“Oh Mr. K, you’re so negative,” said several kommenters like “The Boss” (scoff), “You’re going to find the ugliness because you’re looking for it! You WANT to hate Korean culture! You have a single-minded obsession with seeking out and criticizing Korean culture!”
Kommenters like this, as well as those by the ajoshhi Kock-sucking Krew over at Dave’s and Marmot’s, are made with a great, enormous effort to be willfully ignorant of the environment around them.
Koreaboo Klown – Most Koreaboo Klowns are less clean shaven, far less muscular and have about 50 pounds more fat
No. No, you Klown nuthugger fucks, no.
I don’t WANT to see any of the shit I write about. I would like to be able to enjoy this kuntry I live in and to feel some small semblance of peace here.
I don’t go out looking for Klownisms, they are literally everywhere. In every corner of the Kuntry. On every street. In every building. On every corner. There is no place of refuge. Not even in my home.
Any trip from Point A to Point B, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant, ends up being a trip from Point A to Point K (or more appropriately Point K to Point K).
Say I’m heading out to the supermarket.
I’ll exit my front door and find a plastic bag with molding, retch-inducing, half-eaten food on plastic plates – the remains of someone’s delivery meal which wasn’t put out in a timely fashion or wasn’t picked up for some other reason.
Then I walk down the hall to the elevator. In apartment 666, Mrs. Kim and her litter of Klownlets are having a meal. There is non-stop screaming and shouting. There are plates crashing. There is running and crying. Even when the little piglets’ faces are crammed full of compost – sorry, traditional Korean ‘food’ – they don’t even shut the fuck up for a second.
Meal time at Mrs. Kim’s
I get to the elevator, which has some fucked up programming which causes indecisiveness as to which floor gets which car, so I stand there for a good long while. From the stairwell, with the door wide open, I get the delightful smell of cigarette smoke – both old and new – from my Klown neighbor who has decided that his own growing cancerous tumor just isn’t enough.
Thanks Mr. Lee!
Once I get on the elevator, I note that someone has cleared their throat down deep into his or her befouled Klown lungs and spat with full force on the mirror (that was this week, last week it was the floor selector buttons). The blast of phlegm congealed, rolled a little ways down the mirror, dripped a bit onto the hand rail that kids are supposed to use, then dried into some kind of abstract Klown art.
In the lobby, there is a shouting match happening between Mr. Park, the unemployed ajosshi fuck who is always drunk by noon and Mr. Kim, the building “security” guard who must be at least 157 if I’m reading his head liver spots like tea leaves correctly. What are they screaming at each other about in the middle of the lobby of a building that houses hundreds of people being far, far overcharged for their apartments? Could be which corner is best suited for Mr. Park’s delivery of dried weeds. Could be how many lightbulbs are on in the lobby. Could be who did their military service earlier. Could be about who had the most foul kimchi stink. Regardless, it was nothing that needed to be screamed at each other as all the paying residents came and went.
My ears still echoing from the second auditory assault in under 5 minutes (I have not even left my building at this point), I exit the front door, stepping over a puddle of dribble spit right in the middle of where everyone needs to walk. Glancing around I see that there are at least a dozen similar piles in a ten meter radius. This is, I assume, to enhance the decor of Street Litter Chic that uber-modern Korea is going for… some glistening, quivering mucus to, you know, to make it more literally “sparkling”.
Finally I’m out of the building. It can only get better from here, right? I mean, in the 50 meters or so I’ve walked since leaving my apartment door, I’ve seen some horrific, Apocalypse Now level savagery, so it stands to reason that the environment will only get more civilized from here… right?
I cross the courtyard and past the local bar. It is full of screaming, shouting, spitting, hawrking, swearing, red-faced Klowns screaming in each others faces jovially until the veins in their scrawny necks pop out.
I pause to murmur a wish that they all simultaneously have anuerisms and die. The precedent has been established for burying pigs alive in mass graves here in Klown, so maybe we could dispose of the ajosshi in a similar fashion (but being civilized we’ll wait until they have the aneurism first).
Next to the bar is a cell phone store which has decided to compete with the din of the bar by jacking up the speakers they have set up outside. These speakers are blasting a mix of K-pop garbage and American hip-hip with explicit lyrics, all directly underneath the living room windows of several dozen families. Why? Because fuck everyone else. Please understand my unique situation. At least the doumi girls, room salon rejects who need to layer jobs as I do, humilating themselves in metallic skirts in the day, then sucking ajosshi spunk at night… stacking those jobs so as to leave the least amount of possible time for self-loathing and stewing in the realization of what their lives have become and the shit pile of human misery and sadism in which they live. Sparkling.
I pass the local math hagwon, where, in defiance of all research and studies by much, much smarter people, the kids are made to study for blocks of 3 and 4 hours straight. Welcome to the least efficient nation on Earth, especially when it comes to edumakation.
Rather than risk my life driving the roads that have OECD-leading accident and fatality rates, I decide I’ll take the subway. As I cross the street I narrowly avoid getting run over not once, but twice. The first time by some ajumma kunt in a gigantic black sedan. Now, if you aren’t comfortable behind the wheel of a car, which in a city as densely populated as Seoul is a multi-ton machine of death, why the everloving fuck would you buy the largest, most unwieldy, most difficult to maneuver tank available? If you don’t know how to fucking park, you should not be driving a APC down a city street, especially not when you are (a) 5 foot nothing and can’t see over the dash and (b) watching soap operas on the DMB while texting. The second time was by some inbred ajosshi fuck driving a Bongo truck with a loudspeaker mounted to the roof. This loudspeaker was connected to a recording advertising whatever the fuck this cleft-palate-having, brain-shunt wearing fuck was selling, and was blaring said advertising message out, over and over at full volume, up and down residential streets. Rolling this truck down the streets of urban Chicago would have ended rather quickly in a homicide. I would have heard the truck coming if my ears hadn’t still been ringing from the tinnitus I suffered on my way out of house this far. I haven’t made it 500m from my home and I’ve already been deafened, attacked with biological weapons and nearly run over – twice.
I figure I’m safe on the other side of the street, so I climb the stairs to the pedestrian overpass to get to the subway. Unfortunately, there was a light shower of rain a mere 15 minutes before. Normally, a bit of rain on the ground wouldn’t mean much, but this small drizzle was enough to re-moisten the multiple gobs of phlegm that had been expectorated all over the wooden boards of the overpass walkway. Now it’s a skating rink. I’m slipping and sliding. I see a Klown plastic surgery princess coming the other way in “kill heels” and a skirt so short that only hookers wear them in the real world. You know the Klown plastic surgery whore type, right? They don’t look human. They have taken body dysmorphia to a new level and institutionalized it as a nationally-encouraged “style”. It’s a cross between Alien Autopsy and a Japanese life-size fuck doll. These surgeries cost many tens of thousands of dollars. How do you think these are paid for? I’ll give you a hint. It isn’t working 9-5 for the US equivalent of $1500 a month.
In a kulture where human decency is absent and where respect and dignity not only have no value, but are actually seen as weaknesses who would be shocked that 20-year-old women – not to mention their father-age customers – would see prostitution (for ridiculously low prices due to a flooded market) and a sacrifice of any meaningful future they may have had as perfectly acceptable? Remember that these women are not chemically dependent, which is the norm for western whores. And there are a million of them. Sparkling.
Plastic Surgery Whores. Chances are you know one.
Ask her “how much”? Bet you get an answer.
I get into the subway station alive and unharmed by some miracle of Korean God and make my way through the turnstiles. Have you ever seen bait worms in a bucket? I mean like a few hundred of those fuckers, squirming and teeming and writhing all over each other with blind abandon? That’s a subway station in Klown. Stupid fucking me – when I moved here from Chicago, a city with a population of about 3 million and a metro population of just under 10 million, to Seoul, a city with a metro population of 21 million (good for 2nd globally and just ahead of Mexico City), I thought that there would be, for the sake of sheer sanity, better self-organization and adherence to unspoken codes of civility. Ha-fucking-ha-fucking-HA! Klowns have quite deliberately gone the opposite direction, ensuring that any movement they make is both illogical and inconvenient to others. Every Fucking Movement. Walking, driving, biking, pushing a stroller, pulling a cart, crawling, fucking rolling down a hill – if a Klown is doing it, it is guaranfuckingteed to fuck up any logical path of movement you were thinking of making. It’s like playing the world’s most fucking random and unbeatable video game. And in the face of this, I enter the subway station.
I decide I’m going to head to the big market in the city center. Why am I such a fucking masochist? I put in my headphones, but invariably some fucking ajosshi stink-breath kunt Klown fuck invades my personal space – which is held sacred in most places on the globe but sure as fuck not in Klown – asking me random questions like where I’m from, do I teachee the Englishee, do I want to beat his fucking skull in with a wine bottle (yes)? Buy a ticket like the rest fucker. The plastic surgery whore sure ain’t giving out free BJs. I didn’t move to the asshole of the “civilized” world to volunteer. You’ve already had more than your fair helping of free American aid and money, just let me get to the goddamned fucking supermarket in fucking peace to buy some fucking food you class-less motherfucker. Oh yeah, and brush your fucking teeth once a fucking week you fuck.
I get to the downtown core and step out, once again, into the slaughterhouse troughs. Escaping into fresh (?) air, I see a bunch of my second favorite people – Koreaboos. You see, Koreaboos are what Americans might call “losers”. These socially-retarded fucks, like the kind that speak about themselves in the third person (and claim to be ‘world travellers’ when they are ten-year veteran waiters who escaped to Klown to swing foam nunchuks around, call themselves “writers” and pretend that anyone gives a shit about them or will attend their funeral – this guy is a seriously arrogant self-loathing bag of festering kunt juice), will sometimes gather together in groups and celebrate their Klowniness. “Look at us!” they will shout, “Western society rejected us so we’ve thrown our lot in with in with the short-bus-riding crowd! Derpa!”
Koreaboo Wanna-be Klowns gather to abandon logic and basic human decency in order to get the approval mommy, daddy and the school bully never gave them back home.
As I cross the busy square towards the supermarket I see yet another protest. Once again, it is populated by university age Klowns who have no fucking clue what they are protesting against. These fucking morons aren’t able to locate globally-relevant countries like Israel and Somalia on a map of the world (a labelled fucking map mind you), but are out in force protesting what they have been told are global miscarriages of justice.
Fuck. You. You are ten times worse than the unwashed nouveau hippy fuckers in college back home. At least they had some semblance of global knowledge. These Klown fucks probably still need mommy to remind them to change underwear. Nonetheless they will get “violent” and turn over a police bus or two. It will literally take a hundred and fifty of them to do it, but gosh darn it they will. The ‘military’ will come in and move them out. What a fucking joke. The only reason the Klown “military” is able to accomplish anything at all is that the Klowns they are trying to maneuver are equally Klownish and incompetent.
I move past the Klown K-pop wannabes who worship a musical culture that is based entirely on ripping off American artists. They are the same ones attending the anti-America protest. I guess I should be glad I didn’t get acid thrown in my face or mob-attacked by small-testes Klowns who lack the courage and ability to fight man-to-man.
“Yo! Yo! What’s happening my nigga? I’m so black, yo! But seriously, if you’re black stay away from me because I hate you and fear you.”
I stop to get some street “food” from a local street vendor. He is sanitary and personable as always.
I’m not even at the store yet. Forget about the journey home. I catch yet another whiff of raw sewage wafting up from grates in the streets, a constant reminder that I ain’t in Kansas no more. I pause and do a 360 panorama. Everywhere I look, in every single fucking direction, are atrocities of the spirit. Abuse is just a way of life here. One needn’t look for it – it’s almost impossible to ignore.
Mexico City may be impoverished, not having benefited from the constant deluge of American money as Klown has, but the people there have something Klowns will never, ever have – pride. And I don’t mean the kind of pride that has them buy a red shirt every four years, I mean the kind that has them keep their fucking filth and phlegm and trash and feces off the sidewalk. I’m talking about communal pride and decency – a basic sense of “this is my home, this is my land, this is worth something”. I’ve been to a few countries that are fiscally much poorer than Korea per capita, but in terms of civility they are far, far richer.
Klowns want to be Klowns. It’s in their kulture. It’s in their nature. The results of this are plain to see.
Your disingenuous “surprise” at my ability to find – let alone my being enraged by – the non-stop, wall-to-wall, endless wave after wave of pig farm filth that this city and country are deliberately awash in – is bullshit self-delusion for some odd purpose. I suspect you are just weak-minded and need to drink the Kool-aid. Like a toothless redneck hillbilly backwash inbred fuck with 6 cars on blocks, rusting out in the front yard, you can’t begin to grasp the realities of Klown kulture or the reasons behind the klownisms – well, can’t or won’t. The reality is too ugly. You’d rather remain in the delusion like a padded-cell dweller refusing meds. It’s all “it isn’t that bad” or “it’s bad elsewhere too” (as if that excuses anything) or “I just try to understand their unique situation and culture” (fuck you fuck you fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou fuuuuuuuuck youuuuuu).
That, or you were such a colossal social and personal failure back in your home country that any amount of approval and praise, such as the meaningless, empty pat-on-the-head bullshit that Klowns spew at you (which you think is to build you up, but really is to make themselves feel better-endowed) is enough to have your tongue out, tail wagging, crouched in a squirrel sit waiting for a Milk Bone. Or an ajosshi 3.8-inch boner. You’re in good kompany though. The Ajosshi Kock-sucking Krew is always looking for new members!