In Memory of a Borinqueneer

On Saturday, 24 October 2015, at around 7:00 AM EST, my grampa died. His name was Raul Guiot. He served in the US Army for 20 years. He fought in Korea and Vietnam. My grampa was an infantryman in the 65th Infantry Regiment, also known as the Borinqueneers.

This post is going to be a lot more informative than funny, but it's me; I joke about everything. I am proud to say that it is from this man that I got this trait. Whatever motto is on my family crest (Guiot), it is wrong. Our branch of the family's motto is "if you're not laughing, you're crying." 

And for some reason, we have Hezb colors and three parrots...

Now, I don't know how to properly do this. Obviously, I have a few feelings on the matter, but where to start on my reflections. Let's start with my first thoughts when I heard the news... agent orange.

You see, my grampa (as stated before) served in Vietnam. So, while the US was committing horrific war crimes by using harmful chemicals on enemy troops and the surrounding jungle (agent orange), infantrymen like my grampa were sent into the recently chemically-doused areas and clean up. Surprise, surprise, these soldiers got agent orange in their systems. Yeah, it would stay in their systems for the rest of their lives, my grampa included. That doesn't sit well with me. When he died of a heart attack, his exposure to agent orange came to mind.

In Puerto Rico, I have one uncle who also served 20 years in the military. Maurelín (my uncle) smokes around a pack a day and has for the last forty-something years, but was in the Air Force or Navy. He is still very much alive and kicking. Plus, he smokes Kools which are what you would think are the equivalent to agent orange. Moral of the story, I'm pretty sure agent orange had a part to play in his passing.

That's my grampa watching me (dressed like a gay, fashion-challenged sailor) play piano.

 

Just like anything else that happens in my life, I have reflected this event in the grand politics of the world. You see, my grampa and the rest of my Puerto Rican family are for the most part pro-statehood. I don't understand why, but they are. I am pro-independence. I have my reasons. One such reason is that I don't trust nor do I like the United States of America. The country has given me no reason to do so otherwise. My family feels differently, and I accept that. However, it is their lives and struggles (especially the life of my grampa) that helped form my view. It is because of my grampa that I am proud to be Puerto Rican.

The first of my mandatory Puerto Rican flags... only a couple hundred to go

 

 

I've been talking about what my grampa represents to me, not who he was. The real question is does it even matter. Was my grampa perfect? No. He did things that were very typical of a Puerto Rican man. He chased other women, drank to excess at times, amongst other things... I don't know if he repented for that, but his actions since I've known him suggests he did. Throughout his life, he shed away certain faults and kept traits that made him the man I knew. 

Am I sad that he is gone? A little. I was also a little surprised, but I know I'm fortunate. I am 26, and he is the first of my grandparents to die. I have three others (you know... because my dad has parents too). Not to suggest those three could at all replace him, even together. If I am to be honest, all three of them couldn't replace him. Despite who he was as a person, he meant the most to me out of all of them. 

Whenever I watch Vietnam movies or WWII movies, the battle scenes make me tear up because I think of him and the horror he had to endure for a country that didn't give a shit about him.

And here's Mel Gibson having an orgasm. This doesn't make me tear up... through my eyes.

(boner joke)

I am glad that he lived to see his great-grandchildren, that he was in my life, that he was able to die knowing that the family continued after him and that we were alright. In life, you can't ask for much, but knowing all that makes it a little better.

Anyway... here's a picture of my family with my grampa...

And here's just a funny picture I like...

See you guys next week. 

 

The Day before 'Ashura

For those of who don't know, I'm Muslim. Yes, I know you feel betrayed. If you've found any joy reading this blog, it now feels hollow. It feels like your prayer mat has been ripped out from beneath you... that last joke was just salt in the wound.

"BUT WAIT!" you say, "WHAT ABOUT THE TOILET NYMPHS!" This may come as a surprise to you, but Muslims are able to have a sense of humor... albeit a sophomoric sense of humor, but a sense of humor all the same.

Oh, and to shatter your world view again...

Chappelle... not Prince

Yep, Dave Chappelle is Muslim too. Yes, during the Chappelle Show. The whole time since you've known him. Sorry.

Now, I'm not going to go on about how Muslims are treated in the media or whether or not ISIS is Muslim. Eh, this isn't the time for that. "What time is it then?" I hear you asking.

STOP!

I'm sorry for the lame joke. It can't be undone...

Where was I?... Oh yeah!... wait... ummmmm... Chappelle, Muslim... then, Hammertime... I'm sorry distracted by the dancing MC Hammer. DAMMIT HAMMER! THIS IS NEITHER THE TIME NOR PLACE!

So... I lost my train of thought... Maybe, I should start writing the entire blog post and then add the pictures... but if I do that the terrorists win! I SHALL TRUDGE ON!

OOOOO! I remember. So, I'm very happy actually. Russia is kicking ISIS ass. If you're thinking Russia is up to something, you'd be right. They're up to kicking ISIS ass. BUT WAIT?! They're killing the moderate rebels too! You mean the rebels that don't scream "Allahu Akbar!" every time they behead someone, just every other time. 

"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" -ISIS

 What I don't understand is how people expect Muslims to apologize for ISIS. It's like, we aren't arming and funding them. Why don't you ask the US to apologize.

Enough of that... on to something else.

So, this next part is for my friend Mo.

Now, Mo is the one who brought me into the fold of Islam. I mean, I chose to become Muslim, but I didn't know how one does that and which particular school of Islam (madhhab) to follow. Mo helped me with this, and I took my shahada (kinda like a Muslim baptism, but less water... like no water at all... yeah) at his mosque. We are Ja'fari. Yes, there are more than one type of Muslim. SURPRISE!

Anyway, Mo recently got married (alhamdulillah), and I have to give him shit now. It isn't in the way you may think. Mo is like my younger brother, so I gotta straighten him out when he gets to cocky... 

So, Mo... Hey... Just remember one thing whenever you ask your lovely wife (Hi, Nur!) to do anything for you around the house... *ahem*

Question: Is it necessary for a woman to do indoor activities like washing dishes, cooking food and ironing her husband's clothes?

Answer: Although it is not wife's religious duty to do these jobs it is morally good for her to cooperate with her husband and help him in his difficulties. A woman has the right to ask her husband to pay her for the work she does at home. 

 -Al-Sistani 

http://www.sistani.org/english/qa/01179/ 

You may wanna start packing the hookah yourself to save money.

 

 

Some of you will have no idea what any the above part means. It's okay. Just know that the leading Islamic judge in our sect (Ja'fari) basically said, "Yo, if you want yo girl to do ya shit, bitch betta get paaaaaaaaid."

Not exactly the kind of ruling you would expect from an Islamic judge, right? BAM! Think again! They don't call him Sayed Ali "Full-of-Surprises" al-Sistani for nothing (note: no one calls him this.).

 

 

 

 

Surprise...

 

 

 

Anyway... I feel a little guilty for the last joke... but I have a strict anti-deleting policy once I've pressed "enter" on the keyboard. It's not so much a policy as it is a weird form of OCD. Moving on.

I've decided against writing about 'Ashura. It is a very sacred day for us Ja'fari and our other Shi'a brothers. If you want to know more, just google the "Battle of Karbala." I don't want to be tempted to joke about it, so I'll remain silent on it. 

 يا حسين مدد

On a lighter note, the girl thing might actually work out after all... don't wanna jinx it yet. I could be stricken with abrupt flatulence, and nobody likes that. Know what else nobody likes? Flaccid penises... so everyone, my penis and lower intestines need your prayers. May they function as normal. Amen.

 

Anything else? Ummmm... the phone thing is still in the works. So... more to come!

Uh, I don't have much of an update... or maybe I do...

Okay, so has a lot happened since my last update? Yes.

Is all of it important? No. God no.

Will I list all the events? No. As much as I want to do that just to spite every single one of you (yes, I'm for hate-fucking my readers), I'm not going to do that. Is there a new love in my life? Maybe, honestly, I don't know. Yes, it is a she, as far as I can tell, but as most of my friends know, I am one of the few people who can ruin a "sure thing." How, you may ask? Take a moment and scroll down. Ah, yes... do you see the posts about toilet nymphs giving rim jobs and all my non-sequitur comments? Does that answer your question? I published that. That means I wrote it, looked at what I wrote, edited it, and said to myself "I want my name to be attached to that on the internet."

Plus, I am incredibly awkward when communicating with members of the opposite sex who I know are interested in me.

Awkward like this picture of a then-and-now picture of a brother and sister

 So, maybe I'm a little of a defeatist... if I'm wrong, it'll be a nice surprise. If I'm right, business as usual... I would be depressed about this mindset, but I can't stop checking out the sister in the picture above... It is so wrong... but she's so hot... 

Look, if you have a hot sister (and yes, someone somewhere thinks you're sister is hot), don't ever touch her naked boob. I mean, if it is a life-or-death situation, yes, go ahead and touch her bare boob. What do you mean what kind of situation would require that? Off the top of my head, let's say there's a mad scientist who has a super plasma cannon pointed at you, and he has a weird fetish for slight incest. Then, he demands you squeeze your hot sister's bare boob. I don't care who you are... I don't care what you say... You are gonna have some sister-titty in your palm. Accept it. Don't picture it's someone else. That would make it so much worse. Just never speak to her ever again. She's dead to you. Accept it and move on.

... MOVING ON...

I'm finally teaching a lot of classes. For those of you who want to teach English abroad, I can't stress this one thing enough... FUCKING DO LESSON PLANS! Trust me, winging it is not the way to go. 

The school I teach at has six levels, right. Beginner, Elementary, Pre-Intermediate, Intermediate, Upper-Intermediate, and Advanced. I have Pre, Intermediate, and Upper. The class blocks are 3 or 4 hours, so I teach for 45 minutes, there is a 15 minute break, and I do that either two or three more times. That's three lesson plans. Have you tried to bullshit for three or four hours? It's hard, if not impossible. For the love of God, don't do this. No, writing down a vague idea of what you're going to do won't cut it. "I know!" you say, "I'll go by the book!" Stop, just stop. The book is evil. It won't help you. It just let's you know what you need to cover. You're on your own. Have you tried keeping the attention of fifteen adults trying to learn English? It's hard. It's fucking hard...

So, what do you do? You make a goddamn lesson plan, motherfucker! What does that consist of? I'm glad you asked... or I'm glad you should have asked and by reading this I forced you to ask.

Lesson Planning!

1) Topic: what are you teaching? Grammar? Pretty vague, bro. Let's narrow that. Passive Voice? Alright, passive voice. The students are Upper-Intermediate (Level 5); they got this shit.

2) Introduction: Introduce this shit. What the fuck is passive voice? Got a definition, already? Good... get MORE! These people are learning English. You gotta be ready to explain it through examples. Do you have charts? GET SOME FUCKING CHARTS!

THIS IS REAL LIFE!

3) Exercise/ Activity: Time to engage those students with the knowledge you just dropped on them. Is it gonna be a group activity? Is it gonna be a partner activity? Are you just gonna stare at them and beat whoever has the audacity to speak first? That'll teach them passive voice. 

4) Break-time! Oh sweet God in heaven, it's time to step outside and have a smoke. The students will want to talk to you. If you're a guy, it'll be the guys. If you're a woman, it'll be the guys. Basically... get ready for swarm of dicks (literal dicks... not the slang term for an unpleasant person). If you're a guy and want to talk to the women, hold you're motherfucking horses!

Like so

Why? Because you don't want to be the creepy teacher, do you? Oh... you do? Oh... um... well, sure then. While you're at it, why don't you just pelvic thrust at your students to call on them instead of pointing. I'm sure if you do this right from the get-go, everyone might just assume you have a condition. 

5) BREAK IS OVER! GO BACK TO STEP 1!

Alright, don't despair. The internet is your friend. Don't pay for shit. I can't stress that enough. There are free lesson plans. Pick one that fits for your class, and bam! ready to go.

Hopefully, that helps. I know, I know... work, right? It isn't so bad. The students are great. They are all mostly adults. You can check out other teacher's students, but know this... one day, they may be your students, and it's not okay to put your dick in your student. If you're a woman... don't put your vagina on your student either. You can... but I mean, it'll be awkward.

I'll end with this hypothetical situation with a teacher and his student who he put his dick in...

Teacher: Alright, so we are going to review past simple. <writes on board> The student called the teacher yesterday... Alright, so let's make this a negative...

Students: The student did not call the teacher yesterday.

Teacher: Good. And how about as a question?

Students: Did the student call the teacher yesterday?

Teacher: Yes, and negative question?

Students: Did the student not call the teacher yesterday?

Teacher: Correct, and what if we want to know the reason?

Students: Why didn't the student call the teacher yesterday?

Teacher: I don't know, why don't you ask Gamza?! WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL THE TEACHER, GAMZA?! IT WAS MY HEART, GAMZA! YOU BROKE MY HEART! 

<begins sobbing>

Excited about a Small Thing

Alright, so today, I took my happy ass to the square (Meydan) here in Bakirkoy. What's Bakirkoy? Oh, it's kinda like a borough. What's a borough? Uh... you know how New York City is the city, but a section of that is Manhattan. Manhattan is a borough... What do you mean you thought they were two separate things? How old are you? Jesus...

So, I live on the Meydan, and I needed to get the phone tax paid so I can fully use my phone here without WiFi. You see, I can only use data through WiFi. For those of you who plan on traveling, listen up.

To use your phone from America...
1) Have your phone unlocked. If you're still in contract, pay that shit off and get the code from your service provider... God, I feel so fancy and technical saying that. Is this how people who go to Harvard feel?
2) Buy a Turkish SIM card. Pick one. There are three main ones. I only remember two off the top of my head. Vodafone and Turkcell. I went with Turkcell. Turk is right there in the name. Worst thing that'll happen is that it'll conquer most of Eastern Europe and siege Vienna (HISTORY JOKE!).
3) You can't buy a plan because you need a Turkish passport or residency card. Calm yo tits. The SIM card comes with one month of stuff included. Oh, and you pay for service in advance. Pretty simple... and you'll be reminded when you use data and how much you have left. Unfortunately, it's in Turkish. Google Translate can be your friend.
4)Despite what your phone plan with your SIM card is, you won't be able to use mobile data unless you have a Turkish phone (a phone bought in Turkey). "What the fuck, man?" I hear you saying. "How do I get data on my phone?" Don't worry; that's what I'm trying to explain! If you'd just let me finish, I would've gotten to that! God! My mother was right about you!... You know damn well what that means! I can't talk to you when you're like this!

...

5) You're going to need to pay the phone tax on your phone. It's okay. First, you need to get a tax number. Go to your local ZiaraatBank. Don't forget to smile all confused-like. Just say "Türkçe" and do- Google Images, don't fail me now!- this hand sign.

The Universal Sign for Making Fun of Small Dicks

 Hopefully, an employee speaks a small amount of English. Continuously point to your phone and say "vergi." Vergi means tax. Don't believe me? Look it up, then, motherfucker. I GOT ALL DAY! WHAT! WHAT!

Have the employee write down what you need on a slip of paper and the location of the local tax office. Make sure it's in Turkish because you are going to take your ass to a taxi, and he'll take you there. Now, make sure you know where you are leaving from. Write that shit down if you don't know it. OH! Bring a pen. Buy a pen. I don't care! Just have a pen! You will need it.

So, hopefully, the taxi ride was nice. Was it? Gooooooood. You should be at the Tax Office. Remember how you got the location from the bank employee? Well, it's the same strategy. Plus, you need to shove that piece of paper the employee gave you in the face of every person who works at the office. Trust me, you'll make friends. 

SHIT! I forgot! Before you go in, make sure you have your passport! Fuck, I can't believe I forgot to tell you that... uhhhh, you have you're passport, right? Yeah, I know, common sense. So, near the entrance of the tax office is a photo copy booth. Trust me, it's there. Look for something with the name "Büfe." It'll be there. You're going to need a photocopy of your passport. -What do you mean which page? WHAT PAGE DO YOU THINK? GOD, HOW DO YOU EVEN FUNCTION ON A DAY-TO-DAY BASIS?!

You're going to need to fill out a form before you get a ticket to get your tax number. Don't worry, it's fucking easy. The only tricky part is your address. You need to know that shit. Don't worry about the language on the form; it has English translations. Oh! And your Turkish phone number. You need to know that one, too. This is why you brought a pen. Fill out the form, give it to the guy outside the waiting room, and just wait for your number to be called. Go to the appropriate desk when it does, but while you wait, do you want tea? A guy comes by with a tray of tea. A TRAY OF FUCKING TEA! AND IT'S DELICIOUS! AND IT'S CHEAP! AND HE'S FRIENDLY! FUCKING FRIENDLY! 

Anyway, when you're number gets called, hand them you're form, the copy of your passport, and your passport. Wait, a little while... and TA-DAH! You now have a tax number!

6) Take that tax number back to the ZiaraatBank, and you will now have a Turkish phone!

7) I haven't done step 6... I can only assume that it's important. I don't know... I'll do that tomorrow... So... step 7 is procrastinate.

Anyway, my last post was lackluster. I didn't have much to say because I was/am sick, but now... Well, I have energy because I am teeming with my victory of obtaining my tax number. So! Uh... I took a picture from the top floor (which is a cafe) of the English school I teach at. Apart from it being an absolutely gorgeous view of the sunset, I took it because of Assassin's Creed: Revelations. For those of you who don't know what it is (it's a videogame) and how it's relevant, allow me to educate you. Revelations takes place in Istanbul in 1511 or something... eh, yeah... I could check... nope, not going to do that. In it, you play an assassin who runs on top of buildings and jumps into haystacks and kills people. 

yaaaaaas

OH! Before I forget... At the local mall, I saw this:

It says Waffle House... I have my suspicions. I didn't eat there... but I will get to the bottom of this. All I'm saying is that there better be maximum of 15 teeth total among all the waitress' mouths. That's all I'm saying.

Lon, out!

... no, no... that won't do.

To be continued...

no... I'm feeling that either.

I am the night. I am BATMAN!

Yep... That feels right

Almost a month here

Alright, so, right off the bat... happy birthday to my dear friend Adam Abramowitz

I don't know how old he is because it doesn't matter. Maybe, 28. I think 28. I don't know. I'm going to sound like a unmarried woman in her late 30s when I say this, but age is just a number (and I'm unfuckable and unloveable regardless of it... to be clear, that's what unmarried late 30-year-old women say... me and Adam are totally fuckable. I'd fuck Adam right now and he'd fuck me because that's what friends do. Unshaven butt sex between bros.)

UNSHAVEN BUTT SEX! BYAAAAH!

 

While Googling for that picture, I stumbled upon this:

 

You're welcome.

So, I'm gonna level with you guys. Today, I woke up sick. Well, I have a cough... but that's sick in my book. Luckily all I need to do is go get some medicine... wow, I'm already bored with this story. I can only imagine how you must be feeling.

QUICK! FLASHY PIZZAZZ! 

Did that make things better? I totally forgot that I had that GIF (pronounced similar to "gift" because duh).

I have classes now.

I also have run out of things to talk about... I think it might have something to do with me being sick... or having a cough.

Uh... so bye, I guess... This isn't like a suicidal goodbye, just a normal goodbye. I'm coming back next week... so...

FLASHY PIZZAZZ!