Piñata. The word itself is enough to make any parent shudder. For me, the word triggers a flashback of traumatic experiences (yes, there were several) involving the unfortunate party game. The earliest of these childhood traumas (and my first encounter with this barbaric game) dates back to kindergarten. I was attending a ninja turtle themed birthday party. If you’re familiar with these popular anthropomorphic turtles, then you know that Michelangelo was indisputably the best ninja turtle. I found we shared similar personality traits. Like Mikey, I love pizza and am solely around for comic relief. So you can imagine my excitement when I saw the piñata was none other than my cherished Michelangelo. This was before the beating began…The fact that Mikey was filled with delicious treats did nothing to appease my sorrow. Since this incident, I believe that bats and blindfolds are two things that should never combine.

2010. Guatemala City. Me and my old friend meet again. This piñata is a seizure waiting to happen. A clusterfuck of vivid colours that reminds me of a childs drawing. You know, the kind your kid gives you for mother’s day and you have no choice but to put it on your fridge even though it completely ruins your kitchen’s colour palette? That kind.. but in 3-D. (shudder)

Now, kids love piñatas. These kids were no different. The game in itself needs no explaining (take bat, smack piñata) but the clown (who was also violently abrasive to the eyes) explained the game to the smaller kids. You know..like me, when they killed Mikey.. The room reaked of excitement and urine.

Now, here is where the story takes a scary twist. Give any Central American a baseball bat and rest assured there will be nothing left of that visually offensive piece of papier maché. I’ll never forget the face of the first child up to bat. The only way I can describe it is a mixture of malice and pure joy. Mostly malice though…



Little Sammy Sosa steps up to the plate. 10 seconds. That’s all it took. I looked on with horror and admiration as this 7-year old boy vehemently demolished the piñata. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful showing of athletic ability. I’m gonna assume he learnt that at softball camp…



The feeding frenzy that ensued was horrifying. I felt like I was looking on as a pack of famished hyenas tackled their injured prey. Confetti and newspaper were flying everywhere and the kids were grabbing at what they could. Casualties came crying to me. Chipped tooth, ripped shirt, missing patches of hair, and general bruising.



Since then, I have a new appreciation for piñatas. They bring people together. So you can bet your balls there will be a piñata at my wedding… and an open bar, which promises to be entertaining.
Party on party people.
Much love from the heart of Central America,
jo

HURRICANE LAFORCE STRIKES DUBLIN

Saturday, March 13th 2010: I wake up to the sound of my annoyingly responsible alarm telling me that if I don’t get up NOW, I will miss my flight to Dublin. Scan the room. An untouched glass of water at my bedside. FUCK. Clothes from last night still on. Brilliant. Brother: MIA. I don’t remember getting home that night, so you can bet I have no idea if my brother even made it home. I stumble into his room and proceed to get him out of bed. He tells me he’s ready. Bullshit. I kick him. He pulls off the blankets. He is fully dressed and wearing his shoes. What a smart boy.

We make our flight, and prepare for the weekend ahead. At this point Greg has not slept for 48 hours. (or more?) We arrive in Dublin and bus it to our hostel. Nap time. (we make terrible tourists) However, the hostel is at full capacity and our rooms are not ready. So instead of napping, we get piss drunk and forget about our problems. Luckily for us, there was a HUGE rugby game in Dublin that weekend, Ireland vs Wales, so the bars were filled with fans. I can honestly say that I have never really considered rugby a sport (throwing the ball backwards seems awfully counterproductive to me)but I really got into this game. We were cheering for Wales for two reasons: 1) they have the most badass flag in the world, I mean it’s a fucking dragon. 2) There were only welsh fans at this particular bar and we valued our teeth. We went out with a few of these said Welshmen and Greg wore the flag as a cape for a good part of the night.

The weekend from then on seems to be a bit of a blur. We met some rogue Americans and a fantastic pair of twins the second night, ended up in one of the busiest pubs I’ve ever been in, and they gave out FREE food. Yes, FREE. The woman serving the food was a tiny Asian-leprechaun mix. I can’t think of a happier moment in my life.
Now, you might think that all we did was get piss drunk and eat meatballs, but Greg and I actually took in a few attractions. (by a few, I mean one) The Guiness Storehouse. Yes, magic happens there. I paid 15 Euros to find out. All in all, a fantastic weekend for the Laforce duo. Only one missing was the young buck, Pierre. And all of you of course.
Alright, dinner time. I’m having Guiness. Stay cool kids.

Top ten things I learnt from watching Jurassic Park:

10) Never send the black dude out to reboot the power. He will most likely get eaten by a velociraptor.

9) The Jurassic Park theme song is appropriate for any social venue (funeral, Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies, my wedding).

8) Jurassic Park would have been the ideal place to host my “super sweet sixteen” party. Unfortunetly, I had to settle for the Pembroke Mall.

7) Chuck Norris does not stand a chance against a Raptor.

6) Vegetarians are inept at handling dinosaur attacks. (Please refer to the T-rex scene to understand what I’m talking about here)

5) Never trust fat people, they will hack your computer and steal your eggs.

4) When climbing a temporarily disarmed high voltage fence, the sooner you get off it, the better.

3) the T-rex in the final scene single-handedly compensates for his tiny arms and pea-sized brain.

2) Raptor-proofing your home is not silly at all. (Stainless steel kitchen, dead-bolts on doors, parallel bars (refer to Jurassic park II) )

1) ALWAYS HAVE A RAPTOR ESCAPE PLAN. When entering any building, always be prepared for the eventuality of a raptor attack. (ie. Bring along a friend you're willing to sacrifice to stave off their attack, if only temporarily, while you escape

For more info on raptor proofing your home, refer to the link below.

http://www.velociraptors.info/

Mardi Gras

I apologize for my lenghty absence, I temporarily forgot my password, and conveniently enough, my user name as well. slick move, I know. Clearly I am not ready for life (or life isn't ready for me?) But, I digress. I am back, some would say with a vengeance, some would say with the fierce determination of someone who started something and (4 months later) decided she should stick to it.
So, I was informed that Tuesday we don't have lecture because it is Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday. As the words "Mardi Gras" exited my friends mouth, I was reminded of a special friend in my childhood. His name was Mardi Gras and he was a deflated balloon me and my brother found on the beach in Florida. He was my pal for a while. As I told my friends this riviting tale (at least I thought it was) their reaction was laughter. and then.. "wait... seriously?" Yep. I think we've all had our share of imaginary friends, but it takes sheer genius to be capable of such anthropomorphism.
Being the atheist that I am, I am not very familiar with the concept of Fat Tuesday. Is it a day when fat people are treated like real people? (oh snap.) But turns out it is exactly as awesome as it sounds. Lots of food, and boobs. I think I will quite like this holiday.
after this lame blog on imaginary friends, i think we can all use a pint of vodka. And on that, I leave you with this wonderful graph to ponder. We all have problems, but the bitch ain't one.

see you in 4 months avid readers.

Brussels, the city of Kings.

After graduating from McGill with an incredibly ambiguous degree in international development, I stood at an important crossroad in my life. Enter the real world, or keep living the dream. I'm a dreamer my friends. And this dream brought me to the heart of the European Union, Brussels. Why? Why the fuck not? Capital of chocolate, french fries, waffles, and finally, world capital of beer, Brussels provides a very adequate niche for a former McGill wild child such as myself. Since my arrival, I have found that Belgians are very welcoming, and have a curious attraction to french Canadians. Our quirky accent is a source of constant amazement to these people. Several times a day, people will ask me to say something in Quebecois, and I have to politely explain that Quebecois is french. Butchered french granted but french nonetheless. Of course I say this with my Quebec accent, and they giggle. I live to entertain, but it's never been this easy. The other day I asked for a fanta and the lady gave me a bottle of water. We speak the same language, I don't get it.
So here I am in Brussels, doing a Masters program in International Cooperation while enjoying the european lifestyle. I have to admit, it did not take much time at all to adapt. I, much like my european counterparts, enjoy casual nudity, drinking cheap beer and closing the bar at 6am.
Vive la Belgique.
I'm in trouble because I'm normal and slightly arrogant. A lot of people don't like themselves and I happen to be totally in love with myself.
~Mike Tyson

first step: admit defeat

Half the battle is accepting that realistically no one will be reading my blog. Why do I have such a cynical outlook on my skills as a "blogger"? Most likely because I just finished watching a documentary on invertebrates. I concede that while they do maintain some interesting physical traits that I strive for (lack of spine, ability to fit into narrow places) , invertebrates are about as interesting as carpentry. But I digress. This blog is in no way for you dear reader, but for me. Kinda like when Jesus wrote the bible, right? exactly...
So this blog is in many ways comparable to the bible. You should MAKE your children read it and push it onto others as well.
For those of you who are blessed to know me, you will know that I go out of my way to have a good time. I like to think that bad decisions make good stories. So if this blog does not entertain you, it should, at the very least, teach you valuable lessons in living (ie: absinthe is not an appropriate pre-drink liquor).