Tales From Home Pt. 4: GYBin' It Up

As I begin to prepare for short vacation back to the U.S., I’m continually stricken with fond memories of my earlier life in Pennsylvania. Of course, these reminiscences not only provide excellent material for my online ramblings, but they also save me the trouble of coming up with a new and original topic. It is with this in mind, that I will be devoting this entry to a tale of such world renown, that it may come of somewhat of a shock, that I waited this long to share it formally. To begin, many of you who know me or my small circle of friends from high school will no doubt remember hearing the word “G.Y.B.” used by any one of us at one time or another. While most of you know that the term is used in a pejorative sense, only a select few (by “select” I mean anyone who asks) know the true meaning behind the expression. Therefore, I feel that it is my duty to formally reveal the story behind the term, as well as clear up any possible misinterpretations that may have resulted as a result of the coy attitude my friends and I have shown to those desiring the truth concerning “G.Y.B.” It is under these pretenses that I proudly present to you the true story.

It was a warm spring night. My friends, Jesse (see Tales From Home Pt. 2), Dan and I were prepared to enjoy one another’s company through the usual medium of video games. It was at the moment of greatest anticipation for the night before us, that the familiar sound of the door opening caught our attention. Our curiosity over who it could be was immediately replaced by disappointment when a deep resonant grunt entered our ears. The grunt, a calling card of our mutual acquaintance Scott, alerted us to the fact that the evening would be far from enjoyable. Scott, who was someone we had known since grammar school, had a penchant for discovering our plans and then showing up to our homes uninvited. His spontaneous appearances were notorious. Each of us has a tale of waking up, arriving home following a trip, or getting out of the shower only to find Scott patiently waiting for us in our living room, oblivious to the social faux pas he was committing. While this would not have been as bad if Scott had been a friend of ours, the simple truth was that a number of us had begun to hate him, and the best of us strongly disliked him. Despite this, our concern for his feelings (he did mean well) kept us from overtly displaying our disdain for him. After exchanging the complimentary greetings, Scott serenaded us with a few more grunts and then settled down to tell us about his “DMX” CD, deer hunting, beer, or some other meaningless thing his feeble mind dared to share with us. Jesse, whose world famous politeness had caused him to bear the brunt of Scott’s friendship, finally decided he had had enough, and chose to go to sleep in my bedroom upstairs. Dan and I, who were enjoying making fun of Scott (albeit still subtly), decided to stick around, and play video games with him. What follows next, would set the stage for many future tales, and change my life and vocabulary for ever.

The video game we chose was one in which you drive a car with a lot of guns, and go around trying to shoot other cars (also with guns.) While the genius and ingenuity of this game can be without question, we were finding it hard to concentrate due to Scott’s strategy of driving his car. His tactic of not fighting us and driving around in circles coupled his frequently loud guffaws, further antagonized us, and finally out of pure frustration we quit the game. Basking in his lameness, he continually talked about the game for the next hour and half. We just tried to ignore him, and prayed for the moment he would get tired and leave the house. Finally as if exhausted by the fact that he had used so much brain power to form sentences, he collapsed in a heap of backne and sweat.

It took us a few minutes to discover the miracle, but after a couple moments of quiet, we silently rejoiced over the fact and begin to throw things at his sleeping body. The joy we gained through the (we thought) humiliation of Scott grew old, and Dan and I decided to watch a movie. Throughout the movie we continued to insult Scott while desperately trying to hear the dialogue over his increasingly loud snoring. In a fit of despondency, I began to look over at Scott hoping my glares of disdain would quiet him. It was during one of those looks that I caught sight of one of the most disturbing images ever to grace my young eyes. Scott was fast asleep, but his hand was firmly gripping the hardened object which needs no further elaboration. Despite its disquieting nature, I immediately showed Dan what I saw. Dan took a look, and despite the fact that he was unhappy about the image he was forced to behold, he also saw the humorous potential of the situation. We immediately started discussing what we could do to Scott to capitalize on such a golden opportunity. Eventually, our brilliant minds settled on a plan of pouring warm water on his crotch in the hope that he would think he peed himself. We immediately set our plan in action and filled up a glass with warm water. I discovered my own thirst after seeing the water, so I filled a second glass for myself, this one with ice. We then made our way back to Scott and poured the water on his crotch. Our joy was compounded when Scott, far from disliking the water we poured on him, actually gripped himself harder! Laughing, we decided to get a second glass. For some reason, Dan filled this one with water hot enough to produce steam. As Dan crept up towards Scott’s crotch, I stood by the light switch prepared to quickly shut off the lights if anything went wrong. Dan attempted to pour a little bit of water, but his haste caused him to accidentally pour the entire glass on his crotch. Seeing the mistake I immediately shut off the light.

The darkness could not hide our laughter. My convulsions caused the ice in my glass to jingle, and I desperately tried to stifle my emotion. Scott, immediately sensing the drastic temperature change in his pubic area, began to waken. Feeling the moisture and immediately realizing it to not be urine, his initial confusion turned to anger. Yelling some empty threats of murder, we immediately burst into laughter and ran away. Running up to my bedroom, we woke Jesse up to tell him what we had seen and what we had done. Jesse, whose own tiredness kept him from realizing the true brilliance of what happened, chuckled before going back to sleep. Throughout the rest of the night we talked about all the things Scott could do. We decided to call him “G.Y.B”, or Grip Your Boner. Afterwards we came up with numerous stories, products he promoted (wet pipes and the health benefits of warm water on the crotch) as well as super human feats that “G.Y.B.” had accomplished (naturally with the gift God endowed him with, notably a wet crotch). We even made a goal to have someone call someone else a “G.Y.B.” on a nationally syndicated television show (a goal that has yet to be reached). It was at that point that we decided to never call Scott by his birth name again. We even created a false meaning of “G.Y.B.” in order to call him it to his face. The next morning we told him goodbye, and the beginning of a new era commenced.

In conclusion, the above story may seem to be of little importance; fortunately nothing could be further from the truth. While this story may be much funnier when told in person, its future repercussions can not be underestimated. “G.Y.B.” would be an important part of many future stories, and without this initial action, our hatred of Scott would have never come out in the open. The “G.Y.B.” story cleared the way for “Space Battles” one of the most ambitious and poorly made amateur movies ever. It set the stage for “E.O.G.”, “GYB-Poop”, and the supposed G.Y.B. kidnapping which involved the local police and almost got Dan and I beat up by a chain-smoking G.Y.B. Finally, I would just like to say that G.Y.B. is one of my fondest memories from my youth. “G.Y.B.” entered my vocabulary, and I still occasionally use it today. I implore you to use it as well! Together, we can utilize this acronym’s full potential, and keep the spirit of insulting the former Scott as strong today, as it was when it was nothing but a dream encapsulated in a steaming hot glass of water.

A Pariah's Paradise

It began before we were even conscious of it, the feelings of trepidation consuming our every waking moment. The discomfort only continued as we entered adolescence, the darkness entering every facet of our being, testing our sanity, and forcing us to withstand the black specter whose origins remained tantalizing beyond our comprehension. Luckily, the best of us were able to survive and grow into the seemingly normal individuals you see today; unfortunately the rest succumbed to the all encompassing power of the unseen force. By now, you must be already acutely aware of what I’m discussing, but at the risk of losing your interest, I’d like to share a story concerning my own awakening to the origin of the disease that plagues humanity and darkens even the purist of hearts.

It all began in my first year of high school; I had successfully subdued my own knowledge of the aforementioned virus, and had chosen the typical altruistic life of all post-pubescent boys. My daily routine was full of attempts (almost always unsuccessful) to help other high school girls who so sorely needed the attention that only I could offer. It was during one of these outings, that I first encountered the sum of all my fears. I had just been rebuffed by one particularly ungrateful girl, and in a funk, I decided to seek solitude in the dark corners of the school. As I approached my potential sanctuary, I heard words in a language that was unfamiliar to me. I stealthily approached where they were sitting and was surprised to see a group of students that had been commonly ridiculed by many of the upper classman. I decided to ascertain the nature of their social exclusion. In one corner of the room two men were attacking each other with what appeared to be a bow staff and a kitana sword. Another group of students (the ones speaking the strange language) were huddled over brightly illustrated comics, some were watching movies, and finally a few were listening to some of the worst music to ever touch my virgin ears. The horrible spectacle I witnessed, finally confirmed the sad truth that haunts us all. There is a culture of Japanophilia, and I had just experienced one of their black masses.

It was at that moment that I became one of the enlightened. Finally free of the blinders, I naively attempted to save those who had fallen victim to such a curse. I first attempted to contact their friends. After learning that Japanophiles rarely have friends, I decided to alert their families. Unfortunately, their families saw the activities to be nothing more than harmless hobbies. My rejection forced me to begin to share my revelation so that others could excuse themselves from the horrible spectacle that I had been forced to witness. I began to approach complete strangers, and tell them what I had seen. I warned everyone to hide their children and lock their doors, at risk of hearing a ridiculous story about the beauty inherent in “manga” comics, or that Japanese food was nothing short of orgasmic. Unfortunately, as with all who accept myth, no amount of reason could sway them from their pre-conceived notion concerning the ordinariness of such tediously frivolous creatures. I comforted myself with the fact that those lost souls remained on the fringe of society, and therefore they would have to remain in hiding. I took pride in the fact that their lame interests and even worse personalities would never be able to appear in public, due to the risk of facing a public scrutiny that would almost definitely ruin their already low self-esteem. It was at the zenith of this optimism that I made the fateful decision to move to Japan.

I left for Japan full of hope. Japanophilia was on the rise, and my oft-repeated lamentations continually fell on deaf ears. My decision to leave the United States was based on the assumption that if I went to Japan, I would see the Japanese view of their culture and be spared the insufferable torture that accompanies western views of Japanese society. While many Japanese allotted their particular cultural aspects to the back burner of their psyche in search of more constructive pursuits, I found one group residents with far more sinister intentions. It was in Japan that I found the very same exiles expressing their morbid interests in the open, and in greater numbers. Unable to understand how a seemingly reasonable nation could allow these people to commit their sins in the open, I decided to investigate. As a result, I uncovered an even more disturbing truth. Japanese people actually like these examples of concentrated embarrassment! Those who had been so reviled into their homelands, were now treated as divine due nothing more than a passing resemblance to those who appear in the movies or on TV. Naturally these exiles were fully aware of their celebrated status, and as a result they have convinced themselves that they are sexually desirable (by dating native girls who think they have money) and cool (by having other ex-pat friends who only hang out with them due to the natural comradely that comes from living in a foreign land, regardless of personality). These delusions cause many to live in Japan for the rest of their lives. Polluting the countryside with their stale personalities, they continue to destroy the relatively normal aspects of a majority of westerners, while at the same time convincing the Japanese population that their narrow interests are common to all from the west.

It is with this in mind that I write in the twilight of my independence. I can feel my rational mind being subdued by the comfort and monotony of Japanese life. I continually catch myself wondering what another year would be like, and how it might be fun to know Japanese. Therefore, I would like to make one final impassioned call for those of you who are beginning to forget that Japanese culture is neither amazing nor special. First, Manga and Anime aren’t that great. The animation was creative when it was new, but now it’s just tired and redundant. Also, I have a hard time believing the claim that the stories are brilliant modern tales full of depth. In my opinion, if they can be read in a span of thirty minutes at a convenience store, or viewed and understood by you and your minimal comprehension of the Japanese language, they aren't that good. Also, please stop going to martial arts classes. Isn’t their something pathetically cliché about taking martial arts courses in Asia? Don’t say it for self defense, because Japan is one of the safest countries on earth, and don’t say it’s for exercise, when it would be easier to just run. Simply put, you are a goofball for taking these classes, and you should be pummeled with the black belt that your Japanese instructor will inevitably confer on you based more on novelty than skill. Finally Japanese food is not that good. You are fooling yourself. Most of us did not grow up with this kind of stuff, and at best most of it is just “edible.” I often hear someone gush over a cold piece of fish, or rice wrapped in seaweed. What!?! It may be good and you may like it, but I refuse to believe that it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. Next time you are about to praise the exceptional quality of mundane Japanese dishes, just ask yourself one question. What would you do if you saw a foreigner ranting and raving about the absolute bliss encapsulated in a cold turkey sandwich?

Finally, I must urge everyone to make haste in leaving Japan. The Japanaphiliacs have a strong grip over the country, and unfortunately those who see Japan as anything less than the culmination of perfection will continually find themselves questioned. It is this truth that reveals the utter despair Japan has fallen into. The very same people who were shunned in their native lands now have the power to ignore people who only want to talk about something other than “The Ring.” Meanwhile Japanese people view westerners as kind, but confused people who only want to learn Japanese in order to read their serial comics. In conclusion I bemoan the fate of a country with such a rich and diverse history being taken over by people who feel debate is required when considering the merits of the kitana sword as opposed to the nun-chuck. I can only hope that someday this evil force will be defeated. Perhaps with a bo staff...