Sharon Stone made this delightful comment last Thursday about the China earthquake:

"I'm not happy about the way the Chinese are treating the Tibetans because I don't think anyone should be unkind to anyone else. And then this earthquake and all this stuff happened, and then I thought, is that karma? When you're not nice that the bad things happen to you?"

Sharon Stone couldn't tell the difference between karma and a Caramel Frappuccino--even if you pointed out repeatedly that only one of them comes in a cup. She'd probably still pick up the Frappuccino and say, "I hope this karma is nonfat."

So what could have been my one, single moment of Xangalebrity status turned out instead to be a smashed dream one…and also one where I wished I was covered in diarrhea, because at least then I would have had a pretty good excuse to remove myself from an increasingly awkward situation. Forget being mistaken for some other Xangan: I'd just been told by a complete stranger that she was afflicted with the fire piss:

WEIRD GIRL: Oh, you know...*whispers* it's for pee that burns and kind of hurts.

I have no idea how to deal with strangers who have firecracker urine, but common sense tells me it’s not a sign of good health when someone feels like they’re peeing a stream of acid and cigarettes. Plus, although I’ve never had an STD, I do know that fire piss is a symptom of at least one of them. I’ve seen a lot of those treatment commercials, which means I’m practically an STD doctor.

Anyway, once Weird Girl told me about her prickly piss problem, there was no way I could tell her she had the wrong person without inflicting massive amounts of embarrassment. And how was she going to react to being corrected? She used Mercurius Vivus—which is probably just a fancy name for “KFC’s Secret Recipe”—to cure her vagina. Odds were she was crazy and carried a weapon.

There is no way for me to twist the rest of the story so that I come out looking cool and awesome, so I’ll just say this: I don’t think well under pressure. It takes me a while to analyze problems and rationalize solutions, which is not useful because my first instinct is to neutralize the stressful situation as quickly as possible by throwing out the first idea I come up with. And for some reason, the first idea is usually a really, really terrible one.

Thus, when I found myself unable to get away from Weird Girl, my brain went into MacGyver Mode: must come up with a crazy-ass exit strategy using the useless memories and experiences I had accumulated. If MacGyver could make a helicopter using chewed gum and twigs, then I could definitely think of something to get me away from Weird Girl.

So I’m standing there—trying to think of something—for what I thought was only a few seconds, but must have actually been like two minutes because I then hear:

WEIRD GIRL: Umm…are you okay?

And in a moment of total genius, I responded...

ME: Pookh lod wih le koo. Hach jahj cho-koov-moakh leng-lidge loo-Teb-jahj leng widge-vahd bel rahp shoave dah-nobe-poo-boagh.

That’s right: I busted out a foreign language. I don’t know why because I had just been talking to her in English, but somehow I had forgotten that minor detail when I came up with the brilliant idea of pretending like I didn’t understand what she was saying.

Then, to my horror, someone behind me says:

“Cool! You can speak Klingon!”

...OMG…I was still in that freaking “Warhammer” store. I just spoke Klingon in a store that is probably routinely visited by guys who have adopted that "language" as their native tongue—like the eavesdropper who was standing behind me and totally blew my cover.

For the record: I don’t speak Klingon. I got that line from my favorite episode of “Fraiser.” Frasier’s going to a bar mitzvah and has to give a speech in Hebrew. But he doesn’t know any, so he asks a Trekkie to write it for him. But the Trekkie was mad at him and instead wrote everything in Klingon. Bwahahahaha!

Anyway, Weird Girl makes this face like I’m the weird one, and all I could say was:

ME: Look, I didn’t want to say anything...but I get paid to blog about home remedies. I actually have health insurance with Guggenheimer, which doesn't exist, and go to the doctor regularly. The only reason why I’m telling you this is because you might have something that requires actual medical attention and not old roots and leaves.

Then I grabbed my cell phone, pretended like I was answering a call, and started speed walking away. Wish I'd done that earlier. I think Weird Girl called me a “crazy b*tch” or something as I left.

The End.

...Hopefully. But if not, I'm definitely going to use all the suggestions you guys gave me. Thank you so much!

I was at the mall yesterday, wandering around aimlessly and minding my own business, when I noticed this weird girl following me. At first I assumed she was just a typical female shopper when I saw her at both Sanrio and Victoria’s Secret—but just to make sure, I decided to test her by going into that store that sells those “Warhammer” or whatever-the-hell-they’re-called pieces, and is only patronized by boys with bad eyesight.

And guess what? She followed me in. Girl + No Glasses = Confirmation that she was a weirdo with terrible ninja skills. And she knew she had been exposed, which was probably why she started talking to me.

WEIRD GIRL: Hey, umm...I know this is really weird but...do you happen to have a blog?

ME: I’m not into girls—wait, what? I mean, yes, I do have a blog.

WEIRD GIRL: On Xanga?

ME: Yes.

WEIRD GIRL: Oh! I knew you looked familiar! I read your blog all the time! It's great!

I suddenly felt like such an ass. She wasn’t a creepy stalker! She was just a fan who had been chasing me through the mall! Me! She recognized me! From my blog! I had just been recognized!

This whole thing made me flashback to my Xangalebrity post: could it actually be coming true? Was this the reason why I stepped in the pile of poop one of my cats had strategically laid by the bathroom so that I would get doodoo feet when I was taking a midnight piss? (Cat poop, dog poop, they are basically the same.)

ME: ...Really?

WEIRD GIRL: Yeah! You're [person whose username is not Absolutangel64], right?

Have you ever had a WTF moment where you wanted to kick someone’s face in, but you couldn’t decide if it should be yours or the other person’s? Well this was my moment.

By the way: I looked this Xangan up when I got home. Weird Girl got me confused with another Asian blogger—who looks nothing like me, but I wouldn’t call her ugly because I was mistaken for her, and therefore to call her ugly would mean I am calling myself ugly. And I am not going to do that!

ME: Umm...

WEIRD GIRL: I love all the homeopathic remedies you suggest. I actually tried Mercurius Vivus the other day. It really helped.

ME: I'm sorry?

WEIRD GIRL: Oh, you know...*whispers* it's for pee that burns and kind of hurts.

Here is my question: what do you think I should have done at this point? I’ll tell you what happened, but I’m just curious because I think my response was kind of bland and lame.

We go through life taking many things for granted, but there is one thing so closely tied to our personal lives that to forget its importance is to commit the gravest of sins. It is a necessity we are almost completely dependent upon, comparable to our needs for food and water. It is an integral part of our daily lives--nay, our very existences--and without it, the human race becomes nothing more than soiled victims of its own gluttony. Indeed, my friends, that which I regard in such high esteem is: the gimp suit toilet paper!

Yes. Toilet paper. Paper for the toilet. Every home has at least one roll…which is usually part of a stash of rolls. And maintaining that stash tends to take precedence over other items, especially if you shop on a budget. I, being a serial starving student, have refrained from buying vegetables and fresh meats to save money for toilet paper (and because I don’t know how to cook anything unless it comes out of a box. Hamburger Helper and I are tight!). Regardless, we always have extra rolls because if we run out, the hygiene of certain body parts goes to Hell. And so does everyone’s respect for you…although, I’d actually be impressed at the parade of flies following you around. You’d be Lord of the Flies! (And there goes the last of my dignity.)

Considering what parts of us makes contact with toilet paper most often, quality is of utmost importance! It even trumps the benefits of saving money. Because while saving money can lead to some increases in wealth, low-quality toilet paper can lead to hanging bags of butt-meat, i.e., hemorrhoids! 

Therefore, as president, founder, and sole member of Civilians Really Against Poor Toilet Paper (C.R.A.P.T.P.), I am deeming today the Fight Against Really Terrible TP Day (F.A.R.T.T. Day). And to commemorate the occasion, I’m going to rank some toilet paper brands in hopes that poor souls will make better choices when making their purchases.

Ratings are based on a scale of 1 to 5 of these smiling toilet paper rolls: . I've ranked each brand according to the following criteria:

Touch Test: how the toilet paper feels on my butt.

• 1  = I'm wiping my butt with gravel.

• 5  = I'm in butt heaven!

 Butt-Bleediness: how many times I can wipe with it before it makes my butt-skin bleed.

• 1 = take me to the nearest hospital!

• 5 = butts can bleed? No way!

I know there should be more factors, but I think those are the most important ones…i.e., I’m lazy.

Err...okay, so my list is pretty weak. But you can make it stronger by sending me some of your own toilet paper rankings! I'll add them to the post (just remember: touch test and butt-bleediness). Oh, and as a bonus, you become automatic members of C.R.A.P.T.P.! Hooray for generosity!

Ratings By Other Awesome C.R.A.P.T.P. Members!

Scott Tissue by aznroadrunner

Touch Test  Butt-Bleediness

"Scotts sucks. Scotts is like wiping with cardboard, except that it's really thin.  It almost makes you think it's giving you paper cuts."

Angel Soft by gorman117

Touch Test   Butt-Bleediness 

Cottonelle by charlottegeely

Touch Test  Butt-Bleediness 
 

"...nicest 1-ply ever but falls apart."

As much as I would love to, I can't kick anyone's ass. I just don't have the requisite body type for it. I'm 5'6" and 110 pounds of stuff other than muscle. I can’t do anything except maybe cut you with my clavicle. What’s even more depressing is that, despite being Asian, I can’t do any martial arts. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m actually one of four Asians who were born with this genetic deficiency. To my credit, though, I try to hide it by carrying a bo stick around…even though it’s really a broom stick…with the broom still attached…but I call it the “Soul Sweeper"...hey, it's got a name, and that makes it a weapon, okay?!

To make up for my lack of ass-beating talent, I learned to improvise at a young age by using the next best thing to physical combat: Mortal Kombat. That's right, b*tch: I don't need fisticuffs because I've got Fatalities.

Therefore, my way of calling people out was by inviting someone over to my house, pushing an SNES controller into their hands, uppercutting the sh*t out of their character for two rounds until I heard "finish him," and then pulling a "Toasty!” After that, I'd usually say something cool like, “you got burned!” or “charred sphincter says what?” Too bad no one ever realized the message I was trying to send through Mortal Kombat—and why is that anyway? Hello! Fatality = I hate you. How much clearer can it be? Not much, but I nevertheless ended up having to explain why I didn't like this person, and that I kicked their ass in Mortal Kombat because I was physically incapable of doing it in real life. Talk about super awkward silences...

I haven’t played Mortal Kombat since then, but it’s never far from my mind because there are a lot of stank c*nts in this world. And every time I meet a new one, I fantasize about opening up a can of Fatality and kicking their asses with it. I’ve even come up with my own Fatalities--Syltalities--because some people are just so incredibly stanky that getting chomped on by a dragon is not enough punishment.

For example, there is this girl at my school named Greasy--that's not her real name, but I call her "Greasy" since that's the constant condition of her skin. So not joking. There are volunteers in Hazmat suits following her around because they think she's a victim of an oil spill. B*tch is greasy and zitty, and caked in so much pink makeup she looks like she cooked her face in a rotisserie oven. I'm grossly understating it, but there is only so much the English language can do.

Greasy's grease face makes it hard for her to get dates--because if she gets too close to heat, she will burst into flames. However, the risk of getting severe burns isn't necessarily a deal breaker: I'd still hit that if she had a hot body and a decent personality...but she doesn't. She is flabby and a b*tch, so she's not getting any lovin' from me...or anyone else, for that matter.

That being said, you'd think she was accustomed to rejection--but she's not. And thus, she screwed someone very dear to me out of an academic accolade (which everyone knows he deserved) simply because he didn't reciprocate her advances when she tried to get on his nuts. Now, I don't have a problem with revenge, but f*cking with someone's law school career is totally unacceptable. I take that sh*t personally.

Seeing as how Greasy's stank c*ntiness started because of her poor skin, I thought I'd help her out by giving her some Proactiv.

That's right: those are Proactiv shanks!

Oh! And then there was an asshat who was tailing me on the freeway one night. I was going 80 mph, which was already pretty fast, and the lanes around me were clear so he could have switched into one and passed me. Instead, he followed my car so closely that I could barely see his headlights.

Now generally, when I see someone speeding unnecessarily I assume it's because they really have to go to the bathroom--something I can definitely relate to. I was once in the middle of traffic when my bowels decided it was the perfect time for me to take a massive dump. It did not care that I was in my car or moving at snail speeds: the poop wanted freedom, and it was going to get it regardless of my inconvenience. I ended up going to a gas station--which I won't describe, but let's just say it would have been way more sanitary for me to crap my pants...and then roll around in them...and then eat a sandwich without washing my hands beforehand.

Anyway, the point of that flashback was that I usually don't care when people are speeding. And I had initially given the guy tailing me the same benefit of the doubt--until he high beamed me. Oh hell no! Hell no! Did you just give me the car equivalent of a b*tch slap? I think you did, you stank c*nt, and now I don't care what your reasons for speeding are. I'm kicking your ass anyway!

Eat sh*t and bricks, b*tch!