spirit animal.

"Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey," intoned the ancestors.

The young hunter blinked. "Lok'tar, honored ancestors. Lok'tar Ogar!"

Their chilly reply slid through his brain and sent a shiver down his spine. "Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey...."

"Aye?"

"....This is not World of Warcraft, you are not a Tauren, and we are not Orcs."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Oh." He could feel the sting of their disappoinment, as if someone had slapped him in the face with a fish.

A fish?

Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey looked down. A red-painted herring lay flopping on the ground, its tail cutting little holes in the ethereal fog.

"Okay, I know I'm a little high right now, but you really didn't have to...."

The ancestors quickly interjected before he could get finish his retort. "It is a symbol, Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey. Pick it up, and we shall inform you of your spirit task."

Wilson blinked. There was something fishy about all of this. He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He closed his eyes and peered at the part of his mind that regulated the use of descriptive puns.

It somehow managed to look guilty.

Wilson sighed, and slowly opened his right eye. "Allright," he mumbled morosely,"what is it?" He bent down to snatch at the gasping fish.

"Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey, you must take our spirit gift, raise it high in the air, and search the plains for your spirit animal. It is kin to the spirit gift, but akin to humans as well. It wanders in schools, it is long-nosed, and breathes through hole-in-head."

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry, come again?"

The air began to pulse in anger, and there was the distinctive clicking sound of grinding teeth. Wilson looked impressed in spite of his sudden fear. He couldn't imagine how many laws of physics were just tossed out the window in order for an intangible Being of Power to create that kind of sound effect. It made him feel special. He decided to take another stab.

"Okay, wait. This spirit animal, it wanders in schools, it has a long nose, it's kinda like a fish but not really, and it breathes through a blowhole, right? Have I got that right?"

The ancestor to his right nodded imperceptibly.

Wilson jolted as a sudden flash of insight shook through his jumbled brain, as if someone had picked up a gumball machine and was shaking it for all it was worth. In the silence that followed, his thoughts ricocheted around in the glass jar until one managed to slide into the dispenser tubing and pop out of the slot.

"It's a dolphin, isn't it. You want me to look for a dolphin." His voice was laden with heavy portions of disbelief.

"Bingo."

Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey, scion of the non-existent Tribe of White-Man's Powder, wanderer of the Great Plains of Neurological Ecstasy, and currently the Bearer of the Decomposing Spirit Gift, looked dumfounded. He bit back his initial retort and carefully formed his reply.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "You want me to take this symbol, a red herring, mind you...."

"Yes."

"....hold it up in my hand...."

"Aye."

".....wave it proudly....."

"Affirmative."

".....and scour the Great Plains for my spirit animal..."

"Roger that."

"......which is a dolphin. You want me to look for a dolphin, mind you, in a place where dolphins technically cannot exist."

"Zug zug."

Wilson looked ready to burst. "You have got to be kidding me. Do you realize what you're saying?"

The spirits managed to look slightly miffed. "Welcome to the Real World, where life isn't easy."

"But you're asking me to look for a bloody fish, in the middle of a flippin' continent!"

"You are holding one right now, are you not?"

Wilson pretended not to hear that. "And besides, I just sniffed a massive amount of dietary supplements in order to talk with a bunch of cuckoo spirits in my head. Don't lecture me about the Real World."

"Hey now, that wasn't nice."

"Do you realize what you're requesting?! This is like throwing me into a crowded city street in Syria, holding up a giant blippin' cross, and having me yell out,"HEY! HAS ANYONE HERE SEEN THE BLOODY POPE? HELLO? ANYONE?""

The air began to pulse again in anger. "The ancestors think you are engaging in unnecessary hyperbole, and it is time for you to go."

"Now wait just a second here, I'm not quite done with you yet, and - "

Before Wilson-Fleet-As-Donkey could finish, he felt himself launched forward at great speed as something insubstantially substantial kicked him hard in the ass, and he tumbled forward, screaming for help, both irate and flummoxed as he pinwheeled across the whirling nether.......



......see what I mean? This stuff kicks ass. You can have experiences like this all the time!



Okay. In all seriousness, I'm not really sniffing the stuff in the picture. We're just using it in the lab for some experiments in adding dietary supplements to proprietary cosmetic products. But my dad and I get a kick out of the fact that it looks like I'm playing at being a Columbian drug lord. Do you want some of the coca, esse? Haha!

Bonus points to anyone who can guess which particular cosmetic product I'm talking about. In fact, for my next post, I think I'll do one of those close-up "Guess what this is?" picture games, a la Cranium.

Enjoy the retardedly long post. I'm out.

- Will 

For those of you who missed it....

I'm reposting this from my Friendster blog, because I believe that every negative post should be followed with a humorous one. Anyways, here goes:


Call me paranoid, but there isn't a day that goes by without someone making Wilson the butt of a good joke.

So here we were, our butts planted on the bench next to the 16th tee, waiting for the group in front of us to finish playing the hole. The afternoon was winding down, and our group of four had developed a sort of companionable silence during these particular lulls in play.

Our group was comprised of me, Tom, Hubert, and a middle-aged Korean fellow who's name I can never remember, but simply referred to as "that Korean dad". We all felt bad for the guy, since it was plainly obvious from the start that he was far more proficient at golf than any of us, and it must have been trying his patience waiting for us to bumble our way down each and every hole. To his credit, he tried to give us some tips in broken English, if only to speed the game up.

In any case, it during this particular lull that he decided to give me a personal lesson in golf swings. He had stood up and was motioning towards me with his 3 wood.

"You, you look at my swing." The Korean Dad assumed his stance at address and took a few cuts at the grass. "Look, look."

I stood up and walked to within a few paces of his position. He motioned at me with his club again.

"You look. When bring club up to hip, then you cock wrists up." He proceeded to demonstrate the proper cocking action of the wrists during the backswing. "You cock here, then bring up while turning shoulder. No moving hip or knees! Then when you swing, no moving head forward." The 3-wood came down in a slow "whoosh".

I nodded a few times in agreement.

He continued on. "Now I show you your swing, okay? You look."

He brought the club up to waist-height, but instead of cocking his wrists, he kept his left arm straight as he took the clubhead vertical. "Look, you no cock wrists. Must cock, okay? Too high!"

Someone snickered to my left. I glanced over to see Tom with his arms crossed, his trademark grin plastered across his face. He snickered again.
"That's right, Will. You no cock." This time, he didn't bother to hold back his chuckle. I threw a golf ball at him in disgust. To my surprise, however, the Korean Dad began nodding his head.

"Yes, you no cock."

Oh great. The double entendre had completely flown over his head.

He started his imitation backswing again. "You no cock here, bring club too high, no cock, no good!" I groaned inwardly - would he stop saying that damned phrase? "Must cock wrists here, no cock is bad." No, really? Tom was having a field day with this - he had strolled over to my right, and was now doubled over in repressed laughter.

There was no way out of this except to integrate his advice and quickly move on before it got any worse. I pressed lips together and took a few experimental swings. At this point, my brother had caught on to the pun and began heckling as well. The Korean Dad remained blissfully unaware of the juvenile humor and continued to make his case in breaking the Guinness World record of "Most Perverted Puns in the Space of Five Minutes."

"Yes, yes, good! Now...there, cock! You have good swing! Good! You swing is good when have cocking action!" Oh Dear Lord. "Good, good swing."

This was getting ridiculous.

Luckily, the group ahead of us had moved on and Korean Dad, after nodding in approval a few times, turned around to warm up for his initial drive. Christ. It was about friggin' time. I leaned on my 5-iron and shot a glare over at Tom, who was still engaged in that ridiculous goofy chuckle of his.

"Hey Wil, you no cock? No cock?"

I sighed. It was going to be a long time before I lived this one down.


Yes, yes, laugh it off. The other reason why I reposted this is because I was in the pharmacy the other day, and a particular product reminded me of this story.

Maybe I could have used one of these last time:

http://supportsusa.com/arm/wrist/long-cockup.htm


.....I'll take an Extra-Large, please.

Banal Pet Peeve #1

Few things in life are more annoying to me than women stereotyping men.

I mean, it really, really sets my teeth grinding, and we're talking at least of half-centimeter of lost enamel here.

When I listen to a group of women complaining about men by using blanket stereotypes, I suddenly become very defensive. It seems to smack of hypocrisy to expect the male sex to cater to every feminist notion, but to then turn around and spout the same sort of close-minded bigotry that they extolled against in the first place.

Let me clarify.

I am not saying that I'm against the typical exasperated female rant. Things such as "Gawd, I'll never understand why Scott insists on doing (fill in the blank here)." or "John has this ridiculous habit where he (fill in the blank here as well), and I hate it with a passion akin to having lava poured into my eyesockets."

I mean, let's face it. There are certain tendencies that can be attributed to both the male and female sexes. It is the stuff of endless banter, rants, and one-sided bonding material. This is nothing new. It is, in fact, somewhat banal.

What pisses me off is when the talk starts becoming condescending, judgemental, and downright mean-spirited. You know, the real male-bashing stuff. We're talking dialogue like:

"I don't understand why Mark does this!"

"It's because he's a man, and men are stupid."

Or:"Why are men such babies?"

"Because men are mentally and physically weak, and they all want their mommies."

"Yeah, all men are the same. Bunch of walking fuck-machines."

"And all the good ones are gay."

I can't stand this shit. Now that I think about it, I have actually moved past being pissed off to simply feeling pity. Granted, we all have days when the other sex ticks us off, and we're all prone to making statements like this without thinking it through. Hell, it makes us feel better for awhile, and then we forget about it.

But for those women that really feel this way, that automatically treat a male with certain level of disrespect because of what's hanging between his legs, then hey...

...I feel sorry for you.

The source of all this irrational exuberance stems from my belief that you should treat every person with at least a modicum of respect, regardless of what they look like, etc, etc. I believe you have to give respect before you can get any back. I believe that judgemental thinking is the sign of a lazy mind. And regardless of how naive it may sound, when I meet a person for the first time, they start with a clean slate. They are A-OK in my book until proven otherwise.

Listen, I like making jokes, and girls are a good source of material. You will hear me joke about female tendencies - hell, you'll even hear me join in the male-bashing if it's all in good fun. There's no use in being a tightwad about the eternal differences between men and women.

But you will never hear me spout some backwater, asinine vitriol about the female gender. I have the common decency to treat each women with respect, and my personal opinion of said females has, and always will be, based on their individual character. Not because of their lack of external genitalia. I would just like to be treated with that same level of respect. If you're going to judge me, judge me as Wilson Lin. Not Wilson Lin the Nice Guy, or Wilson Lin the Asian Dude, or any o' that stuff. Please.

So if you really believe in that stuff, girl, get off your soapbox and let the bitterness go. Because we're all hypocritical at some level, but come on, don't make it so damned obvious. Have some diginity, for Christ's sake.

It just ain't a healthy way to live.

That is all.


Tootles,

Willer

Here's a better picture of the whole deal.

I am friggin' skilled.

Excuse me while go a few rounds with my boxing bag to, you know, reassure myself. Of stuff. 

That's right. I did that all by myself.

That's right. I'll come clean. I honestly enjoy wrapping presents and putting the pretty bows on and coming up with wierd ways to make it aesthetically pleasing. So there. I just did this one today, a birthday present for one of my friends.

Admit it. You just wish you were secure enough in your manhood to do this. Admit it.

 

So Blogspot is starting to grow on me.

I've got to admit, this is a nice change after spending all of my blogging time on Friendster.com and MySpace.com. There's more of an emphasis on external appearences at those sites. And with good reason, I suppose - Friendster and MySpace make it a priority to emphasize the social networking, which is great when you're looking for a way to keep in touch with a circle of friends.

And when you're looking to make new ones, of course. *winks* So I've never been able to shake the "dating game" feeling when I try to blog my way around those sites. You spend your time dressing up your profile in pretty bows and musical tassels, piling on the custom HTML to make it as original as possible. And hey, I had fun doing it. There's a sort of right-side-of-the-brain stimulation in making the "Internet You" pop and flash on the home screen.

But my point is that I feel like Friendster and MySpace are more about how you look and sound in an ADD-minute. And it's less about what you really have to say, because in my opinion the meat and potatoes of online networking sites are found in the weblogs. Down in the trenches, ya know, esse? This is where you can really get to know a person (to the extent that anyone can really know anyone else through this opaque medium). This is where the connections are made, because if someone is willing to read through and comment on your 3-page spiel on the evils of bratwurst, then you've got something going. And you can be a tad more sure that they aren't wasting your screen space because of that hot picture you posted in your profile.

What really got in my britches was the fact that only people who created Friendster profiles could comment on the blogs themselves.

Blogspot, on the other hand, let's anyone comment. And that brings me to the central point of this rant: the more I browse through the multitude of blogs on this site, the more it feels like a place where people care more about what you say (or rather, write), than how many "friends" you have linked to your network, or how cute your profile is, or if you're interested in meeting up for lunch in Real Life. Friends with benefits over coffee, or maybe more.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not standing on a soapbox here and thumping a Bible. Friendster and MySpace cater to a crowd that's looking for those things. And that's cool. But Blogger, well . . .

. . .the peeps here seem to care more about the thoughts behind profile. And that, to me, is keepin' it real. I'm sure LiveJournal is much the same way.

So yes. *looks around* I like it here.

I think I'll stay.

And get this, I didn't even have to pay them this time. 

Messing with Picasa + Blogger

This is another test run, but FYI, this is picture of a Taiwanese sunset. My cousin snapped it while leaning precariously over a rest stop balcony railing. Quite beautiful, and it makes me a little nostalgic to boot.

A little aside: Taiwanese rest stops are HUGE. Think of your standard foodcourt at your local mall, and multiply that by a factor of 4. Now slap on a good-sized 7-11, and you've got yourself a bona fide Taiwanese rest stop.

In short, America = Land of Crappy Rest Stops. Weak sauce, folks. Weak sauce.

Testing!

Weee! Dolphins are cool, and tuna nets are sucky!