Showing posts with label Chinese Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chinese Food. Show all posts

04 July 2016

White Chinese / Mandarin Lobotomy / Bleached Behavior: On the initial building of a chink’s view on other chinks and success (Part 2)

Pin ThisShare on TumblrShare on Google PlusEmail This

Early on, in the dayz of way back, a chink hopped across the sea and found himself in North America, land of the free, the excluded chinks, the enslaved blacks.[1] A chink, as all good chinks should, went to Chinese school, and before long, a chink learned that not all chinks spoke alike.[2] First a chink meet up with them canto FOBs, then a chink meets them southern FOBs, then a chink meet them white FOBs from the north, yet still to this day, a chink hasn’t met too many real desert FOBs with that dark skin and wavy hair (none of that perm shit).[3]

Of course beautiful thing is, people (of a certain tint) would have you believe that chinks all kind of look like pandas with straight black hair and squinty eyes. It’s easier to hate the orientals coming for your jobs (not your wives or food because those orientals wear strange clothes and seem to be a feminine (?)) when you can envision a wave of similar looking celestials.[4] Obviously not true, but when you grow up with people saying this, it’s almost like people just want you to think about the Chinese as a singular cloud that’s a chink, so whites don’t really have to think of you as individuals, but instead an individual collective, which takes away your claim to be a person. In reality, a chink darker than Greeks and quite a few Indians and middle easterns. It’s easy to think that all chinks are alcohol intolerant, lactose intolerant, rice devouring stickmen. Chinks much more complex than that. People like to imagine that chinkland is one uniform people. We not white bruh, but the chinks trying to connect all chinks in one identity are white. Now, toeing the CCP line, we one big family, but even a family different. This is the problem I have with the idea of a pluralist collective, and the problem most people have with the melting pot. The idea of a big family isn’t any good but for the people at the fore. The idea of familial care, dare I say paternalism, is debasing for immigrants. I don’t fucking want you to pretend to coddle me. I don’t want you to pretend to accept me. I know you never will, so don’t even fucking front. I much prefer a world where you have to fight to keep your culture, where your culture is the only thing you have in the new land. I don’t fucking want your white help, unless I know your help is in pure good faith, if not, you’re just handing me an apple with the core rotten.[5] You should have to fight to preserve your culture. But being white, you already get to. French people, British people, any European people (now at least, sixty years ago, very different), get welcomed and greeted and exalted because you look the same, you’re all white. And how did you all become white? Because of the chinks put between you and the blacks. Chink laborers had to be put below eastern you’reallpee-ans and mediteranians so the anglos[6] could preserve the beauty of whiteness because they, as you probably have realized, a lot of chinks are white. So, yes European nationalism is white supremacy. I will never retract from that. And your nationalism is why my culture is secluded to strip malls, fat choy ching chong and chop suey.

The chinks are only a family because we fall in the same borders. Chinkland is fractured to the point where where northerners hate southerners, everyone hates the dark skinned, minority are fucked with, and the colonial gem of hong kong thinking they’re white, hating on the rest of the mainland, while jews still live in the ghettoes, but so do the muslims.[7] Chinkland is complicated and a young chink growing up in provincial China didn’t really know that chinks spoke differently than his hicks. In a way, this was probably the most significant contribution to young wei’s self-hatred and disgust towards Chinkland. From about 6-18, I hated chinks beyond anything else. Or maybe, a chink just don’t like rich hong kong people who pretend they’re british. Their elites have a post-colonial fetish where they think that because they’re colonized, they better than mainland Chinese. The sentiment is that because they were british servants they’re better than chinks, who were exploited treaty bodies. Ha. That’s my problem with the hong kong superiority complex and it’s not even most hong kong people. The hong kong people who are the colonial machine vastly outnumber the manipulators of the machine but have their voices quashed by the white Chinese hong kong people. The ones who speak only Cantonese get stamped out by the English speaking dogs. Hong Kong elites are affronts to China, I have no reservations on this. The rich in hong kong only get rich by sucking british cock. Same as any sort of white people in a formerly colonized land. None of those people have success without exploiting colored bodies. After the colonization, it still doesn’t stop. Now that hong kong is no longer british, who made you richer? The mainland chinks’ blood. No respect for hong kong elites. When the western media speaks of 富二代as they incessantly do now, they speak of almost exclusively hong kong elites, communist party decendants, and mainland slave trade operators.

Back to chink school. First off, a chink started in traditional Chinese school (lol) because that’s just what a chink’s parents knew of chink schools, absolutely nothing. In reality, this was just a bunch of lols and probably made a chink even more backwards and self-hating. Young wei knew some 500 chink words and some 100 chink poems before the boat, not that impressive, but solid for a five-year-old chink who never really been to school. Sadly, a chink forgot all this because a chink went to traditional Chinese school and forgot all the simplified Chinese a boy already knew. Part of this is lack of exposure to Chinese at this point outside of Chinese school. Part of this is the desire to become a white boi. Part of this is because a chink boi was lazy. Part of this was because a chink boi didn’t like other chinks in chink school because they were all Cantonese speaking motherfuckers richer than young wei. None of this justifies young wei’s failure to maintain language, but part of this attests to the difficulty of being a chink in a foreign land where he got nothing to show him that it’s worth being a chink since all the rich chinks slaving mopping restaurants slinging chop suey and a chinks parents frying burgers with masters degrees and broken chingrish.[8] Nobody wants to be like this.

Speaking chink was just an extension of this disparate state. What’s the point of knowing chink script if it makes you less white. That shit just gonna splatter on the bamboo ceiling when you inevitably hit it. Your stupid ass, self-ashamed foundation make-up at the fucking price of your life per gram is gonna wear away slowly and surely as you keep living a lie. The chink that knows chink language and uses a chink name is not a pretend white, so nobody gonna treat him equitably like a white. Now that chinks have some semblance of self-respect, chinks shouldn’t use bitch ass white names. Back then, it was for survival. Now that we’re past that, chinks have a choice. But, as soon as a chink let a white name them, render them, damn, you done. Kung PAO chicken

[1] Obviously, a chink knows there are many other cases of people getting fucked, but a chink finds the history of chinks and blacks most compelling, for him, because if you reading this, you coming to hear the opinion of a chink, not all chinks, because a chink’s opinions do not equal the opinions of all chinks, because contrary to public opinion, chinks aren’t all the same, but shit, that’s what it be. Anyways, a chink acknowledge that various other ethnic groups get fucked with, but a chink personally (keyword being ‘personally’) engages most with the story of blacks and chinks. Shit, both end with k’s. So two strikeouts. Maybe in search of a third, maybe a strikeout looking.
[2] Granted, I was aware of the existence of Putonghua and supposedly at that time, I was pretty proficient in it. 妈老说边人家的人都说我们一家人的山汉就我一个说的话还好听着,哈哈。Yet, I was not aware that chinks spoke a variety of dialects beyond my own, coming from backwater desert China.
[3] Personal anecdote of note: a chink is not quite a ‘chink’ as most people would believe, a chink was / is a minority that was killed off. This is why a chink called Dang, the refers to the 党项族 of way back when my homeboys been ruling the part of chinkland that a chink was born in. This dynasty we called the Western Xia ruled by the Tanguts at the time when the rest of chink land was ruled by the Song man, the Han man of today, essentially.
[4] Them whitebois first loved the chinks when they first arrived in the frisco bay because those chinks were happy to do some work and then leave in a few to go home with that blood money. Back then when the chinks wore queues, robes, slanted eyes, strange voices, the white people called them celestials because these chinks seemed like beings sent from heaven to do the bidding of the whites. Crucially, these chinks were not the types to easily assimilate, and as such, it was easier to put them in their own lane, away from the regular world. When these chinks started to veer into the lane of regular americans, they became ‘aliens.’ Note the semantic shift, but the lexical parallel.
[5] To use a whiteman idiom lol.
[6] In this sentence, I don’t care to spell your names properly, because hey, no one bothers to learn how to spell Chinese people names properly and we apparently the most populous people and the most powerful.
[7] I love chinese muslims. As a kid, I always had the goddamn greatest food from muslims. The great thing about chink muslims is that there is virtually no way to distinguish them from a normal chink unless they wear their garb. The uyghurs that get the terrorist rep are ironically white looking. I actually went to the chingchong market the other day and a white woman, who I recognized as Uyghur because of her name, spoke to me in fluent mandarin, dare I say more standard, more 标准 than mine lol.
[8] Disagree with me if you want, but this just the world I saw. Parents both worked cantonese restaurants. Moms also worked fast food, pops also worked fast food. Only rich people a chink knew was Cantonese people working in restaurants. Yet, a chink met so few white bois in school whose parents were as educated or ballbusting as a chink’s parents and their friends. Way it goes. Only to hit a bamboo ceiling.

19 June 2016

Bros in Brossard 1: Missionaries, Chinese Food Golden Bowel Syndrome, Trinidad James

Pin ThisShare on TumblrShare on Google PlusEmail This

{[(handsome)(?)?]}manbun wearing pseudo samurai, yumansen AKA manbun manny
Recently ya boi and lesser chink mansen yu felt it was time to take a fiat pilgrimage to the holy land of brossard, BELLE PROVINCE QUEBEC, to bask in the glory of the delicacies the chinkmmigrants living there would dish out to ya bois. So, a chink bike down from Villeray to the ghetto, where ya boi mansen yu mad lives, to bring a boi out of his cloistered league of legend video watching lifestyle and see visions of chinkheritage in bro-ssard. We take the bus to a station in bro-ssard called panama. We on some manny noriega shit. (actually, keep in mind old person face with bad skin). This station was situated between three highways, but conveniently across the sixlane highway from a Renaud-bray, so if we was really finna be WPs after all the chinkstastic food we gonna get. The specific road we landed on after hopping of the boat (公交车), or rue as les Quebecois would say, was named rue phillipine, perpendicular to avenue panama. Apparently ya brossard bros like naming things tropical country names, but a chink digress.  

So for about half an hour, we try to find a way to cross the freeway that has no pedestrian crossings. Eventually we run across the freeway, weaving through hundreds of hummers whizzing by us, and then we just walk across a hill in the cruel june brossard sun, that breeds lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. I feel bad for trampling though the yellowed terrain of the brossard random ass green (yellow) spaces. 

Anyways, we manage to cross the overpass to the promised land of chinese grocery stores and restaurants. First stop was kim phat, where ya boi lesser chink yumansen bought himself 30 packets of instant vermicelli. No questions. No judgment. No diabetes. A chink ask his chinkmigo if he wanna get buzzed before we eat the greatest brossardian meal of our lives, and he’s like 地狱yeah. So we look around for some beer. Unfortunately, these seem to be very dry chinks as their store did not have the 5.99 PBR promised by Confucius in Analects or the 6.99 Bud promised in the I Ching. Perhaps we hadn't thrown sticks on the grown enough to predict the future. Or, maybe we didn't have the good chi. Or maybe, as males, we stepped in with the feminine right side. Best be on ya most traditional chinkese superstitious behavior. A chink guess he done goofed. So, unfortunately, we settled on Quebecois ice wine priced at 20 CAD which is 2USD which is like 10 RMB which is like a 40 of Tsingtao in Chinkland which is just a nice pre-dinner apero pour les bois. So, we purchase our fancy wine and we walk over to the propitiously situated Kam Fung restaurant which has great ratings on yelp. Unfortunately, a swath of hongkong gerontion were attending a wedding and we got blueballed by bluelipped chinks. Damn.

So, having ice wine in hand, we go to a gated community in brossard (lol), also conveniently placed beside the wondrous strip mall on ave malo. We decide to sit on random oversized cinder blocks placed on a green space and drink our ice wine. A WP washing her car with a hose stares at us. I stare back and wave. She retreats inside and does (i don't know what the proper verb is) up the blinds. Once we open the ice wine, we stand up for the 4km trek to the next highest rated chinkstaurant, Golden Bowl. On the way, everyone that passes us gives us strange looks. I say 恭喜发财,新年快乐to all involved. Feeling like the bompton gs we are, i pull out my trusty iphone binq and blast suwu YG’s new fire album, Still Brazy. Of course, being the savvy bink i is, i bup the iphone binq ébouteurs so that my amigo yumansen hears the brisp bality of 2012 iphone sound. I believe that he was in aural exstasy.

We were hoping that on the way we would find nice suburb girls just tanning, maybe shirtless, maybe even a barbecue, so this would be a real suburbia movie we walking living breathing legend i know you well. We instead found many old people tanning, non-shirtless, no barbecues. Very disappointing. Although, we did come across several unlocked lexuses with their windows down, sadly, neither of us know how to hotwire a car, because WE ARE NICE CHINKS. THE CHINKS—THEY’RE NICE JUST LIKE US!!!!!!
-whitest wp in existence

Back to the exploration of brossard, for whatever reason, there are several very strange street names. In my take on the epic tradition, i will choose not to explain them a la catalogue, but rather i will give you a list of these names

•      Stravinsky
•      Schubert
•      Milan
•      Rome
•      Trinidad (james) this was where the video for ——— was filmed
•      Strauss
•      Schumann
•      Tahiti
•      Tchad
•      Rembrandt
•      Renoir
•      San Francisco
•      Compton
•      creole
•      suwu
•      occident
•      coolie
•      oceanie
•      orient
•      oslo
•      ovide
•      oregan
(four of these are fake)

Took us a 40 minute walk past something like two hundred houses in a row with backyard swimming pools before we arrived, but when we arrived, it was like jesus or moses or who gives a fuck finding water, i have no idea what i’m saying, i just like making fun of jesus and moses because the wps and the Christians fucked the shit out of my peoples’ idols among, hmmm all other colored peoples’ idols. So yeah not a Christianity fan. Jesus Montero was my first baseball crush however. And Moses Alou peed on his hands in the 90s because he didn’t want to use gloves. Man still hit over 300 dongs and had a batting average over 300. No judgment. 

Now, on the the bowel show.

Golden bowl is the kind of Chinese restaurant so disassociated and detached from chink that it gives negative eight-thousand-eight-hundred-eighty-eight fucks about the flavors a chink expects. The dumplings are folds of noodles with maybe a singular gram of meat in middle slathered in melted red (?) peanut sauce and sesame seeds. This was, admittedly, something that I had never seen before, yet nevertheless, this was an affront to the name dumpling. Compounding the issue was that when I asked the server for dumplings in Chinese, he had no clue what they were. It took a Chinese man speaking English to a chink man to figure out what a dumpling was. On the menu, instead of 饺子(as a city chink would call it) or even 扁食(as ya boi the country chink calls it), written was 红油抄手, which means red oil folded hands. As I learned, this is a specific country (different one from ya boi) chink way of saying wonton. Fine, but the thangs was not dumplings, wontons, perogies, samosas, whatever. They was some chef Boyardee—fuck that they were fucking flour and eggs wrapped on top of each other and drenched in vitamin m and peanut butter sauce colored red. So this should’ve been a warning to a chink, that somehow, these chinks think it appropriate to put up some obscure ass name for dumpling and that the server had no clue how to say dumpling in regular chinese. This merits 50 belt lashings from your chink father and a couple of tearz from your mother.

 Rest of the meal was fairly standard mall quality Chinese food. ‘Orange beef’ was essentially ginger beef, but, not having tasted this dish for years, I was very confused as to what meat was in the various layers of sauce and bread. It took a salty plate of ‘szechuan chicken’ to figure out that the brown balls of bowel disease were balls of beef. Never before have I thought of the term ‘balls of beef.’ Back to the ‘szechuan chicken.’ The defining characteristic of Szechuanese cuisine would be the interplay of the cooling, citrusy numbness of Szechuan peppercorn and the dry heat of chilies. This particular dish had none of these flavors. In fact, if had asked for all the dishes to be extra spicy, and it seems as though the man took that to be extra non-spicy and WPed the fuck out of my dish. The Szechuan chicken, of course, as if I weren’t expecting it, was just flavored with WP store ‘szechuan sauce,’ a WP sauce of which I still cant discern any flavors outside some perverted white perspective on Chinese food. Buttressing this dish from the plate was a bed of crushed, salty seaweed, which is tasty, but prepackaged, and most importantly non extant in the central Chinese jungle heat of Sichuan. Sichuan is where the pandas are, there are no large salt water bodies in this province to my knowledge.

The fourth dish was a personal canto favorite of mine, them salt pepper fried squid, or cantomari. Not good, bob. It was just salt. I wasn’t quite sure it was squid until i read the bill. I’d probably forgotten what we ordered because of all the vitamin m supercharging my neurons. I also thought they were chinkese salty chicharonnes for a sec lol. Oh hold up, we was gonna get the general tao chicken, that was under the szechuanese tab of the menu, but it was named 左工鸡 which means left cock (also, general zuo, which somehow has become tao?), so no, also it was invented by a Taiwanese man. Whatever bruh.

Final dish was the mapo doufu. First off, there is a misnomer people usually associate with the ‘ma’ portion of the name. It is not as commonly thought, 麻辣, but rather the , carries an alternative definition here meaning pimply. 麻婆豆腐actually means pimply hag tofu, so there. Also, the heat comes from the WP ignored 豆瓣酱, which i believe is translated to fermented bean paste?. Of course there is the numbing coolness of, yet it is a secondary flavor underneath the earthy fermentation of the豆瓣酱. In fact, it doesn’t really even have to be . Semantics aside, the mapo doufu was a f-, which is a higher grade than the q’s i gave to the other dishes (q for questionmark). It tasted ok and had a below average texture. The sauce was however consistent and there were scallions. But the thang relied way too heavily on  榨菜, which is pickled root vegetable, or salty high blood pressure ching chong death weed (still tasty though).

Great thing about golden bowl was that it gave us three bowls of rice. At a usual Szechuan restaurant, ya boi and yumansen could probably eat six rice bowls because shit spicy and that’s what rice is for, but at golden bowl, nah. We didn’t even finish a single bowl combined.

However, I did learn what good water tastes like. The water at golden bowl was perhaps the single greatest drank of water I’ve ever tasted. The clarity and silky texture of the brita filter really shone through the replete vitamin m and the brick of salt them bois dropped down our throats.

When we had finished our food, maybe 1/3 of the way, the lady came over three times to ask us if we wanted to have it bagged, each time we said no. But, we were yelling and laughing very loudly and I was a bro in brossard and wore sunglasses inside, so there was that. Instead they brought us the bagged up ‘food.’ We left no tip and walked out.

Yumansen promptly puked everywhere on the curb. I could see the bits of undigested orange chicken/beef/rat/whatever and the bits of fried something. It was a very red scene. Yumansen first puked four times outside the door on the stoop. Then the chink man came out with a bucket of water to wash the curb and asked us to fuck off with absolutely zero sympathy. I hustled my homeboi to the curb beside golden bowl and he puked three more times. By then, yumansen had a redish chicken dyed beard. So I called him a cab, but he puked again inside of the cab so i had to walk him across the bridge from brossard to the ghetto. As we were crossing the road, I saw the cab driver cleaning out the cab. Lol, yumansen yadonegoofedhardnow. We, or rather, yu left a red trail behind from bro-ssard all the way to the mcgill ghetto. First thing he did when he got back was to take a shower and pretend to do buddhist chants while wearing traditional indian pyjamas. I drank the beers from his fridge and ate the food of the nice indian roommate of yumansen. It was a good day because i didn’t have to use my—

Yumansen and I went to the dep next door and box a six pack of corona then went to drink it all at a brossardian bus shelter. We disposed of the golden bol food in the garbage tin thang that had no bag. A dog walker came by soon after and dropped in a baggy of dog shit. I wonder what gets eaten first by the birds.

Four beers in, I notice a folded note on the ground underneath the bench. Yumansen picks it up, but can’t read it because it’s in French. Alas, always primed to flex my French balls (i never want to have any ties to being a French man), I translated the letter to him. A Christian missionary named Anne Gregoire of St Hubert, Quebec had left this note in a brossardian bus shelter in hopes that someone would visit her Christian website or come to her house to be revealed the word of god. This is how you get killed by a serial murder.

Anyways, i’d like to share the message of god before i sign off. In the letter, replete with orthographic and grammatical errors, mlle gregoire offered the criticism that since there is suffering in the world, god must be bad or at least irresponsible. She promptly says this is false by quoting Jacques 1:18, which in English is “Of his own will begat he us with the word of truth, that we should be a kind of first fruits of his creatures.”

Yes first fruits. I crumple the letter, light it on fire with my lighter and throw it into the garbage bin with the dog shit and the golden bowel food where it belongs. When we finished the beers, we lined the bus shelter in three alternating bottle cap-bottle rows of coronas. The bottle caps alternated being head side up and face down for the extra artsy effect. Then we poured libation on the flaming dog-missionary-shit-trash.

(ok, i did not light the thing on fire, i merely crumpled the note and threw it in the garbage)

we went back to the city and plan on returning to brossard.

Thus concludes the first episode of ‘bros in brossard.”

12 April 2016


Pin ThisShare on TumblrShare on Google PlusEmail This

not quite the usual appearance of the chink. not the head accessory

In folds, I’ve approached the shaping of the blog. As seen through the personas on display in this blog, various layers, or various barriers and filters add a level of inaccessibility to the writing. These folds of sorts clothe the blog in its own seasons of which three stand out, maybe four with this present series. The teleological drive works towards a unified body of work that may partitions itself into separate frames of reference to date posts better than meta-tags or textual titles. The end product for the reader, I intend, is, again with the idea, “the mind in the act of finding what will suffice.” The dated folds become phases that clarify the progress and continued honing of the central issue of finding what is enough for a chink to be a chink for himself and not others.


It seems appropriate I breakdown the various phases of the blog in a series of Roman numerals, as was first favoured style of the blog. I’ll call it the first fold. Instead of the later self-effacing and bifurcated voice, the earlier posts lacked a distinct voice and erred towards a sort of food blog as identity politics rant space. I am not Eddie Huang and really don’t care about reviewing food. This we can attribute to a problem highlighted by Poorhomiewei—“Fitting in won’t ‘cost you more opportunities’”—The front of a food blog undoubtedly aimed to create a respectable and relatively interesting form that would maybe have the potential to appear on a CV. Again, holding no interest for me, the act is disgusting. But, for the sake of self-reflection, I will discuss what created the first fold and prominently features.

For one, as was the common theme of the early half of the blog, I often eat out. On 春节, again an auspicious marker, Holden, of “SHAANBEI CHINK IN CHINA(CANTO)TOWN” notoriety (the first post to crack a hundred views and the first to really launch the blog’s popularity), suggested I write a food review blog acting as a mouthpiece for my chinkdentity thoughts. It took me three or four weeks, but in the end it did happen and the first piece was the strange and weak “ORANGE ROUGE / YELLOW WHITE” post calling out a restaurant for making Chink food marketed to whitebois in Chinatown. The argument is fine and still stands: white people shouldn’t be trying to pimp out an area where Chinese people live and exploit it as an exotic getaway, as it does not benefit Chinese people at all—no chinks were in the restaurant save for me and the lesser chink (a figure we’ll get to later). This, the first post was in essence the only post in the first fold to speak of the chink problem.

Next came a post on late night / early morning drinking in ATMs on St. Laurent with the infamous (stupid) Labranda Mirash, named “NORTH KOREA, ATMS, OUZO, THE MAIN.” Again nothing important, but as Labranda featured, it’s important to note as Labranda is both dedicated fan and voyeur to the chink question. An entirely regrettable and wholly pointless post follows, “THE JOYS OF READING ON MALL SOFAS” which was written to fill the initial post per day output. Not very noteworthy.

The First Fold entirely lacks the polemical Poorhomiewei and the agreeable 党唯予, yet it still features various perversions of whiteman scripture, castigations of whiteman’s use of chink food, and initial attempts at crafting a voice. The most notable draw is then the relative proximity of the voice in these posts and the voice of the author. For any autobiographical readings, the first fold may be the best choice, but as it is the first fold, maybe it isn’t the best way to go about reading. As there are more folds, the first phase then stands as a draft stage without any real substance, but rather existing for personal archival interest. The first fold is potentially the weakest section of writing. I contemplated deleting it, but that seemed like too much work and altogether meaningless.


I made the second fold as I probably realized after reading the “joys of reading” post that the blog needed to have a voice. Without one, Country Chink Broadsides (yes, it is in italics now) would be no more than a shock value title. On an aside, and for the benefit of explaining the second fold, the original title of the blog came from McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City—Country Chink, Big City. Notice the parallel position of ‘bright lights’ and ‘country chink.’ For whatever reason, it made sense to write an entire blogpost revolving around rap lyrics with various interjections in Chinese. I guess the second fold is the pastiche phase of CCB and continues the preemptive archival store of the blog’s components. This first post, “CAFÉ CRAWL IN LA CITÉ” still remains a favorite. Young Thug, Ezra Pound, Kanye West, Travis Scott, and the opium wars feature.

The next, and extremely important “ON EATING TACOS WITH GRINGOS” speaks to the issue of abusing other ethnicities’ food by eating it as a white idiot. The example is Labranda who ate a taco like a peanut butter sandwich mixed with a burrito. First using a butter knife to coat a tortilla with mild salsa, Labranda proceeded to drop three to four pieces of barbacoa on a tortilla of a three-inch diameter. Labranda then folded the tortilla inwards from the sides to produce a perverse white privilege burrito thing. I cannot let this go. I will never again bring white people who I don’t really like to a restaurant that isn’t run by a pasty faced ghost.

 COOKING DUMPLINGS AT 2AM AFTER CHOSEN FASTING (AND SHIT)” set the foundation for important parts of the poorhomiewei persona:
·      Disregard for grammar or conventional language
·      Aversion to all white people
·      Polyvocality in four languages

The second fold offers, unlike the first fold further interest in terms of allusions and intertexts, but, providing a link with the first, lacks wholly in honed language or ideas. The content does not have inherent value, but the form found in this second fold is the foundational tools of that further pleat Country Chink Broadsides.

Fold two was very much an ornament, or a game.

Also of note, the end of this fold marked the opening up of CCB to the public.


The third fold overlaps with the fourth and features two poems of sorts that continue the formal play of the second fold and express a dissatisfaction at the bland style of distressed jeans + stan smith + jungle fever / rap loving blend of people at McGill.

First off is “FIVE VIEWS OF MCGILL’S MCLENNAN PREMIERE MOISSON CAFETERIA,” a quintet of prose form petrarchan sonnets that describe the boring fashion sense of white people, annoying FOBs who hold strange birthday parties in the library, and the general lack of hygiene of people who use the McLennan cafeteria. Somewhat fun, very niche.

Its sequel “IN THE STATION OF THE (MCGILL, AUS, LEACOCK) SNAX,” faux vegans, Kendrick lamar blaring white girls, and white people being weird are on display. Twelve variations on “In the Station of the Metro.”

This was a strange fold that luckily was kept to two posts. Yet, still enjoyed and appreciated. Shout out to Clhurlurleley. pat on the head. [yellow rain jacket]


Here, CCB took off. With the double post of “HAIL TO THE CHEEF: KEEF AND THE END OF READING WEEK” and “SHAANBEI CHINK IN CHINA(CANTO)TOWN,” CCB started using the x-large setting of blogspot pictures to give the posts some more aesthetic appeal. First picture, of course, was a nice picture of Chief Keef, wholly unrelated to anything discussed on the blog. If for anything else, Chief Keef’s appearance on the blog signals the entry of a militant pessimism of poorhomiewei, a character partly modelled on Keef. The images also follow a similar editing process. Yellow and red tones are highlighted as the images are generally put in hazier focus. This needs no explanation.

These two posts mark the beginning of a concrete poorhomiewei voice with the anger of the keef post and the aggressive pride and overly aggressive tone of the Chinatown post. The writing style from the Chinatown post onwards features heavy formal stylizing and abrasive Chinese pride, but this is still in the same developing phase as the previous posts.

The fourth fold added much needed color to the blog and changed the aesthetic through-line of the text for a much more traditional and appealing look. I do very much enjoy the pictures now.


The ensuing café series marks random musings and a journal like approach to the blog. The chink themes seem to have been abated during this period as I tried to expand the range of the blog. The fifth fold also seems to have went further into formal experimentation to try and entrench the blog in an interesting literary tradition marked by the syllabic verse used in “BASEMENT COFFEE, COSMETIC BITCHES,” the Joyce Carol Oatesian stream of fragments in “WHOLE WORLD GOING BRAZY: WHITE KIDS, STRANGE CAFES AND YG,” and yet another Oatesian technique of breaking a post into its structural fragments in “FERLUCCI FERLUCCI BISCOTTI IN MY WHOLE LIKE I’M a chink?” The recurrent use of women’s writer techniques is an odd byproduct of Miranda Hickman. Shout out there.

Especially of note are the names Joyce Carol Oates and Caroline Shaw. These form the basis for the majority of the next few folds, primarily Oates. There is no Country Chink Broadsides without Oates—an ironic statement considering she is generally considered a racist, out of touch white woman. Sadly, as much as I love JCO, she will always represent the exact type of person I resent. But, her stylizing is transcendent, and I do love her writing above almost any. So there’s that. Also theres this…

Joyce Carol Oates ‎@JoyceCarolOates

for writing funnily of food
Dear Calvin Trillin
has been grill-ed.

10:26 AM - 8 Apr 2016

at least caroline shaw uses ts eliot quotes that help a chink write and doesn’t agree with racist honk man trillin. and it goes on

None of the components of this fold really show anything interesting about the chink voice, but as experiments in form, they establish a good contrast with the sixth fold and beyond. Only with this layer do the next three have the same poignancy.


Here we finally see the content matured. Well, at least to the extent of cohesion and appeal. Whereas the earlier folds were met with confusion, these two (and a liminal auxiliary) manifestoes mark the first real spike in readership of the blog.

In the seminal “ON THE CHINK VOICE AND ESTEEM,” the formal experimentation and polyvocality come together and create the blog’s manifesto. The introduction of the epic anaphora/catalogue also appears here. For any new readers, this should be the first post to read. “Chink” also marks the first post with any real poignancy. I accept and will argue that all previous posts, maybe not “Shaanbei Chink,” are rather indulgent, but “Chink” stands as the most important contribution to date, at the time of its publishing.

The next “ON WHITES REVIEWING CHINKFOOD.” is quite honestly shallow in terms of nuance, and in all honesty, meant as a joke post. But, it nearly has a thousand views, so there’s that. The general gist is that a chink lectures a whiteman on trying to REVIEW chink food and fold those standards inside out to please white palates. Not very good. I do abide by the idea that chink food, for me, AS THE TEXT CREATOR AND THE ONLY PERSON THIS IS (ACTUALLY) WRITTEN FOR, represents too much of a nostalgic soft spot to allow white people to bastardize. Criticize me, but I won’t waver on this opinion. I don’t want to tell a white man how to be a privileged whore, so he shouldn’t tell me how to eat peasant food. A chink gon leave it at that.

The final, anecdotal post of this fold blends together the new voice of the blog and tries to keep together the food through line, “PROSTRATION AND NOSTALGIA.” The post features allusions to Milton, Eliot, Pound, Confucius, Shaanbei chink peasants and whiteboi Simon friend of the blog. Maybe a bit of wordsworth? Whatever he’s just another one of those whitemen. From this point on, the dominant form of the posts is in regular prose, for better or worst.

Yet, this fold and its relatively orthodox style opens a further approach to reconfiguring style that the next fold represents. The vatic voice of these posts does not last, and for good reason, as the sixth fold marks the end of a collective voice and the real emergence of poorhomiewei and dwy


And now into the present stage.

The first post effectively erases all the pretense at being a food blog with the title, “CENSORED CHINK AT MCGILL, A SUPPOSED HOME FOR FREE SPEECH (THOUGH FREE SPEECH ONLY IMPLIES TERRORIST-EXTREMIST FEMINIST EXPLICIT HEADHUNTS) (NON-FOOD RELATED).” The first white character vilified is the mcgill tribune, a disappointingly stick-up-the-ass organization of censorious idiots. Somehow mcgil tribune allowed an article about “race and rent” to be published with very little discussion of chink representation in drama when a chink is the primary interviewer. A chink felt real disrespected when the article turned into a handjob featuring a discussion into how great the mcgill theatre program is. mcgill tribune then shot down an article on chris brown and his and the general public’s OK at indifferent chink jokes. We’ll let that sit for a bit. Also, I got called anti-black and too bold. Well, it’s not my newspaper.

Unfortunately, this happens again with “CENSORED CHINK AT MCGILL 2—A CHINK ONLY GONNA TAKE SO MUCH (EMAILS IN RESPONSE TO EMAILS RESPONDING TO EMAILS)” in which a chink is told by what to be offended. Lets just leave it at that.

In this process, the personas of Poorhomiewei and 党唯予 emerge. (but that’s for another post).

Regarding the local development of the blog, this introduced the epistle genre and subsequent posts exclusively featured letters. This is not quite the right post to discuss the Poorhomiewei and 党唯予 dynamic, so we’ll let that sit for a while.

The seventh fold ultimately relies heavily on the matured formal mechanics that have created these two voices and allowed experimentation in the epistle genre, somehow, again, JCO returns to take over me.

delay my publishing by six days like / i have to fold for a class on whitebois?
something something something unfolding, / trying to write my them before twenty?