Posted January 15th, 2009 by

Contrary to what people think, I used to be pretty smooth with chicks at an early age. I was a cute kid. Unfortunately, as I grew older and fatter, I started looking like Kim Jong Il. Here are some tales of the inner pimp in me.

East LA is a wonderful place. Whores, crack dealers, police, gangs, you name it we have it. At the age of 4, I was enrolled in a preschool called Murchinson preschool. I didn’t know a word of English but it was ok because none of the Mexican kids spoke English either. The teachers were nice. I had 2 teachers in preschool. One of the teachers, Mrs. B, was a sweet old white lady. She was great with the kids. I remembered her because she loved to give hugs and she smelled of old perfume and oatmeal cookies.

The other teacher was Ms. Lopez. She always dressed up like a tranny-stripper. She had lots of makeup on and loved to wear clothes that revealed lots of skin. Bitch had an adam’s apple too. She smelled like baby oil.

Murchinson is where I had my first “girl friend”. Can you believe that? At the age of 4! Her name was Virginia. She was the prettiest girl in class. She didn’t speak any English and neither did I but I recall that we always held hands and kissed. I guess it became too much for the teachers because I remember being scolded many times for kissing her. But my pimp days were not over.

The next year, I was enrolled in a private school in East LA. Private school in East LA meant that most of the teachers were nuns. Everything else is the same in terms of curriculum. So for Kindergarten, I had my second girlfriend. Her name was Jessica Murphy. She was ¼ Japanese, ¼ Irish, ½ Mexican. She was Tiger Woods without much athletic prowess. Anyways, during the first day there, she comes up to me and motions for me to go play with her on the swings. I didn’t really know what she was saying because I didn’t learn shit preschool. So I go play with her. I push this cute bitch around and when recess is over she grabs my hand. I guess our parents thought it was cute. However, my teacher was this mean bitch of a nun. Sister Magdalena! She hated that me and Jessica were so close and actually when she caught is kissing in the playground she took me to the principal’s office. They even called my parents. The funny thing about the whole incident is that my parents both came because they thought it was something serious. They didn’t speak any English so it was basically these two fucked up nuns trying to explain to my parents that I was kissing this girl. However, my parents didn’t understand what they were saying so the nuns were playing charades to show what happened. When my parents understood what happened, they were pissed. Not at the fact that I was kissing a girl but because they took time off of their work for some stupid reason. When I got home, they whooped my ass.

Its seriously hard out there for a pimp.

Posted January 8th, 2009 by

So my life was a little different from a lot of Asian American kids that you see. Most Koreans who own liquor stores in shitty neighborhoods usually live in the suburbs. Northridge, South Pasadena, Fullerton, Cerritos are all places that these Koreans tend to buy their homes so that their kids don’t have to face the experiences of the inner city that they are in. My parents were slightly different in this sense. They decided to buy a store in the Boyle Heights area of East Los Angeles. Not only did they buy a store there, they decided to buy a home right behind the store. Thanks mom and dad for making such great future decisions!

If you are not familiar with East Los Angeles, let me give you a brief description. Every one there is Mexican. Not El Salvadorean or Puerto Rican or Cuban but Mexican. This wouldn’t be so bad except that everyone in my neighborhood were basically drug addicts, thugs/cholos, and criminals. On top of that, school was taught in bilingual education.

So for a kid like me to be accepted by the other kids in the neighborhood, I had to fight them first. So this is my recollection of my first fight ever. The kids in the neighborhood called me Chinito which basically means little Chinese boy. I was upset because they said it like they were trying to insult me. It wasn’t the meaning but the tone that pissed me off. So this kid named Christopher a.k.a Boo Boo called me the dreaded Chinito. To which I called him a Wetback, due to my mom’s instructions. We got into a fight at the park near my house. Boo Boo was about 2-3 years older than me and about a foot taller than me. I remember being so scared because I was a pit of a pansy growing up. Anyways, so as the fight commenced, Boo Boo hit me good with a shoot to the face. My knees became noodles. I was such a bitch for getting clocked once in the face and I crumbled to the ground.

I walked home with tears streaming down my face. My mom was in the kitchen when I walked in. She saw me and asked what happened. I figured if I told my mom, she would comfort me but boy was I wrong! She looked at me and said you are not allowed in this house unless you go beat that kids ass. She pushed me out the house and locked the door. It was around dinner time now and I was hungry. But if I don’t kick the dreaded Boo Boo’s ass, I wouldn’t be able to eat dinner. So my only choice was to go to Boo Boo’s house. I got to Boo Boo’s house and he is at home with his family. I guess his family found it weird that I would walk into their house but they didn’t say anything. I walked right up to Boo Boo and threw a haymaker that connected right on the button. He didn’t even flinch! I thought if I hit him with all that I had he would die or something. But he didn’t even move back. But then after a 4 second delay, blood started pouring out of his nose. The sight of his own blood triggered him to cry. His parents just didn’t know what to do. Some little asian kid walks into their house. Walks up to their son and sucker punches him. If that happened to my kid I would not know what to do.

As soon as Boo Boo started crying, I turned around and walked home. I told my mom that what happened and she let me in the house. That’s when I first learned that my mom hates losers.  

Posted January 8th, 2009 by

So the new year has started and I decided I should write a mini book about random tales about my life. But given the fact that I am an atrocious writer, I decided that I should just blog these tales first. Also, I feel a bit douchebag-gy writing about myself. hahah.

Anyways, here is my first story:

I am the first to admit that every ass whooping I got from my parents were well deserved. I may not have turned out to be a doctor or lawyer, like they wanted but I believe that I am fairly well adjusted. Sure I still got problems and have thoughts that should get me locked up but I guess that is why I do stand up.

My ass whoopings were many and memorable. However, I will never forget my first one. At the tender age of 2, I was left alone in the living room. My parents, grandmother, aunts, and uncles were in the kitchen talking and having a good time. I remember it being pretty cold and I was sitting on top of an electric blanket. So no matter how much I cranked up the dial on the blanket, it was just not warm enough to keep me warm. I remember thinking how I was going to keep myself warm and toasty. I figured that fire was hot so I proceeded to go find something to start a fire. My dad was a professional smoker back then. He would smoke about 2 packs of Malboro’s a day. Like I see people smoke cigarettes and most people I meet are amateurs in my eyes. Chain smoking doesn’t really impress me either. My dad smoked so much that people with emphysema would tell him to calm down. So undoubtedly I found a lighter nearby. You guys have to understand that I was kind of brilliant and retarded at the same time. For a 2 year old to figure out that fire is hot and would warm me up is brilliant. That’s problem solving skills. To find a lighter and figure out how it works is also pretty damn genius if you ask me. The retarded thing about the incident is that I almost set my whole damn house on fire. So I light the electric blanket and immediately feel warm. But there was this feeling somewhere in my gut. I like to call it the “oh shit” response. Every time I am doing something potentially life altering, I usually feel this feeling because I usually make a shitty decision. Inevitably, the people around will respond by saying “oh shit”.

So the electric blanket is on fire and my dad runs into the living room because of the smell carpet burning. He proceeds to get a wet towel and puts out the fire. He is frantically hitting the fire with this demented look in his eyes. This should have been a sign of things to come because as soon as he put out the fire. He decided to put me out. With the same demonic look as mentioned above, he fixes his glare at me and proceeds to whoop on me. Again, as I look back on it, I realize that this is very much deserved. I almost burned the damn house down. I guess the unusual thing about this ass whooping is that it felt like a WWE. My dad kicks my ass and it seemed like he tagged my mom because he stopped to rest and it was my mom’s turn. She is a very tiny woman. 4 feet 8 inches of pure emotion and fire. The spiciest chili peppers in the world are usually the small ones. Anyways, she started kicking and stomping on me. I was like a rodent you find in the kitchen. There was screaming, crying, and much pain dished out. I thought after my mom was done, the ass whooping would be over but it wasn’t. My grandma came in and whooped on me, then my aunts and uncles double teamed me. I literally got initiated to this gang called my family. After this incident, I have always been hesitant to light anything on fire.

My family effectively figured out a way to deter any hopes of me becoming a pyromaniac.