Lucky Bear

A koala bear and a prostitute finished an evening’s escapade at which point the bear said thanks and headed for the door.

The hooker, a bit taken back by the action asked, “Um, excuse me but aren’t you forgetting something?”

When the bear shrugged she pressed on, “Hello, I’m a prostitute. You must not know what that means.” She tossed him a dictionary and ordered him to look it up so he’d know the score.

The bear did as instructed and read the definition aloud, “Prostitute: someone who engages in sexual favors for money. Yes, I knew that. But I’m afraid my dear that you don’t know much about koala bears. Here, look it up.”

The prostitute caught the dictionary, skimmed through the pages, and frowned slightly as she read the following entry: “Koala bear: a small, furry animal that eats bushes, shoots and leaves.”

She raised her head to the sound of the closing door and grumbled something about Mr. Webster being an asshole.

Author’s Note: I heard this joke about 15 years ago, though I’m not sure which one told me.

I Can’t Complain

One of the major benefits to living in Singapore is the relative ease with which one can blast off on a variety of exotic weekend adventures. Now I’ve never fancied myself (well, that’s not entirely true) an adventurous soul, but admittedly, I was eager to give the whole jet-setting lifestyle a shot.

I had my concerns of course. First, I’m no Magellan. I’m always lost, be it in thought, translation, or simply the mall. Next, I’m an anxiety-inclined, hypochondriac with a wicked imagination. Given the endless array of possible diseases and disasters one might obsess over, I questioned whether I’d find time to even unpack my case. Still I pressed on. After all, how does one pass up an opportunity to view paradise?

And so in a region is littered with topical islands, the question became which Eden to enter. I’m not much for thinking outside of work hours so I simply threw a dart at my trusty SEA map. Luckily it landed on Phuket. I employ the adverb because with my bar room skills, striking Newark, New Jersey was not out of the question.

Anyway, I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. For me the whole thing was a nightmare. First, they stick you in a room footsteps from the beach. I don’t know about you, but that whole wave thing is really annoying. I mean back and forth, back and forth…it’s endless. A truly aggravating experience. I tell you I was so stressed out after just an hour in the place that I decided to get a massage. Of course that was insanity as well. I’m sure some will think I’m exaggerating, but they actually had the nerve to charge almost $9 for the hour. I mean the audacity of these people.

Well I wasn’t going to stand for that. So instead I figured I’d try to salvage the trip with a little shopping. But again, I got completely screwed. For some reason, they didn’t have any actual clothes in the stores. The owner gave me some nonsense about wanting to measure me and then make it that afternoon. Sure, like I’m gonna fall for that old trick. I mean who has two hours wait around for a suit? What was I to do…lounge in the sun sipping insanely strong drinks with real tropical fruit?

Listen, I’m not one to complain, but next time I’m headed to Jones beach in good old Long Island, New York. I mean sure there’s hypodermics on the shore, bone chilling water, and daylong congestion on the highways, but at least you have muscle-bound guidos kicking sand in your face, overpriced stale beer, and parking fees that rival your lease payment. I mean a guy has to have standards.

The Digits

Before I write word one, I’m going to admit that this is a pretty petty post. In the grand scheme of things the topic is a trifle less important than laundry lint. Still it’s something I’ve noticed and find to be a continuous source of aggravation – kinda like that squeaky door you never get around to dousing with WD-40. So bear with me as I embark on a brief, Bell-inspired rant.

You see, local phone numbers in Singapore have eight digits. I’m not sure if this is related to the Chinese affinity for the “lucky” number or a complete aversion to area codes, but for whatever reason, seven doesn’t cut it in Sing-land.

On first glance you’d think this would be one of the easier adjustments to make, but actually the concept goes against the natural order of things. Everyone knows that there is a specific rhythm to giving a phone number. You got five-five-five (pause) one-two (slight pause) three-four. It’s all pretty musical. Simply – Ba-ba-ba – dada-dada. Easy right?

Sure some of you are thinking, well dude I throw in a two digit combo on the last four – you know something like: five-five-five (pause) thirty-eight (slight pause) sixty-two. True, but when you think about it, it’s really the same magical beat that allows for easy memorization. Just imagine some hammerhead giving you his number like this: five (pause) twenty-one (long pause) one, fourteen, (even longer pause with an “um” thrown in) two. It sounds like a retarded quarterback spouting his locker combination.

And there folks lies my issue. Without the musical score I can’t remember my own number, never mind someone else’s. Sure I could rely on advanced phone features like well, contact lists and such, but I’m someone whose VCR has been blinking twelve noon since the Regan administration. Yeah, I’m pretty much a back of the napkin kinda guy.

So until someone comes up with a nifty memory boosting idea I’ll continue using the old seven-digit song trick, with the final number encased in a sarcastic sentence. For example, five-five-five (pause) one-two (slight pause) three-four...and ah, two, as in "it is too F-ing ridiculous that I have to remember this extra friggin' number." A bit wordy perhaps, but cheaper than a psychologist.