If you can't say anything nice....

Over the weekend my illustrious principal fell off her bike and broke her ribs. She's now bed ridden.

Huh.

Christ Damn Shit, I'm a class act

Today was the last day of proper school, as opposed to the next three weeks when I have to go in and entertain the masses in what has been cruely titled as 'camp'. I just imagine when I tell my students about camping in Canada's wilderness they picture me sitting on a moose rectiting irregular verbs.

Being the last day there was a meeting where I was expected to give a parting speech. Everyone imagines if they were to win an Oscar or Grammy or, god forbid, a Golden Globe they would take the opportunity to tell those who deserve it what they really think. The whole world is watching and you've earned this moment to speak. I don't even have to give an example, you were reciting your prepared hate speech in your head when I mentioned 'microphone'. Note: I never wrote 'microphone', you were just that ready. I think they showed this video in minimum wage sex ed to illustrate an workgasm.

But not today, friends. Complete class. I thanked the country (true), I thanked the city (true), I thanked the staff (true), I applauded my co-teachers (very true). Then I broke the third Commandment. Or is it the eighth? Fifth? What am I, a rabbi? The point is lied and expressed sincere gratitude to my principal. Bowed low down and everything. The strange thing (as opposed to the dirty soul thing) was my principal smiled and nodded. Absolutely no humility, especially since she's been principal for less than a year of my 2.5 years at the school. But bridges are better left unburnt. I have returned to one job back home a total of five times (seriously), always there to pay the bills when I lose my rent on a hooker's coke mounded ass and you never know when the wrong people will come to your mound of coke on a hooker's ass party and you have to run back to Korea*. Full of class, I am. Because, at the end of the day she could have made my life worse. The grass is always greener, but only because most of our neighbours have no grass at all.

God, I'm wonderful.

*By 'coke' I of course mean 'coca cola'. And by 'ass' I of course mean 'donkey. And by 'hooker' I of course mean 'woman who sells her sexual services to men for money'. Duh.

Music makes the bourgeoisie and the rebel come together (as long as there is an adequate police presence)

I won't bore anyone with the debate about whether or not there is good and bad music. Because, frankly, there is. A good beat makes good music in the purest sense, in the sense my mammoth fur clothed ancestors would have understood. In the midst of a fertility ritual there was no need for explanation of the existential meaning of the prolonged saber-tooth-tiger-teeth-on-the-xylophone solo. You just got up and jumped around like, well, like a caveman. There was nothing to 'get'. Music was created as a way to communicate through tribes, languages, religions, sects, sects and more sects, and even species. It really is only in recent human development that music took on more meaning. Now if you don't 'get it' you aren't 'in' 'it'. 'It' being 'cool' or 'hip' or 'twitter' or whatever the kids say now. Frankly, the whole thing confuses and scares me. I would say my mom says I'm cool but she reads this blog only to discover new ways in which I am not, nor was I ever, considered cool.

Anyone who has lived through teen aged years in North America knows that your worth is heavily weighed in what music you like. "What do you listen to" has surpassed "How's it going" and "Me love you long time" as traditional teenage greetings. "Everything" is akin to "Agnostic" as an answer. Just declare a side, you hippie. You're expected to say "...."..... Ok, I have no idea what teens these days listen to. In my day, you were supposed to say anything from Green Day to Tool to NWA for boys, or Alanis to, well, Green Day and Tool for girls. One thing that always struck me was guys aren't supposed to like girl acts. To me, women suit the music industry so much more, historically and otherwise. Growing up in suburban Ontario my favourite acts were Nine Inch Nails (acceptable), Bowie (Who?...sadly), anyone on MoTown, especially MJ (hahahaha...seriously?), Beck (FAG!) and Bjork (ok, now you're just messing with us).

MoTown always brought me closer to everyone in my family. As you might know, we were the Arabic/Slav wing of the movement. Ahem. Cough. Anyway, NIN (picture that second N backwards for maximum subversiveness) quickly and thoroughly distanced me from the people in my house along with society. More so, anyway. If you combined my sisters' and my music you would come away with the the past twenty years of the world music awards, so they sort of understood. My second older sister famously quoted "Most of this crap just sounds like noise. But this is noise I can dance to, so I like it." But my father heard "God is dead and no one cares! If there is a hell I'll see you there!" and quickly called a top psychologist. Silly Dad. It'll take a team of psychologists.

And so on. My parents actually liked music in the true sense as I mentioned above. They liked a good beat where ever it emerged. My dad was actually in a band as a teen, though the only proof of this I have are pictures and the lingering violent mood swings. My mom was a go go girl. Blond hair down to her ass, mini skirt, platforms taller than your average toddler. No matter her position in the Polaroid her drink was always 90 degrees to the horizon. If nothing else, I share my mother's curious lack of drink spillage in the face of our hereditary inner ear problem.

But imagine my horror when in between NIN songs I put on Bowie in my bedroom and my mother burst in dancing along (no, the horror was not masturbatory related...for once). I actually vividly remember the scene. Suffragette city. November 14th. 1995. *shiver*

This isn't nearly as ridiculous as the fact that, even as well-adjusted (or faking to be well-adjusted) adults we still subscribe to the notion that there is music we're supposed to like and music we're not supposed to like. Recently I bought a new MP3 player and had to load it up with new music. In a completely legal and ethical way, cough sneeze burp, I downloaded new music to fill 'er up. A couple of songs by Mylie Minogue. Well, I lived in Europe for a bit so you Yanks just don't get it. Eminem. This one is weird. Around some guys it's expected. Other guys and most gals this is reprehensible. You have to be careful. Marilyn Mason. Antichrist Superstar is a great album, and passing it up on account of his persona or the title is a loss to you. Madonna. Oh, where do I begin that 30 year old men aren't allowed to listen to the Material Girl? Bed Time Story has always been my favourite song of hers, and I recently found out Bjork wrote it so that allows me to have it on the player. Lady Gaga? Well, ummmm, she's named after Queen. I can claim confusion on account of the name

But then we come to Brittany. Spears, for those who recently hit their heads on buses. Womanizer in particular (actually, seriously, this is the only one, though Toxic could be great if dealt with better). I like the beat. I first heard it in a bar and couldn't hear her voice and, though I may have been under the influence of, errr, life, I professed my love for the beat. Friends shook their heads, frowned, punched me in the private parts. How dare I like the #1 problem with modern music?! But you know, I went home and listened to it and her voice only added to the allure. It suits it perfectly in my opinion. It's far from a perfect song, don't get me wrong. But this song by any other name probably wouldn't be as hated. Sometimes I listen to it at home, including tonight proudly. And by proudly I mean in my earphones on half volume so if my phone accidentally opens and randomly dials a number the person on the other line won't hear it.

Where else do we allow ourselves to live by these ridiculous rules? Not only can we watch bad movies, but now we have parties to celebrate the occasion. I regularly wear a normal shirt and tie to work with no backlash from the masses, and on nights out will combine absurdly clashing prints with a random bandanna around my head a la karate kid for affect, yet any mention of it is stifled under Don't ask/Don't tell (or the like). It seems like you can express yourself in any way except through music these days, which is the antithesis to music as an art form to begin with. Music should bring people together, not set them apart. And let's face it, there are only a few set beats in our comprehension. It's like boobies. Oh, it's disgusting that this pop star shows her boobs. Yeah, but they're boobs. Everyone loves boobies. Some are better than others, but to shut out a complete set of boobs is simply limiting yourself.

We like to pretend that music makes us different, it sets us apart and declares our true personality. But I refuse to put Brittany on my player for fear the nameless jerk hogging the armrest on the plane might notice her name come up on the 3 inch device. This coming from a guy who, in a high school class with a punk-rock teacher who I got along famously with, did a project on Cyndi Lauper just to mix things up (he almost failed me based on my artist choice, just to confirm my point). But as long as I refuse the most mainstream branches of my musical tree I will know nothing I listen to defines me. So, in a weird way, every time I listen to bootlegged experimental music from Turkmenistan I will know that I am not nearly as cutting edge as I want to be because I refuse to accept my admiration of Brittany Spears.

Isn't it ironic. Don't you think? It's like rain on your wedding day (which, incidentally isn't ironic at all, which you would know if you spent any time in a Canadian English class in 1990s Canada). The point is, unless you accept all of yourself you can never truly accept any part of yourself.

The Dali Lama ain't got shit on me.

Thrill the world

"A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while."
-Don McLean

When travelling the world you realize there are words that have, for better or worse, transcended national boundries. Usually these are English and pretty obvious. Ok. Hello. See you. Me love you long time. You know, the usual. Sometimes other world languages sneak in there. Bon Appetite. Bon Vogage. Bravo. Basically, by other world languages I meant French. And why not? French sayings celebrate the little things in life. GOOD APPETITE! GOOD TRIP! LET US BE CELEBRATORY OF THIS EVENT THAT WE ARE WITNESSING TAKING PLACE!

But Spanish has it's place, too. Just today a teacher at my school who, to my knowledge and ears, has minimal English ability asked me if I "Siesta". Given, siesta is a cultural phenomanon that, besides its awesomemisity, can't be translated easily into any other language. You literally have to be Spanish to understand the idea of sleeping all afternoon. Let me rephrase that. You have to be Spanish to accept socially to sleep all afternoon. Ole!

And everyone knows Cheers and there's hardly ever an opportuity not to clink glasses. Even a Buddhist monk will clink his tea. The thing is, everyone wants to know how to say it in your language, in that guy's language, here try to say it in this language. It just goes to my life theory, booze will teach you everything you need to know.

I have realized this by sneaking into many of the nooks and crannies around the world. An OK in an interrogation room in China will ease your blood pressure. A bon appetite at the table of your hosts in Germany will get you an extra schnitzel. Claiming you need a siesta in Indonesia will be greeted with a sarong and space on the beach.

But there is another language out there older than our primitive grunts and screechs. I'm talking about music of course. Back when our ancestors were clubbing dinosaurs for dinner, if Sarah Palin is to be believed, they came home to boogie down to some drumming and mammoth horn blowing. In fact, shaking your booty was instrumental to early human reproduction, treaties, war and most other interactions. It's like when you're in a club and the music is so loud you can't hear anything but the current auto-tuned talentless hack thumping away. You have to act out your current mood. "I want a drink", "Your place or mine?", "No, that's not happening", "Come on, it's not like your 20 anymore", "I'll give you oral in the bathroom" and "I'M SO DRUNK!" has been communicated on dancefloors around the world through ass shakes, hand motions and head bobs every Saturday night since electricity was invented.

These days, what with globalization and MTV and McDonalds and these kids these days with their twitting and faceplaces GET OFF MY LAWN! most popular music circumvents the globe faster than FOX News turns Obama's morning teeth brushing into a Communist conspiracy. I have heard Brittany Spears, Madonna, ACDC, the Beatles, Rolling Stones and many more random (seriously random...Sir Mix-A-Lot, really?) artists all over the place. But there really is only one that I've heard in every country, every city, every hole, every street corner. It has been said many times that Michael Jackson transcended race in American pop culture. However, it can also be said the man's music was bigger than race relations in the US. Yes, bigger than Rodney King, OJ, Spike Lee and the Civil War COMBINED (not to over-state it or anything).

Buy a plane ticket to Tibet. Go ahead, expedia is a good place to start. Now go to a town square. Win over the propoganda DJ at the local town market radio station with a bunch of OKs and Cheers'. Put on Billie Jean. Watch the smiles. Go to Rome. Sit in a cafe and hear Smooth Criminal come on. Toes a tappin'. Mention Thriller to that cute Japanese girl you're hitting on in Tokyo and Yuki's hand is suddenly on your thigh. Dozens of couples have practiced the famous Thriller dance for their weddings with their friends. Cause nothing says cementing the remainder of your life with another person like dancing zombies. And let me stop right there and reflect on that. Dancing zomies. Maybe today, 27 years later, the thought of a man in a red leather suit dancing with zombies while Vincent Price laughs menacingly seems acceptable, almost normal. But in 1983 it was definitely not the norm. Given, I was a mere three years old myself, hiding behind the nearest availabe pillow at the time. I want readers under 25 to know that there was a time in society where dancing zombies were not an option, were not an internet meme, were not part of civilized society. They just were not. Not only did this win people over, it established a reluctant MTV as a force in Western culture. Who can forget the inmates at some nameless prison in the Philippines? The birthplace of Pop followed. What about Moscow? How about on the way to work on the Tube in London? Take the bus? Busy watching a football game? Playing video games? Playing with Legos? Starring in a Bollywood musical? Lording over the Empire in a Death Star? Being an anthromophic lizard? Even today thousands upon thousands of people around the world recreate this absurd and delightful dance because, screw it, dancing zombies. Let me state that again for the descesitized: DANCING ZOMBIES.

Even the Norwegian ski team does the Beat It dance at the top of a mountain in gear. Led by Stockholm the world took note.Kids in Montreal groove out. Taipei, Amsterdam, , Mexico City , , Hong Kong, , Istanbul, Bucharest, Paris, Melbourne, London, Toronto, LA, Austin, New York, Cape Town, Sydney, Delhi....oh, you get it. Half the fun is youtube linking your afternoon away.

About a year ago after receiving a text from a friend on the way to work, I arrived to my first class distracted. At break my co-teacher asked me what the problem was. "Michael Jackson died". She fell back into her seat completely stunned. As much as I didn't expect that reaction, I have to say I was even more shocked when in the next class one of the 4th graders stood up, did a twirl, grabbed his belt and yalped "Hee-hee-hee" MJ style complete with leg kick. His classmates cheered. 9 year olds in Korea. When I was introduced later that year to my new co-teacher the first thing she told me was, "I've never met a foreigner before. But they say you like Michael Jackson. I love him!" She's a mousy young Korean woman who would rather eat glass than deal with a big hairy white guy, but all I have to do is mention MJ and her hands are flying, voice raised, eyes wide open. I'd be lying if I didn't say a few meetings of ours haven't ended in dance parties. And other Korean teachers hear the music and moonwalk (to the best of their abilities) into the room.

My fondest childhood memories are of sneaking a peek at the thriller dance on the TV with my family and having related nightmares with my sisters (the zombies were bad, but Michael's warewolf looked shockingly like our aunt's evil cat. To this day his growled "GET AWAY" sends shivers through our family's dinner table). While in University I remember walking into the local pub feeling down for some reason and being greeted by "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough". I followed Michael's advice and had a terrific night. I always remember walking in through swinging doors to that beat. Hell yeah, I'm here to party. Like a light switch. That's my life motto, and I still haven't gotten enough, and therefore haven't stopped. When I moved to Amsterdam I borrowed a Michael Jackson CD off a new friend and listened to it repeatedly as I enjoyed the city, including many of it's famous coffeeshops. Others may make you space out on pot, but Thriller beats would get us out of our seats, or at least show signs of active life. When I returned to Canada I danced to Michael Jackson at a company Christmas party with co-workers and when I refused to dance to anything else they kept the MJ coming. Here in Seoul I have endless discussions on the science behind the Smooth Criminal standing slant with my co-teacher. Many a night here have been spent in noraebangs belting out ANNIE ARE YOU OK! BEAT IT! IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER IT DON'T MATTER IF YOU'RE BLACK OR WHITE! Followed by flailing moonwalks, gratuitous crotch grabbing and more vocal hiccups than Brittany after her latest binge.

I really do believe people around the world all want the same thing. Everyone wants to have fun and where ever I end up Michael lets that happen.

And for that I just have to say: Thank you MJ.

Dancing Zombies!

politics

"Man is by nature a political animal."
-Aristotle

I have two older sisters and for our formative years we grew up in a charming flat in Montreal's most densly populated neighbourhoods. The laws of politics demands that given the limited resources of a small home, parental attention as well as chocolate chip cookies instigated conflicts among us children. Anyone with siblings knows that this ultimately results in an atmosphere of calculation and manipulation. Machiavelli may have written about the cut-throat world of Renaissance Italian politics, but it's obvious childhood rivalries were his true inspiration. In no other context can a sudden onset of a reading disability compete with the phantom symptoms of scurvy only to be topped by a suspicious van following you home from the library where you were studying for your genius level math classes that no one has been able to either confirm or deny with the school. Shakespeare has nothing on sibling rivalry.

Depending on birth order we all have various strategies that we use to ultimately get what we want. Gender and years between children also come into play. The role of victim is very useful for us youngest offspring, which is most obvious. My sisters disproving the myth of Santa, with accompanying tears and a few references to my spoilt childhood garnered me a few extra boxes under the tree for a year or two. Not to mention a nice public reprimand for my competition. Nevermind that I knew Santa and Daddy had the same aftershave since last holidays. Details, details. As the boy I was not allowed to fight back when (not 'if') I was physically attacked. However, as the boy I was the only one with the kryptonite hanging lazily between my legs. All I had to do was mention in passing that one of my sisters thought about striking my testicles in any sort of way and it was automatic corner for the offender. Family jewls, ladies. Your ovaries ain't gonna carry on the family name. And even if I wanted to (and man did I try), I couldn't punch your reproductive organs in an effort to take your cheese sandwich. And lord knows how much I wanted that cheese sandwich.

As we grow older, though, we had no choice but to find other more subtle ways to wage war. An accidental slip that your sister quit school and spends her days with her 21 year old boyfriend here, a left joint roach with lipstick there and all of a sudden your breaking curfew is at the bottom of the pile for mom and dad. Eventually my sisters and I grew to appreciate, even bond with, each other. Now I'm proud to say they are my best friends. Truth be told, even in the heat of battle we respected each other as advesaries and peers. I have to respect anyone that convinces reasonable parents that their 13 year old son is a pedophile.

Any relationship one has later in life is affected by these initial battles with your siblings. For two years I enjoyed the large subject teachers room in my school to myelf. See, all the other subject teachers were assigned their own classrooms with heating, AC and modern computers. What I gave up in climate control I gained in privacy. Classrooms in my school feature slide doors with windows along with eye-level windows along the hallway wall. Not only can those in the opposite classroom watch you like a youtube video but any and all travellers down those busy hallways have a nice 10 second movie of you as you go about your business. The subject teachers room has no such transperancy. In addition, the doorknob for this room is broken in such a way that it gives the impression of being locked unless you know specifically how to open it. And no one besides my co-teachers ever go to the effort of dislocating their wrists to open that portal to come see me. For two years I was a very happy man in my solitude.

Not now. My space has been invaded by three new teachers who, while in the same category as me as "not really anything we have to respect", still have managed to trespass on my outsider status. Whatever they're doing in my room, I don't like it. And it is obvious they have never dealt with the ruthless maneuvers of siblings because my passive aggressive open window policy to their maxed out heater is not responded to.

I just thought that at this age I would be done fighting for control of lighting with slightly older women. Again I was proven wrong, by these exact older women no less.

And people ask me why I refuse to get married. Exhibit A.

I'm the Seinfeld of Korea and my lunch is like airplane peanuts

What's the deal with Korean school lunches?

I'm going to stop there because although I know how Jerry Seinfeld famously starts his jokes, I have no idea how he ends them nor do I have the skill to do so in a way to make 1 billion people laugh and throw money at me for the better part of a decade (and then ruin it all with some movie involving bees or some such). Suffice it to say that I do not like Korean school lunches and I find them a nuisance. You may laugh now. And throw money at me if so inclined.

My school lunches typically include a vegetable, meat and a hearty soup, followed by a tasty desert. Of course that's in a Korean context so it should read; some greyish-green mush boiled to even greyer mush, fish bones (including heads with eyes) sometimes with meat accidentally still left hanging on, spicy hot water (sometimes with fish bones, heads and eyes) and a random food item that Satan himself would never consider coating with sugar with copious amounts of sugar on it. Oh, and of course rice. You know, rice is to a cook as a word search is to an English teacher. Yeah, that'll work today as I sweat off this hangover. Except no English teacher would give word searches everyday. Three times a day. For their entire lives. And then claim it cures AIDS. Don't forget kimchi, too. How could I, what with this burning ulcer. But as my latest medical check confirms, I don't have AIDS and to my knowledge I never have, so maybe kimchi and rice really do work. And since I've never had cirrosis of the liver I should continue to drink several glasses of whiskey a night.

The food I could handle. The conversation I could not. After 14 months of eating with the same Korean teachers in the same room the same questions still came my way. We've all heard them before. Yes, I can use chopsticks. No, it's not too spicy. Yes, I like kimchi. Of course it cures cancer, I'm a man of reason! Yet still I could endure these inanities. What I couldn't withstand was the daily inquisitions. What did I have for dinner the night before? Laughter. What did I have for breakfast? Laughter. What will I have tonight for dinner? Retarded, retarded laughter. A ham sandwich has never before been so hilarious. And you know, fine. But for 14 months? I'm really not that interesting. The ham sandwich might be, but I'm sure not.

Finally I said enough. I made up some story about my doctor cutting spicy food out of my diet and removed myself from the lunch gatherings all together. Of course there were no questions about that. But still the daily interviews exist. What did I bring for lunch? When will I eat it? How did I make it? Did I enjoy it? What will you bring tomorrow? And every time it's laughter. Comedians would kill for this kind of easy reaction. I would kill to make it stop. Some might find it charming that they care so much. I should remind them that it's been a year since I stopped eating with them. Last week all the subject teachers went out for lunch together. The food was pre-ordered and I had no say in the matter. Jae-yook dok-bap was selected for me and everyone else had binbimbap. Hey, I'm pleased that someone actually listened to me and chose something I would marry if I could (and will once prop 13 passes. Yes on 13!) As they all sat there grazing on their bowls of messy veggies and egg in unison the comments started leaking in and heads started to slowly explode. Apparently I don't like vegetables and love pork. Isn't it too spicy? Chopsticks?! YOU KNOW KIMCHI!!!! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahha....etc.

I should be happy. In any disagreement with any school official I just have to mention what I ate for lunch and it will turn into a Must See TV yuk-fest in the room. But much like Seinfeld, I just don't get it.

Pyeongchang: Always the bridesmaid

About 3 years ago, Pyeongchang lost their second bid to hold the Winter Olympics to Sochi, Russia. At the time I wrote up a fictional piece about the Korean town's inevitable 3rd try in 2011. In honour of the upcoming Olympic Games in Vancouver (to whom Pyeongchang lost in 2003 by one of the slimmest margins ever), I offer that 'news' article once again. Enjoy. Or don't. I don't depend on other people's happiness for my own.

PyeongChang Loses bid to hold 2018 winter olympics to Baghdad

Rome, Italy- The Olympic dream of the small Korean city of Pyeongchang was shattered yet again yesterday when it lost another close vote to hold the Winter Olympics in 2018. Pyeongchang received 2 votes, 30 behind winner Baghdad and 16 less than second place Royal Norwegian Offshore Oil Rig #1203 in the Artic Ocean.

“Sure, Iraq is on the brink of a civil war, the populace lives in fear and the city has little to no infrastructure. But, given the choices, it was really a no-brainer,” said New Zealand IOC member Hugh Sheffield.

When asked what put Baghdad ahead of other contenders like Pyeongchang, Sheffield stated, “A third of our envoy was killed in the 6 hours we were able to actually go into the Iraqi capital. But, on the other hand, no one knocked me down and stepped on my skull trying to get on the bus before me. That was nice.” Sheffield also noted the welcome lack of children shoving fingers into the delegation’s rear ends.

Swiss IOC member Hans Gergenheister added, “I wasn’t confident with the weather in Pyeongchang. They promised to show us the mountain that would be used for alpine skiing. However, after being led up a small hill, I suppose to get a better look at the mountain, I wasn’t able to see any peaks at all. I guess the fog was just too thick. It was a nice touch for them to colour it yellow, though, to represent Asia…or whatever.” Gergenheister was unable to continue the interview after coughing up blood and passing out.

“They tell me to drink little green bottle,” explained Russian IOC member Boris Chrevchoskov of his vote against Pyeongchang. “They tell me it is like vodka, so I drink. Was it joke? Horse-piss joke? I no laugh. I punch and kick bad men. No Olympics for you, bad men.”

Another factor that may have swayed IOC voters was the compactness of the sites slated to serve as Olympic venues in cozy Baghdad. Commented Dutch IOC member Paul Van der Loopin, “There are only four buildings left standing in Baghdad, and they’re all ready to hold several events each.” Figure skating and luge will be held at the police station in the North-East, speed skating and biathlon at the al-qebib falafel restaurant in the South. All alpine skiing events will take place in the centre of the city on what has become known as the Great Freedom Democracy Liberation Pile of Rubble. Curling will be played on the frozen blood of infidels.

“And you can forget about traffic jams! No one in their right mind would ever try to start a car in that city,” Van der Loopin continued.

Baghdad’s motto, “We Have Electricity Sometimes!” was also sited as being more catchy than the “Super Happy Well Being Bravo Sports Massage Have A Good Time Smile Fighting!?&!?” featured in Pyeongchang’s bid. “With Baghdad, I know what I’m getting. I felt confused, and even mildly offended, by the other one…What’s the name of that city there? Over in Japan or wherever,” Sheffield said.


Reading from a prepared statement, Pyeongchang’s bid Chairman, Kim Chung-Hee, told reporters, “The Swiss player was offside! OFFSIDE!”

Spanish IOC member, Julio Gueveras, who voted for Pyeongchang, expressed hope that the Korean city would try again in the future. “I really, really hope these guys put another bid in while I’m still here. I am totally willing to vote for them again. Hear that Kim Hong-Ki, CEO of Samsung? I am tooooootally willing to do this again. Now, can someone please help me lift this 50” flat screen TV into my brand new Hyundai Tiburon?”

Indeed, although having lost three consecutive Olympic bids, Korean officials promised to keep trying. “That’s just super,” commented Van der Loopin. “Pyeongchang’s perennial optimism in the face of crushing and inevitable defeat is really the ideal of the Olympics. Or at least the Special Olympics.” Pyeongchang faces tough competition for the right to hold the 2022 Olympics, however. The Kashmir territory between India and Pakistan, a garbage barge off the coast of Long Island and a pothole in Bangkok have all expressed their interest in winning the bid.