The metro in Mexico City is one of my favorite parts of the city, especially for the people constantly trying to hawk their wares and sell gum and sing songs and get money any way they can.
These girls kill it and the one in the orange shirt tops it off with a crazy shuffle dance during the chorus. Note the station Zapata in the background which means they’re on the línea verde — the line that goes to UNAM where I studied in 2006!
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Hi,
My name is Barry. I’m Mark’s roommate. I’m really horny right now. I don’t know what to do, because the only person home right now is Mark, and I’m afraid I might go in the living room and try to kiss him. You see, Mark doesn’t know this, but sometimes I feel very attracted to him. I see him doing pushups in the living room and I see the way his triceps bulge and it just sort of makes me feel tingly inside. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.
Sometimes Mark asks what I do in my room on my computer all day. When he walks in to say “Hi” or ask if I want to go grab a beer, I make sure I have something on my computer that looks like graphic design. I have a cool logo that I designed earlier or something handy so that he thinks I’ve been working hard on stuff that he might consider cool. What he doesn’t know is that as soon as I hear his footsteps approaching I minimize the video on YouTube of Justin Bieber that I’m watching just as he walks in the room. I also always make sure to wear headphones and I always whistle and never sing just so he can’t tell what song I’m listening to.
The hardest part is when I have girls over. I feel like I have to have girls over just so Mark will think I’m normal. We close the door to my room so he probably thinks we’re getting naked or something or ripping each others’ clothes off but more often than not I’m just sobbing into her shoulder and drying my eyes off with her sweater. I always tell the girl what’s going on before hand so she doesn’t get any ideas but one time I forgot and went to put on a Justin Bieber video and when I turned around she was lying naked on the bed. I said, “What are you doing?!” She said, “What? You don’t like it? I thought you liked me?” and then I had to spend 10 or so minutes apologizing to her and telling her she was really attractive but that I had just gotten out of a really difficult relationship and wanted to take it slow. I asked her if she wanted to watch some Justin Bieber videos and she said “OK” and we ended up having a really good talk, mostly about how big of jerks guys can be and wondering what Mark was up to in the other room. I wanted to spy on him and see if we could catch him doing pushups but she said we should probably just watch another YouTube video and go to bed.
Anyway, I’m in my room right now typing this post, and Mark is in the other room watching a hockey game. He’s such a raw man. He makes Justin Bieber look like such a fag.
–The Roomie
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I love spring. Typically, it means that Mark will get inspired to rearrange the drawers, and I will move from neighboring undershirts to socks or something like that. Renew, refresh, rearrange: great stuff. But there is a less tasteful side of spring. In spring, girls spend more time outside, and Mark follows them. And I accompany him.
Mark used to just follow pretty girls around on the street, but he has grown more aggressive. Now he PURSUES them. He tries to attract them. And because girls love a guy who does things, Mark now is a biker. He bicycles here and there, to school, to the store, and along routes with clever nicknames.
To be a biker, one must look a biker. That is what brought me, a sleek pair of bike shorts, into the picture. I am a bit too small for Mark, but he likes that because I reveal more of his thighs.
Mark’s thighs are unique. There is a lot of hair on the interior of the thighs, but for some reason, none on the exterior. I can only conclude that this is a result of Mark spending way too much time in the bathroom.
Today was our first outing of the season together.
He opened the drawer with a look upon his face that said, “I got you baby. Checkmate.”
Mark commenced his ritual of donning me: first rolling me between his fingers, then stretching me, and finally pairing me with a complimentary pair of short socks with a goofy bike logo on them. Mount up.
“It’s warm today,” I realized. That means sweat. Mark sweat. The perspiration of Mark is unique and for most intangible. To explain it to those unfamiliar with Mark, is like trying to explain the large hadron collider to the lay. I will not embark on this here. Beneath my synthetic chassis, the anatomy of Mark goes through several biological processes not seen elsewhere in the natural world. The most similar occurence took place when a raccoon slowly decayed inside of an old refrigerator in Atlanta.
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Condoleezza Rice, the linguist. Condoleezza Rice, the seductress. Condoleezza Rice, the purveyor of fine Moroccan goods.
That would be my store: “Mark and Mark’s, purveyors of fine Moroccan goods.” We would sell nothing Moroccan in the shop. We would specialize in Grade B Canadian Maple syrup and sarongs imported from Bangladesh. When people asked who the other Mark was I’d say, I’m the other Mark. I am both Mark’s. Where’s the other ______ ?” (insert name of the person I was talking to. When they asked where the Moroccan goods were I’d chuckle ruefully and sigh. “We’re fresh out.”
I would always keep a fresh box of Moroccan gunpowder green tea next to the counter and I would drink tea loaded with sweet-smelling mint leaves and sugar and when people approached the counter asking if they could buy a box of the tea I’d say, “Sorry, this is my personal stash. We should be getting some in next week, though.”
I would demand diligence of my customers and also an knack for knowing when I would be open. There would no posted hours and I would close without warning. Sometimes I would be open from 2-4 in the afternoon on Sunday and sometimes I would close the shop for weeks on end with only a sign on the door that said, “Out for a bite to eat. Be back in 10” with a clock showing what time I had left. The customers would not complain because complaining would only serve to have them barred from the store. They would learn to be subservient. Subservient in their pursuit of non-existent Moroccan goods.
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Thursday Night at the Wetzler Residence from Tex Avery on Vimeo.
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–Wikipedia
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