Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Kumamoto mid-year seminar survival guide

Whoohoo. Seminar/orientation/deally-do number 4003 in Kumamoto City next week. Maybe they'll teach us something we didn't learn from the first 4? You think? Maybe? Perhaps. Oh well.

At least you'll get a chance to use some of Yats' patent meeting survival techniques... since we have so many a month, we've become accustomed to the kind of mind-numbing boredom that makes you want to sear your own genitals to the point of gimpdom so that your potential offspring will never suffer such wellsprings of egomaniacal, poorly-planned, incessently self-indulgent pain. Want to learn how to get through it without ripping out an eye and throwing it at the speaker? Read on.


Nothing disrupts an otherwise fine afternoon of playing a game of "hey, that girl from Kitakushi got fat!" like some pesky "meeting" or whatnot. Yes, we know that you're a second year. Yes, we know that you're from some place that sucks. Yes, we know that you moved to Japan because you look like a chronic wife-beater and had no chance to even smell a woman anywhere else besides Tunisia. We're trying to malign people here!

So how do you get such affairs back on track? Air horn. That'll teach 'em to... um... teach.


You hate your coworkers, right? Good. Any group of people who band together to endless ramble about anything simply because they lied there way through an interview and want to "feel at home" should be treated with the same kind of warmth and joviality that one usually reserves for gonorrhea, Tom Delay, and stomache cancer.

(For those of you wondering, we here in Yatsushiro have adopted a blatant "social contract" attitude... if somebody knows about food, we have to tell each other about it. If there's a party, we have to tell each other about it. Otherwise it's every half-functional ALT for themselves.)

So when you're looking at some guy you know vaguely from some bad, ill-advised drinking trip a few months ago and think "man, if this doesn't end soon, I'll never have a chance to go to the bathroom, listen to my ipod, and cry myself dry before the next meeting," here's what you do:

Ask a long, annoying question in the silliest voice possible. As the crowd begins to roll their eyes, that's when you fake a stroke or seizure. There's the added chance that you'll traumatize the speaker as well, and perhaps even have a shot at taking his or her position after they relocate back home for years of intensive therapy. Banzai!


Chewbacca was THE MAN. Nobody said a thing to him. If Chewbacca said he was going to go to your house and set it on fire just to pee on the ashes, you would feel compelled to go halfsies on gas and give him a nice big bottle of gator-aide to give him a hand with his mighty Wookie light saber flow.

And don't do this just during the meetings... try it throughout the whole fucking thing. Extra points for utilizing nary a word of real language.


Hey folks, team teaching, team smeeching. During one of those suffering-filled lunch time periods where you've lost the will to live and your hangover pounds so heartily that you would kill your mother to be rid of it, feel free to throw an offender into a rear naked choke. Squeeze until you smell shit, then stop. 'Cuz that means they're going to die if it leaks out.

Because after all, "hospitalization" is a part of "internationalization."


You'll have a much easier time during the "pop culture" conference when you're riding the white horse. Strap up buddy, there might be a god-awful converstion about anime coming up. Nana whu... Mika Nakaji---zzzzzzzz.....

Note: for extra fun, shoot up during the middle of a workshop. Extra points go to adjusting the belt around your arm in the line-up for check-in.


Say that you're actually FEELING the conference and want to be involved. What better way to show that you've "caught the fever" than by doing "the wave" with the only other person who's exhibiting any degree of interest at all? Just make sure you're not sitting close to each other so that extra spatial-based hilarity ensues...

Think Major League.


Makin' moves, son!


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