Tag Archives: asian fetish

Mr. Geisha Fantasy

Even after all this time, the most popular post on my blog is still Mr. Asian Fetish.  Apparently, and perhaps for good reason, this is a hot button topic on the interwebs.  Frankly, I have been reluctant to write about it again because I don’t want to give the impression that being Asian or being fetishized is the sole or primary component of my identity.

However, sometimes I think that parisian men can’t seem to think otherwise.

I recently encountered somebody whose exotification of my slanty-eyes got me so riled that he left me no choice but to revisit the topic of the Asian fetish.

To sum up my previous post on it:

  1. I don’t think of it as a fetish.  I think of it as a personal preference that may sometimes manifest itself as broader stereotyping.
  2. I don’t mind if I’m your physical type for whatever reason, but come on, fool, don’t be an asstard about it.
  3. Parisian men are usually asstards about it.

After being waylaid by Mr. Geisha Fantasy on my way out of a cafe the other day  I still stand by all three points.  I cite the following excerpts from our conversation.

He commented on my accent:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You speak French with a Japanese accent.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Kill me now.”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “I’m American.  That’s like saying you speak English with a white person accent.”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “No.  You do.  I am telling you.  I know what I’m talking about.  I lived in Japan.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “I hate my life sometimes.”

He has, I suspect, absolutely no idea what he is talking about:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “I like to work out too.  I lived in Japan, you know.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “What the hell is going on here??”

He clearly has some thrilling insights about pan-Asian uniformity:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You Asians are all kind of the same, aren’t you?”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “@$#%^~*!!”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “Yes.  Of course.  You’re right.  We are all the same.  You can switch me out with any other Asian.  We’d be having this same conversation.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “He MUST understand sarcasm, right??”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean!”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Oooor… not.

He likes an Asian in red:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You obviously like brightly colored dresses.  You should wear bright red lipstick.  I know lots of Japanese women who wear red lipstick.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Seriously?  SERIOUSLY??”

What a charmer.

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Mr. Comment King

My last post was about some assclownery in that strange section of the blog where readers leave comments.  But this time, I’d like to honor a commenter who disagreed with an asstard commenter who makes Mr. Comment Courtship seem like a silver-tongued comment god.

It all started with my post about the asian fetish, which led to the following unbearably long rant (reproduced in its original form, including atrocious spelling and grammar, questionable punctuation and lamentable LOLing):

OK, The INCREDIBLE hypocrisy from you

is abslutely sutnning:

1. Non-Asian girls can have a thing for Asian guys — that’s just “cute.” But when a white guy has a thing for an asian girl, it’s some sort of weird “fetish??” LOL. You are either really stupid, or just messed up because wow — that’s creepy that you feel you have the power to dehumanize all white men in the world when they might have interest in asia, but, when a non-asian girl has a thing for asian guys… AWWWWW, that’s just so CUTE!!! LOL. That’s fucked up.

2. So…..You can treat men like we are a fucking product on a shelf and it’s OK? LOL, you creep. Not so. I am not a product that you dehumanize and make into your prey. Do you not think that I will fe

el just as creeped out by the name of your blog (you are so creepy! LOL) when you treat me like a product? Wow you’re dense!!! Since when do I want to be your fucking creepy Occidental product that you go out “shopping” for you creepy hypocrite?! LOL.. but here’s the best part: You’re so fucking stupid, you even named your blog “manshopping?”

OH. But….wait for it. Here is the absolute greatest: and then you are lecturing me….. _ME_ …… about having simple interest in Asian women?

LMAO. Are you really that dense?

I think I need to throw up…

3. And here’s the most disgusting thing abou

t Asian women like you who run around and lecture white men (or any one non-asian) about dating asian women. YOU ARE NOT EVEN VERY ATTRACTIVE!! LOL. What you need to do is this: before you go to bed tonight go take a couple I-am-not-AT-ALL-as-hot-as-I-think-I-am pills, get a good night’s sleep, wake up tomorrow, and maybe you will be able to move beyond this absolutely offensive and creepy objectification of white men. I get so tired of non-attractive asian women demanding that I NOT have a fetish for you. Here’s a little tip — I am not attracted to unattractive women.

4. Which leads me to my next point: YOU HAVE A WHITE FETISH. It’s so amazingly clear. But what is that? OHHHHHH. It’s OK for you to have have a fucked up weird creepy feti

sh for ME that you actually (I still can’t believe how fucked up this is) have a blog named “Man-shopping” … and then-LOL- you turn around and lecture — no, you patronize and condescend me, ASSUMING that you a

re attractive at all to me — with your tirade about all these non-asian guys that probably just have interest in asian things.

5. In the end, we ALL know the truth. The ones with the biggest asian fetish are ASIANS!! YOU are all in love with yourselves, cuz guess what miss average-looking. I AINT GOT ANY FETISH FOR YOU; I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH YOU; AND I NEVER WILL BE. What is so fucking hilarious, is that you asians are so obsessed with yourselves, that you inscribe that fetish on to ME.

UM…. NO. Sorry, you wierd, creepy asian wo

man.

I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH, NOR DO I HAVE ANY FETISH FOR YOU. And yes — I have lived in Asia, and dated lots of great asian women. Guess what: I would NEVER be attracted to you, nor would I ever date you.

Hey, so that’s great huh? You don’t have to worry about me having a fetish for you, huh you weirdo?

And to close, um, sorry, no. I was not recently dumped by an asian woman. I am a very successful advertising exec and (Im sure this will come as a surprise too) I do not date only asian women. I date women who I am attracted to, and sometimes they are asian.

You asians do us all a favor and work on dismantling that creepy self-fetish you have that you then inscribe on the rest of the world.

The only fetish out there for asians is, unfortunately, the fetish you have for yourselves.

And sorry, but that is incredibly creepy.

This guy, who referred to himself as “Reality-Check” (this hyphen placement makes my eyes bleed), is clearly among today’s intellectual elite.

Ha.

Ha.

I didn’t address his accusations head-on, as I don’t often humor borderline illiterate people.  (I say illiterate not only because his writing is painfully inarticulate, but also because he doesn’t seem to possess even the most rudimentary reading comprehension skills; his response made it clear that he neither read and nor understood any of my original blog post.)

But then RManni01 chimed in:

I am in the ad biz also and suggest that the “man shopping” handle is meant to be clever and provocative. It is not a put down or positioning dudes like products. It is F-U-N. Remember that?

Yay!  He gets it!

Does he stop there?  No.

And, face it, a lot of guys have a thing for Asian women. And why not? Having dated lovely ladies of all race, creeds, and colors, I have found wonderful characteristics in most of these women (otherwise why bother?) regardless of where they are from, etc.. And, having paid attention (important, guys), it seems that the vast majority of the Asian women I know–at least in the circles I run in–are elegant, intelligent, have beautiful skin, are great family people, faithful, trustworthy, strong-minded, knowledgable about what to eat and what not to eat, great cooks, fun-loving, clean, feminine, in great shape, crazy and unpredictable in a wonderful way, and sexy as hell. Yeah, I guess there is something wrong with me.

Granted, under normal circumstances, I’d be wary of generalizations about my fellow yellows, but there is a marked difference in this particular case.

He’s not saying that these women possess these qualities due to their Asian-ness, per se, but he is saying that the Asian women of his acquaintance just happen to possess these qualities.  It is a nuance that changes the whole game, guys, so take note.

And even if RManni01 didn’t actually mean to make this distinction, I will excuse his presumption anyway.

Why?

Because I am all those things that he listed.

I ROCK.

And you are darn tootin’ right, I am sexy as hell.

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Mr. Normal

Bueller?…  Bueller?… Bueller?

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Ms. Drunk at a Club

Regular readers may recall previous posts about manifestations of a disease that I like to call Brain vs. Mouth.  This post is about its sister disease, which is essentially a three-way bitch-fight between Drunk Brain, Sober Brain and Mouth.

Before I continue, let me reiterate that all three parties employ a particular brand of logic that is perfectly sound in and of itself.  It’s just that each brand of logic is incomprehensible to the other parties and to most rational human beings.

  1. Drunk Brain is… well… Drunk Brain is just drunk.
  2. Sober Brain is the closest that I can get to conventional wisdom.
  3. Mouth just does whatever the hell it wants.  Picture all possible actions — ranging from the reasonable to the bat-shit mad — on a big spinning wheel.  Mouth spins the wheel and does whatever the hand lands on.

So, keeping these facts in mind, let me take you back to a crisp fall November night, where this story begins with a couple bottles of wine and a bag of pretzels…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Friday night, and it was meant to be a classic girls’ night out.  My last man-shopping bender resulted in the loss of my pants, but that wasn’t on the agenda this time.  All we wanted to do was have some wine together, get a little silly and dance it out to crappy French music somewhere that didn’t charge us an entry fee.

My companions for the evening were two lovely ladies, hereafter known as Ms. Hair and Ms. Holland, the former having consistently fantastic hair and the latter being the embodiment of all things awesome about being Dutch.

Ms. Hair was the star of the evening and managed to have a sizable following of eager young bucks who waited on her hand and foot and who provided us, her swashbuckling companions, with constant refills of Grey Goose.

I was perfectly fine with this arrangement, as the vodka was seeping into my brain.

It was after an undetermined number of these free drinks that I encountered a young man who looked like a French Shia Laboeuf.  This was also about the time that Drunk Brain joined the party.

My conversation with Shia LaBoeuf went something like this (I must warn you, this is a rough reconstruction, as I was pretty much drunk off my face at this point):

Shia : Hi, what’s your name?

Drunk Brain : HAHAHAHAHAHA He looks like Shia Laboeuf!  Shia Laboeuf sounds like Shia LaBUTT.  HAHAHAHAHA.

Sober Brain : Shut up, Drunk Brain.  Let the girl work.  This guy isn’t a total train wreck, and she deserves to have some fun tonight.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : My name is Helene.  And your name is Shia.

Shia : What?

Drunk Brain : TEEHEEHEHEHE Man-shopper is sooooo smooth.

Sober Brain : Oh god.  I can’t watch.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : I’m American!

Shia : No you’re not, you’re Asian.

Drunk Brain : Touché!

Sober Brain : Next!  Next!  For the love of god, Man-shopper, NEXT!  You’ve met moss that is smarter than this guy…

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Why, yes I am.  What do you think of Asians, sir?

Shia : I love Asians.  They are so… Asian.

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… I’m not sure, but why do I get this feeling that Shia is a little thick?  Oooo wait a minute, what do we have here?  Bouncy seat cushions!  Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy bounce bounce, I’m Tigger!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : ME TOO!  I LOVE ASIANS!

Shia : I know right!  Asians are so beautiful.  So exotic.

Drunk Brain : Okay, I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid.  I’m definitely getting a vibe of douche-toolery here, but how do we make him shut his stupid mouth??  Sober Brain, help a sister out here!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Ummmmmm….

Shia : Blah blah blah blah Asian blah blah blah love blah blah blah you are beautiful blah blah blah what’s your number blah

Drunk Brain : I’ve got a brilliant idea!  He can’t say anything stupid if he can’t talk!  Just make out with him to shut him up!  Come on, Mouth, you and I both know that I have the best ideas.

Sober Brain : What the hell?  I step out for a coffee break and shit hits the fan…  Stop!  Wait!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

Man-shopper’s Mouth : < censored >

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… Sober Brain, were you saying something?  Oh, maybe you’re right, kissing this guy is not the greatest idea.  Poor guy.  He has no idea that he’s not getting a phone number out of this.

Sober Brain : Thank god, you’re listening.  Now, Mouth, repeat after me: “I’ve changed my mind.  I’m drunk, and I’m actually not interested.  Please leave me alone.  Also, my boyfriend is in the military and he will wipe the floor with you.”

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Oh, my roommate wants to go home.  Right now.  We communicate telepathically.  Bye!

Shia : WTF?

Drunk Brain : Nicely done, Mouth.  You are a genius.  He TOTALLY bought that.  You and I make such a great team.

Sober Brain : I don’t know why I even bother.

Of course, after implementing that brilliant exit strategy, I proceeded to stay at the club, wander around and dance indiscriminately to every horrible song that the DJ put on.  At some point, I’m pretty sure that I broke out my running man moves.  Maybe a little robot action.  I really don’t know.  It was kind of a shitshow.

At some point, I ran into Shia again.

And I vaguely remember saying, “NEXT!” and running away.

The next morning, after a 5am sandwich, a liter of orange juice, about three buckets of ibuprofen, and one of the most epic hangovers of my life, I vowed never to drink again…

… It was a vow that I broke shortly thereafter.

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Ms. Top Five

A couple of weeks ago, the illustrious and infamous Fishy of Plenty More Fish Out of Water published a brilliant little piece about the top five things that he looks out for on his first dates.  It was positively inspiring.

So in honor of Fishy’s work, I’ve decided to compile my own list.

After almost five months of countless first dates and one second date, I’m finally able to pinpoint five major issues that I look out for on a parisian first date…

(1)  Are my arms bigger than his legs?

Another variation of this question is: Can I bench-press him?

It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that this was ever an issue.

I don’t know what it is about the life here that it makes the men so… slight.  Could it be the diet?  Could it be that the women here are so tyrannically bitchy that they literally reduce their men into tiny little slivers of manhood leftovers?

I have no idea.

All I do know is that this size differential is unacceptable.

I simply can’t date someone who looks like an anorexic baby giraffe.  Case in point: Mr. Pretty Woman, whose upper arms were the size of my wrist.

(2)  Is he tall enough to go on the adult rides at Disneyland?

At a whopping 5’3″, I’ve never had a problem finding a guy who is taller than me.

But it’s shocking how difficult this is in Paris.

Shameful.

Comical even.

I’ve discovered that no amount of first-date drunkenness is enough for me to find a munchkin attractive.

And while Mr. Almost There was the closest I’ve ever come to a decent first date, he was a victim of severe munchkinosis, which could be to blame for his insecurities and for the patronizing asstardedness that he displayed on our second date.

Yes, I went on two dates with him.  I had to prove to myself that height wasn’t a deal-breaker for me.

As it turns out, it is a dealbreaker.  At least in Paris, anyway.

Am I superficial and utterly without substance?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

(3)  Is his COCKtail actually a COOCHtail?

Just because “cocktail” has the word “cock” in it, by no means does that make it acceptable for a grown man to order one on a date.

For the same reason that a lady shouldn’t break out her big buckets of crazy all at once, a man shouldn’t sabotage his chances of seeing a lady’s naked woman-bits by ordering glow-in-the-dark girly drinks.

Obvious, right?

Not in Paris.

ALL my dates, including all my speed-dates, have ordered ridiculous frilly concoctions.  (There was even a drink whose glass was fitted with a tiny light fixture that changed the color of the drink every ten seconds.)  Mr. Love-You-Long-Time really blew it when he ordered his Hello Kitty coochtail and belittled my beer-drinking ways.

Asstard.

(4)  Is he capable of talking about something OTHER than my asian-ness?

Yes.  I’m Asian.

Of all people, I’m the last person who needs to be reminded of this fact.

I especially don’t want to be reminded by some pasty creep who doesn’t know his asian from his arse.

As I’ve discussed before, I have nothing against the Asian fetish.  It’s something that I can use to my advantage in today’s cutthroat dating marketplace.

But please.

I don’t want to be called a geisha (see Mr. Metro Casanova), and I don’t want to receive pictures of a guy and his dim sum (see “the deal-breaker“).

And guys, if you happen to have a penchant for the slanty-eyed ladies such as myself, don’t screw it up by saying the shite that some of my parisian idiot-dates have come up with.

(5)  Do I have the urge to either vomit or to run away screaming?

Mr. Icky almost made me vomit… in his mouth.

And I’ve run away from not one, but THREE dates.

By “run away,” I don’t mean that I made my polite excuses and parted ways amicably but quickly.

I literally ran away.

Mr. Cheshire Cat was the incarnation of all my most terrifying childhood nightmares, and I bolted after drinking only a quarter of my pint.  Mr. Ten Minute Wonder was the shortest date in my entire dating history (and no, it wasn’t a speed date!); I backed out so quickly that I lost a glove, which I’m still very upset about.  And Mr. Crazy had me sprinting through metro doors as they closed, at which point I got stuck and had to get pulled through by the other passengers.

As far as I’m concerned, as long as a guy doesn’t make my digestive system run in reverse, and as long as he doesn’t force me to run in heels, it’s a good start to our relationship.

************************

So as far as standards go, mine have plummeted since I started this dating experiment.

On a first date, I’ve stopped prioritizing substantive things like intelligence, wit, ambition, generosity, openness, etc.

Apparently, to get a pass on a first date with me, a parisian guy just needs to do two things:

  • Fill out a suit that comes from the men’s clothing department — not the boy’s section
  • NOT FUCK IT UP

According to my data, this is next to impossible.

Who would’ve thought?

So as I finalize my social calendar for this coming weekend, I fully anticipate coming home empty-handed yet again and falling asleep alone to choruses of…

… next, next, next, next, next…

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Ms. Unsatisfied Customer

So it’s been slow on the online dating front for the past couple of weeks.  Why, you ask?  The answer is simple.  The man-products been consistently of inferior quality.

Here are the kind of man-products that I’ve been turning down lately…

the young and the restless

I don’t date 20-year-olds when they spend more time on their hair than I do on mine.  It’s kind of      <— unacceptable.

I also don’t date 20-year-olds when they profess to weigh 55 kilos and look like a 12-year-old Pee —>     Wee Herman.

And I don’t date 20-year-olds who admit to loving banana cocktails (gag) and show off their bloody wedding ring in their profile pictures!

<— Seriously?  Moron.

And how the hell is HE married already??  He’s barely finished puberty.

In short, I don’t date 20-year-olds.

the crybabies

These guys were hot.  HOT, I tell you!

But damn, were they stupid.

It turns out that when I don’t check my email every 5 seconds and respond immediately, they turn into diva-crybaby extraordinaires.

Let’s take a look at Exhibit A.  Brazilian guy with gorgeous green eyes BUT…

sent at 10:37:23

sent at 10:37:57

sent at 10:38:05

Manly, no?

If you thought that was bad, I was having vivid fantasies about this Colombian casanova until THIS happened…  Hello, Exhibit B:

sent at 14:05:55

sent at 14:33:02

(and for the record, if bad spelling in English isn’t bad enough, it’s even worse when their spelling in French makes me cringe.  It’s “bisous,” dammit.  Spell it correctly, fool!)

the deal-breaker

I saved him for last because he is the reason why I’ve decided to set aside online dating for a few days.

This picture to the right was accompanied by a message that said, “I just wanted to show you my large appetite for Asian food.  Imagine what that means for you.”

Yeah.

That’s not creepy at all.

in conclusion…

Therefore, there is a temporary moratorium on man-products from adopteunmec.com.  Maybe next week will bring in a new shipment of more eligible men.

Emphasis on the “men” bit.

Well, I do have two appointments at the Apple Store coming up, which means that I can’t wait to go prowling for a boyfriend there!

So… NEXT!

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Mr. Crazy

I went on a date with Mr. Crazy a couple of weeks ago, and it did not go well.  He actually contributed some of the lines from my post about Mr. Asian Fetish.  He also tried to follow me home despite my protests, and I had to flee in heels and squeeze through closing metro doors in order to get away from him.

So, obviously, not a good date.

I shot off a quick email when I got home, saying what roughly translates into:  “We both know that we aren’t compatible and that this isn’t going to work out, so I wish you the best of luck with your future endeavors.”

I thought that the matter was closed and that I would never hear from him again.

Wrong.

His text ten minutes later seemed to imply that he had either ignored my previous message or had not received it:

“I am so happy to have finally met you.  I think that you’re super cute and really cool.”

I double-checked my sent mail.

Yup.  Sent.  So what was the deal?  Just in case, I sent my shut-down email again via text.

Mr. Crazy just refused to get the point.  Here are all the messages that he sent me afterward, in the order that I received them:

  • “Just wanted to say hey.  I hope that you are doing well and that you slept well last night ;)”  (The winky face made the whole message seem a little creepy…)
  • “You’re no longer speaking to me?  I didn’t please you, is that it?”  (I replied, “No.  You did not please me.  Leave me alone.”)
  • “I hope that you had a good weekend.  How are you?”  (At this point, I was beginning to think that this guy may be mentally unhinged.)
  • “Hello, how are you doing?  Why are you not talking to your boyfriend anymore?”  (Boyfriend?!  Oh god, Houston, we have a big-ass problem.)
  • “You have totally disappeared.”  (This was sent two minutes after the previous message when I didn’t respond.)
  • “Come baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!”  (Seriously.  He actually wrote, “reviensssssssssssss”)
  • “When am I seeing you again?”  (What?!)
  • “I don’t understand.  Are you dumping me?”  (Wow.)
  • “I really thought that we had something beautiful.  I don’t know why you’re mad at me, but how about I come over and we work it out?  Where do you live?”  (Eek.)

I went on one date with this guy.

ONE date.

I suppose that it could be worse.  Statistically speaking, I was bound to run into a nutjob at some point during this online dating experiment.

At least I’m alive, right?

But if my body is found beaten to death and floating in the Seine later, you’ll know who did it…

NEXT!

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Mr. Asian Fetish

In case you haven’t noticed, I am of the Asian persuasion.  And ever since my date with Mr. Love-You-Long-Time, I have received requests to blog about the Asian fetish…

So here’s the thing, folks.  I don’t have anything against the Asian fetish, per se.  I’m even reluctant to call it a “fetish.”  Everyone has a “type” that they prefer, and who am I to judge if a fellow likes the soy sauce?

Frankly, with the dawn of plastic surgery and advanced beauty products, it’s a cutthroat dating market out there.  I will take any advantage that I can get!

That being said, it is still inappropriate to blatantly advertise your ethnicity preferences on a date.  Nobody likes to be labeled like that.

For instance, one commenter pointed out that ordering a drink called “Love You Long Time” while on a date with an Asian girl “is just not done.”  Hell, taking her to a place that has it on the menu in the first place, that really “is just not done!”

Some idiot's dating site profile picture

Since that unfortunate incident, even more of my hapless dates followed his lead and crossed that just-not-done line.

Thanks to them, I have an ongoing list of what NOT to say when you are on a date with an Asianista like myself:

“Hey there, pretty Asian girl.”

  • Word to the wise, this is never a good way to start.

“Wow.  You are super tall for a Vietnamese girl.  Are Vietnamese girls taller than Cambodian girls?  My ex-girlfriend is Cambodian.”

  • He started out badly enough, but then he referenced the ex, as well?  Dumbass.

“I bet you know where all the Asian restaurants are in Paris.”

  • Yeah.  Obviously.  Because I’m Asian, I know ALL of them.  And Uncle Ho was actually my uncle.  So was Mao.

“Sure, that event sounds interesting.  Is it an Asian thing?  I’ll only go if it’s an Asian thing.”

  • I was just… speechless.

“Do you ever go to Asian Night at Mix Club?  I go all the time.”

  • This is NOT the right way to say that you love to get down with the slanty-eyed folk.

“I love to read manga.  You look like an Animé character.”

  • Good. GOD.

“Hey, I see two Asian girls sitting at that table over there.  Do you know them?  Are they your friends?”

  • Again.  I had no words.

“I loved Australia!  There are a lot of Asians there.”

  • Really?  Do I need to explain this one?

“Oh you’re Vietnamese?  We’re going to get along great!  I have heaps of female Korean friends.”

  • The only word I have for this is: STUPID.  This line was so stupid that it makes me stupid when I think about it.

You know… this goes beyond the whole issue of ethnicity.  For example, if you replaced every “Asian” with any other modifier like — gosh, I don’t know — “small-waisted,” these comments would still be inappropriate.

The worst of it is that these lines did not just come from one man-product.

In other words, such poor unfortunate souls have strength in numbers.

Sigh… am getting tired of saying this, but… NEXT!

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