The Biggest Loser

Everyone has some scandalous skeleton lurking somewhere in their closet. Some remain hidden; others, unfortunately, find a way to creep out and slap you in the face forcing you to face the tough question of 'Who is the biggest loser?' Nobody wants the answer to be 'me,' but sometimes a story gets out there and you have to face up to the fact that yes indeed, it could perhaps be you. And such was my fate the other night ... 

It all started one quiet evening while watching MTV (as in Music Television) when suddenly, Ms. HotStuff gets really excited when the video of those twin dweebs who remade Under Pressure comes on. "Oh my God, I love this song," she says as she raises the volume. Then I see Vanilla Ice - yes, the one hit wonder from the early 90s - pop up for a cameo. The genius twin dweebs, you see, have combined the wannabe rapper's one and only hit with the original Queen/David Bowie collaboration. I think to myself what a total and complete loser this guy is since it's been like 20 years and the only other thing to his credit is the how-could-you-miss-it-Oscar-worthy film Cool As Ice (no, I didn't know the title off the top of my head, ok, I IMDbed it!). As the video progresses, I become convinced that the twin dweebs are sure to follow Vanilla Ice into the world of one-hit-wonderdom, when I look over and see Ms. HotStuff eagerly downloading the song onto her BlackBerry, all happy with herself. And, as if that weren't bad enough, she goes on to start the following conversation:

"Oh my God, he is so hot," she says. I look at the screen, completely confused.
"Who?" I ask.
"Vanilla Ice," she responds in all seriousness.
Just to make sure, I ask, "Are you serious??"
"Yeah, he is so hot," she says again for emphasis in case I missed it the first time.
"You are such a loser. He is like 80 years old."
"So what? He doesn't look that old and he is fine [as in F.I.N.E. fine]."
"I cannot believe you find Vanilla Ice hot! You have reached a new level of loserdom. I am so blogging about this conversation." Ms. HotStuff looks at me completely unfazed and asks: "Did you or did you not attend a Vanilla Ice concert?" I am stunned into silence. Touche, Ms. HotStuff, touche. 

She knows it's true, so there's no point in denying this deep, dark, hideous secret from my past. And even though the score is now 15-love in Ms. HotStuff's favor, I attempt to defend my honor. "Ahhmm, errrrr, uhmmm," I sputter. "In my defense," finally coherent words emerge from my mouth, "it was an MC Hammer concert [yeah, like that makes it better!] and he was just the opening act." Where was I going with that lame ass defense? MC Hammer is supposed to make me sound like less of a loser? And so I continue, trying desperately to save myself, "And, also in my defense, MC Hammer was a BIG thing back then - you know, with the sherwal pants and the you-can't-touch-this dance." Ms. HotStuff is still not convinced after hearing this and says, "Did you or did you not attend said concert with your mother?"

Oooh, that was brutal. I really felt the sting of that one. I am caught off guard but manage this pathetic rebuttal, "Well, again, in my defense [I watch a lot of law shows, but that's the only legal jargon I could come up with], back then I was too young to attend a concert unchaperoned!" But I realized that it was too late. The dark stain of loserdom was too deep set now to be removed no matter how hard I tried.

I thought my argument was all but lost, but I reviewed all the facts in my head to try and come up with one last stand. Yes, I had attended an MC Hammer concert. Yes, Vanilla Ice had been the opening act. Yes, my mother had come along. Oh the shame, the shame! But just as I was thinking that maybe Ms. HotStuff had won this round, she utters, with all sincerity, the words that will ultimately give her the title of 'The Biggest Loser': "I want to kiss every one of his tattoos."

I rest my case!

Faux Frenchies (and other losers)

So, I was having dinner the other night when I was accosted by this hideous wannabe Frenchie loser, who thought her ridiculous accent made her sound more intelligent and of a higher class. Whatever! Not even her stupid accent could mask her blatant stupidity, and as for her class, let's just say my New Year's Eve dates have more of it in their furry paws. I won't go into detail about what we were arguing about, but let's just say that she's an idiot and even Paris Hilton has more brain cells than her. Anyway, as always, I digress.... Getting back to topic, what is with these idiots who think that speaking with a put on accent is actually cool? I have to admit, the Faux Frenchies get on my nerves more than anyone else, although there are also wannabe Americans and Brits that are nearly as irritating, but we'll get to them later.

Okay, a typical Faux Frenchie will come up to you in their Frenchie coucou manner, all pretentious and nauseating with their dumbass accents that they probably worked harder on than graduating high school (if they even managed that), and a conversation will generally go something like this:

Faux Frenchie: Bonsoir!
Normal Lebanese Person: Hi.
FF: Frenchie frenchie coucou nonsense in French.
NLP: Sorry, I don't speak French. Only Arabic and English please.
FF: Oh mon Dieu (face in disgust) no French?? Quelle catastrophe! Yuck, Arabic is only for peasants, but if I must lower myself ... [Begins to speak Arabic with French accent].
NLP: Uhm, you know you're not French right?
FF: Yes, and I've never even been to France, but I must roll my 'r's anyway, because it is very clah.
NLP: Moron.
FF: Mais ouis!

People who've flown over the UK or had a layover in the US and come back to Lebanon and act as if they don't know how to speak Arabic anymore aren't much better. But in order of most annoying, let's go through a typical conversation with a Faux Brit.

Faux Brit: G'day mate.
Normal Lebanese Person: Uhm, you know that's Australian.
FB: Oh yeah, easy mistake, though, ainnet [i.e., isn't it]?
NLP: Only if you're mentally challenged.
FB: Hey, I really am British, you know …. Look, I can say, bloody hell!
NLP: You’re bloody annoying.
FB: Wicked!

And now we come to American wannabes, who have accents so bad, hearing them is like listening to fingernails on blackboards – i.e. excruciating.

Faux American: Hey, like oh my God, I am like soooooo American, and just to prove it to you, I’m so going to talk like this the whole time even though I was only in the US for like five minutes. Awesome. Dude.

Normal Lebanese Person: Did you just say, ‘Dude?’

FA: Totally, dude. I totally said ‘dude,’ dude. Like you know, right? Whatever rocks your boat, man.

NLP: I actually don’t know. Is there a conversation going on here?

FA: Oh my God, are you serious? Are you like totally clueless or something?

NLP: [No comment, stares incomprehensibly at babbling idiot with limited vocabulary who inexplicably keeps saying ‘dude.’]

FA: Duuuuude!

Saturday Night Loser

I know this is Beirut, the greatest party city ever, but don’t you just feel like staying in sometimes and doing nothing? It’s true that image is everything, and so staying in on a weekend is considered anything but cool here, especially come Monday, when everyone is like, 'Yiii, ma rihtee a Palais??' But, last night I just could not be bothered to get all gussied up for a night out on the town. So, when my friend called in the afternoon and was like, 'Let's go to Capitol,’ the idea of putting on heels exhausted me and I thought, nahhhh, I'll skip out on that one. Then another friend called and asked if I wanted to join them at Zinc. I pondered on that one for about a second because there was a reserved table so the heels wouldn’t be a problem, but I had just washed and styled my hair and I really didn't feel like smelling like an ashtray. So I made up some lame ass excuse (well, less lame than I just washed my hair) and opted out of that plan too.

Usually when I don't go out on a Saturday night, my sister and I rent horror movies, but yesterday she was a total traitor and went out so I was left all by my lonesome self. I had a couple of movies to watch, but both sucked big time (FYI: GI JOE was beyond ridiculous and Surrogates could induce a coma). After the movies were over, I got really bored and regretted my decision to stay in, but then I remembered my freshly washed hair and thought, no, I did the right thing not going out.

I think I reached an all time low though when I decided to watch TV a bit before turning in and while going through the channels I came across a show on the beyond dorky Jonas brothers! At first, I thought, okay, I gotta change the channel real quick, but you know how it is when you come across a car accident on the road and you can't help but look at it no matter how bad it is? Well, that’s what this show was like, and so … I watched the whole thing! I usually think nothing of staying in on a Saturday night, but when the Jonas brothers started singing about how they were in love with a pizza delivery girl and running around giant pizza props, I knew I had reached a new level of loserness.

Anyway, after that horrific lapse in coolness (a rare occasion, of course), I decided to hit the sack and thanks to the brilliant writing of Bernard Cornwell, I went to bed with a gorgeous Saxon warrior who made the hideous memories of all things Jonas disappear.

So, there it is. I was a Saturday Night Loser but at least a) my hair still smells great, b) my feet don’t hurt and c) since this is the blog that no one reads, my reputation of total and complete coolness won’t suffer any consequences!

How I discovered that George Clooney is NOT in love with me

Yes, it's been over a week since my last entry and I'm feeling like the absolute worst blogger ever. But, in my defense, I have been ill ... yet again! I caught a debilitating virus that left me bed ridden for five days - fun stuff! Anyway, now on to today's exhilarating entry: secret admirers. Oooohhhhhh ...

So, last week, I got this sms that I have a secret admirer - I know, I know, everyone's been getting them. But, I decided to check the whole thing out, investigative journalism style, so that I could properly expose the scam to you, my dear readers. For those of you not in the know, an sms has been going around that the recipient has a secret admirer. To get your special message, though, you have to send an sms to a provided number. My 'secret admirer' message was in French - the first clue that the whole thing is bogus, because anyone who knows me even remotely, would never, ever, send me a message in French. Anyway, it read something like, 'I really like you, but I'm too intimidated to approach you.' Flashbacks of grade school and the crushes of 12 year olds sprang to mind, but I persevered!

The message then says that it will give you the name of your so-called admirer if you send yet another sms to the same number. I did so (only because our dear minister of telecom has reduced sms rates to $0.10, otherwise this experiment would never have happened. So, thanks Gebran!). I received another message, saying, shocker of all shockers, that my secret admirer wishes to remain anonymous, but if I send in the name of who I think it could be, it will tell me whether I'm right or wrong. So, I typed in a name, and guess what folks ... ? That's how I discovered that George Clooney is not secretly in love with me!

Although entirely possible, George is not in love with me

Devastated as I was, the experiment was not yet over. My sister, who also received a secret admirer sms, did the same thing at my -- annoying? -- insistence, just to see if we would get the exact same message. Well, hers was in English, but she was as equally heartbroken to learn that Edward Cullen was not secretly pining away over her!

So there you have it folks! Our brilliant detective work was so brilliant, in fact, that I feel like this could be an Emmy award winning segment on 60 Minutes. And thanks to the amazing investigative team of Rafeh & Rafeh (aka Anissa and Nadya) we have not only managed to uncover the truth for you, but have also saved you from those moments when you think, 'Well maybe I could have a secret admirer,' but you don't want to be that loser that sent in the sms hoping to find true love, only to realize that you actually fell for a gimmick. Yes, you owe us big time (feel free to thank us ad nauseam!).

Disclaimer: This experiment is in no way an indication of loserish behavior, since it was carried out with the full knowledge that it was a hoax and done for the sole purpose of providing hardcore proof of its bogus nature.