Teaching House Boston: A better class of illiterate CELTA trainers

Here is the photo of Boston that Teaching House Boston shows on its web page. I come from Boston. Boston is not a beautiful city, but it is not ugly. I am somewhat awed by how ugly this school managed to make Boston look. I am not completely sure that this is Boston.



(The quoted text from Teaching House Boston is in red. Here is the original source.)

“Offered in Boston (in the heart of the historic district,) Teaching House's CELTA training course is hosted at Faneuil Hall…”

The comma should not be placed inside the parentheses.
There is this remarkable invention that tells people where to put things like commas. It’s called a style guide. Teaching House Boston might want to consider buying one.

They all hold a CELTA and either the DELTA (Diploma in English Language Teaching to Adults) and/or a Master’s degree in Education.”

They all hold certificates or degrees that one is supposed to be impressed by, but can they all use conjunctions? The above sentence uses a either…and/or correlative conjunction. Maybe this type of conjunction exists on planets in the far reaches of the galaxy, where the members of the staff of Teaching House Boston probably come from, but on earth, English does not have such a conjunction.

“The combination of our rigorous course standards and the accreditation provided by the University of Cambridge ensures that our teachers go on to obtain desirable teaching jobs whether they choose to teach English in the United States or teach English abroad.”

The authors do not understand what the word “ensure” means. There is absolutely no guarantee that course graduates will obtain “desirable teaching jobs.” The only thing that Teaching House Boston can ensure about its CELTA course is that students will be $2,500 poorer after they pay for the course.

Get the prestigious CELTA certificate in San Francisco and murder the English language

 
“Our English Language School in San Francisco have earned an enviable reputation for providing their program participants and graduates with a wide range of professional Job Guidance Services.” (Original source for this quote)

‘[E]nviable reputation?’ Maybe among the illiterate, English Language School San Francisco’s reputation is enviable.

The quote above has agreement problems. “School” is a singular noun, and it is being used with the verb “have.” You can’t do that! In addition, the pronoun standing in for singular “school” is plural “their.”

The teaching experts at English Language School San Francisco might also want to keep in mind that in the United States we have this thing called the serial comma. The teaching experts at this school might have heard about this comma; it’s all the rage. In fact, it’s fairly standard. Accordingly, the teaching experts at English Language School San Francisco might want to think about using this comma in their advertising, so they do not look like limey trained idiots being shipped in from overseas to teach a formulaic EFL training course to Americans at the bottom of the food chain.

Good job, English Language School San Francisco. Keep churning out those CELTA certified English language teaching experts! And good for you, Cambridge, for pissing on the legacy of Newton and Darwin and Hawking by letting these chuckleheads use your logo. Good job selling my language as if it were a cheap whore.

(This is a copy I made of the original source on July 21, 2012:
https://docs.google.com/open?id=1zcSSrFUYXhHgruVveLLyTJ4XK-5XGUYoj24Lxd-gZ2hi9W5BrEUGs7PtzTualLjCuyFgZkyxwXSpOv1R)

The big swell

My left hand now looks like the type of hand I would see connected to the many chubby women whom I’ve dated. Something is wrong, really wrong.

Here is my right hand. It is veiny, tendony, one might even say … grotesque, but it is not the big bloated monster that the left hand is.

It started in the middle of the night. I woke with my left hand itching like a motherfucker, and I’m like, what the fahhh…? I looked at it in the mirror; it seemed okay.

In the morning the left hand is not nearly so itchy but all swelled up. Now I see the swelling is beginning to extend up my arm.

If it gets much worse I’ll go to the emergency room.

Some bastard bug probably bit me last night; it’s probably nothing.

The hotel water scam

Apparently this scam has been around for some time, but I did not encounter it and (almost) fall victim to it until earlier this year.

This is what happens: You rent a hotel room. In my case I rented a hotel room at Two Trees Inn at Foxwoods, which is a pretty good hotel. The hotel leaves a bottle of water in your room. The bottle has a tag on it (shown above.) The mark thirstily drinks the water, not reading the fine print on the water bottle’s tag:

“This bottle of Aquafina is proved as a service to our guests. If consumed, $3.99 will be billed to your room. For your convenience, our staff will replenish daily.”

I had two free hotel stay at Foxwoods, so I was surprised when I got charged eight dollars when I checked out. The staff person curtly told me that this was for the water left in my room that I had drunk. Didn’t I read – or is the fine print too small for my aged eyes to see?

These water bottles are fat, and I could not easily fit them into a pocket, so I did not drink them. I had jammed them into my suitcase for later consumption. I was given a refund when I requested to return the bottles to them, but first there was a short interrogation:  “Are they opened?!”

The staffer seemed disappointed. What kind of person stuffs unopened water bottle into his suitcase? (The same type of person who brings an entire case of generic BJ’s water bottles to the hotel with him in case he gets thirsty, because he doesn’t want to drink the $3.00 water bottles from the hotel vending machines.)

It took me a few minutes to remove their waters from my suitcase, as I had locked the suitcase, and my key doesn’t fit the padlock very well, and one must really jiggle the key to get it to open. I probably made the staff very unhappy; I probably made the poor people behind me trying to check out very unhappy.

I stayed at Two Trees a few months later. As far as I know, they didn’t try the water scam. They did leave two puny but normal hotel-sized water bottles, marked generically as “Foxwoods.” This time, having the fear of God put into me by hotel scams, I did not dare drink the water. I didn’t even take home the pen.

I cannot say that the hotel water scam is good for customer relations. People don’t want to be on their guard for cons as they rest in a hotel room, especially when they are in a casino and probably giving money to the people who own the hotel.

As much as I was put off by Two Trees and would like to tell you to stay away from the scamming bastards, Two Trees is cleaner and better than the modestly priced hotels you will find in the Groton, Connecticut area. I have had some not-so-happy experiences with these hotels as well. At Foxwoods, Grand Pequot is the nicest hotel. Great Cedar, while more expensive than Two Trees and having the advantage of being connected to the casino, was a not-so-happy experience, as a lot of stuff didn’t work properly, such as lights and toilets that didn’t flush properly.

That new doctor feel

My new doctor (below)

Experienced internists have a shelf life of about two years. They always move on to where the money is. The last experienced doctor I had didn’t even move on to do doctoring; instead, she moved on to work as some consultant or advisor for cooperate America.

My new internist, who is fresh out of medical school, takes the time to check things out and to explain things to me. I recognized these qualities. I had seen this before. This is how a new doctor is. Experienced doctors are jaded. They don’t really investigate things. If they even bother to explain things to you, they blind you with science. Their attitude is, basically, “Ah, fuck it...”

Steve Oakes, author, and biggest joker on the planet

Here is Steve Oakes, the professional. He is the author of Speakout, a comprehensive six level general English course. He is also the Head of Teacher Training at the prestigious International House Budapest in the heart of beautiful Budapest.

Steve Oakes is an English speaking expert. Just give this smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch a listen:


Yet, Steve Oakes, professional English training guy, cannot write a fucking grammatical sentence:

https://sites.google.com/site/celtaexposed/steve-oakes

Good job, Steve Oakes. You have successfully hoodwinked just about everyone into believing that you are not the nervy, ignorant piece of shit that you really are.

Remember those days…

when Hillary Clinton was hot?

Good Christ, what type of bastard creator could make this dreamy young woman look like a mummified relative of Jabba the Hutt?

Roseanne Barr misses out on the Green Party's Vice-Presidential nomination

 

Booh, Jill Stein, Green Party presidential presumptive nominee, opted not to put Roseanne Barr on the ticket as VP.

I like Jill Stein a lot. She’s from Massachusetts and ran for governor once. As I remember, she also ran for some other big seat in Massachusetts. I voted for her for governor; she only got about 1% of the vote.

I think Stein would make a great president; however, this will never happen in this universe. People have to wake up and start living with the awful reality of this universe. Stein is a loser, and the only thing she is going to do is help elect Mitt Romney. Stein didn’t even make the sensible decision of putting Barr on the ticket; she thinks like a loser.

“I copied this from the internet”

Below is the blubbery jerk who copied and censored my shit, put it on his blog, and didn’t give me credit.

The blubbery jerk created this post and said he “copied this from the internet.”

http://www.sodahead.com/united-states/is-che-a-racist-well-actually-was-he/question-1465419/entry

And where did this cocksucker get his material from? It was from me! It is my fucking original, copyrighted material. Here is where it’s from:

http://bastarduniverse.blogspot.com/2005/02/che-guevara-racist-homophobe-and-anti.html

And not only did he copy it from me, the cocksucker censured my material for profanity. This makes me even angrier. The dirty cock!

I doubt if the cocksucker even knew where the material came from. Most of the assholes out there don’t know where my material comes from. There are literally hundreds of idiots reposting my quotes from The Motorcycle Diaries without any reference to where the fuck it came from. I have changed the worldwide dialog about Che, yet does anyone give me credit? Does anyone actually read my blog? No. I get unemployment, a right hand, astroglide, and fat fucking assholes who copy my shit.

It gets worse. Neo-nazis are now using my Che quotes to support their asshole, backward beliefs. Che changed later in life. HE WAS NOT A FUCKING FASCIST!

I have some reason to believe that Bill O’Reilly did a piece on Che Guevara, based on the materials in my blog post. I have not seen it; however, I’m sure the dickhead used my blog post in an attempt to show right-wing morons how hypocritical left-wingers are, as if some communist mercenary who died 50 years ago enters into the political consciousness of democrats.

Copyright-violator-blimpo-man says in his website that he’d like to meet God. If I met God, I’d kick the bastard in the nuts for creating a world of assholes.

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell…

 

I didn’t fart. Really!

The end

I do not think that I will know what hit me when the end comes. I doubt if I will be found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, as I don’t own a gun. I will not hang myself or bleed myself or overdose myself to death; these forms of suicide make me very nervous. I may be found in some alley stabbed to death, but that is unlikely. I don’t think I will die on some operating table, as I doubt if I will have insurance.

My death, like my life, is more likely to be humiliating. I will probably be found dead with my head resting against a keyboard. On the computer screen will be the ad of a transsexual prostitute on backpages whom I was jerking off to before I died of a heart-attack upon orgasm. The cops, when they find me dead, would laugh if they were not so overwhelmed by my decomposing flesh.

Stalkers, they’re not just for girls.

First of all, I would like to tell my stalker, whom I know – and who has been stalking me for about a decade now, that while I cannot stop the motherfucker from viewing my blog and sending me annoying e-mails, I have zero interest in being friends with him, and he’s wasting his time.

Dear Barbara,

I was not online very much yesterday, because I was at Funspot, the largest video arcade in the world (at least that is what their advertising claims). It is in New Hampshire. I've enclosed a photo. I didn't take many photos. It was too dark. Funspot was fun, but I had a miserable time at the hotel -- wasn't able to sleep and had a miserable time getting back, due to sleep deprivation. I should have stayed another night at another hotel and, hopefully gotten some sleep. It was a big mistake that I will not repeat.

Congratulations on the job offer in the UK. (I guess -- you don't seem that thrilled about it -- where will your husband be? Your husband seems like a giant from your facebook photos.) Lost a hundred dollars playing poker online in the course of about twenty minutes. I am never convinced that the cards are random online. I'm going back up to New Hampshire this weekend – this time to play live poker, if I am properly rested.

IH did not respond to my blackmail letter. They're not going to respond. I sent a letter to the head of University of Cambridge and to the CEO of CELTA ESOL. I doubt if they will get back to me. I'm not going to send you everything; it's too much -- but these items that I'm attaching were included in my blackmail letter to IH. I have dirt on all the staff. Extensive, embarrassing errors. These people have no right to run an English teaching school. And Cambridge ESOL expects me to complain in a complaint form that they wrote that is filled with errors. I FUCKING THINK NOT! My life and future ended the day they failed me. They will win and I will lose. But I have nothing but time to embarrass their joke of an institution, and that is what I will at least attempt to do. Could you believe I used to fear Neil. Take a close look at the bendy file index that he wrote. Not only can he not form grammatical sentences, he has no concept of how to define words; and this bastard used to bitch and moan about my not grading my language. He's an impostor. They all are.

The dream

I have tried to drink my problems away as I did before I left. But now I can’t. I am miserable when I drink and miserable when I don’t drink. There is no escape now.

Hungary to me now is a distant dream and, having fully woken up to my miserable and hopeless life in the United States, I cannot imagine a Hungary. There is no world out there beyond my four walls of shit and the places that my shitbox takes me to.

Don’t get me wrong. There are worse lives, far worse. My life is not bad. The problem is that it is a non-life. I sit here and I watch all that unrealized potential go to hell. All I wanted in life was to screw women and create babies. It wasn’t much to ask. Good Christ, how did I get myself into this situation?

I’ll keep trying, like I always do. There is nothing more that I can do.

Burn flag, burn!

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No more hope, but plenty of scorched earth

Pequot Museum parking lot.

You beat me world -- in Hungary.

Hungary was not to blame.

Budapest was merely the location of the battlefield.

Blinded by arrogance, the victors don’t yet realize whom they are dealing with.

While I mount my scorched earth offensive in Europe against idiots, I take money away from idiots at poker tables. Idiots never feel that they have to study their subject. That is their weakness, and I am exploiting it.

I no longer have a future. Hungary was my last stand. It doesn’t bother me too much; I’m too involved in the day to day operations of making bastards pay.

Just another day in paradise

Dear Barbara,

I play No-limit Hold'em -- and yes, it is similar to Russian Roulette. If you're not careful you can easily lose vast sums of money before you even know what hit you, and then your life is over. I have never lost vast sums of money playing poker, but I imagine it's a lot like failing your last CELTA lesson. One minute you have a life, and then the next minute you've failed and all your dreams disintegrate right before your eyes like burning paper. You are still alive and breathing, but you are effectively dead. After I write this e-mail I'm going to go book another date to go to the casino. They usually let me stay at their hotel for free during the winter, but they're all booked up and I will have to pay $70 to stay for the night. I really hate paying for the hotel when I'm at the casino, but I'll do it because I'm bored and miserable. Who knows, maybe I'll win enough to cover my expenses. I don't get to the casino that much anymore. Maybe four times a year. It's a long drive. I hate driving back at night. I don't see well at night. I hate the dark country roads near the casino. Everyone tailgates me because I drive the speed limit. In Budapest you have casinos everywhere, but they don't offer live poker with other players; they want you to bet against the house in games of chance, which is like throwing your money away; I find this sort of thing very insidious.

I'm beginning to get used to the United States again; I'm not saying I like it, but I'm getting used to it. It's nice to be able to communicate in my own language. Hungary is a wine country. The wine is good in Hungary, but I am a beer drinker -- The United States is a beer country, and I am a product of its culture. The beer in Hungary is not very good. Before I arrived in Hungary I thought I was going to be in beer heaven because I would be able to drink a wide selection of the imports from beer countries like the Czech Republic and Germany. The German imports in Hungary absolutely sucked, and I could find much better Czech beers in the U.S. than I could in Hungary. I could find good cheep beer domestic beer in the U.S. In Hungary I couldn't even find a six pack of beer. In the U.S. you can buy beer buy the six pack, the 24 pack case -- even the 30 pack case. In the U.S. we cater to the alcoholic. We make it easy and cheap to drink your life away. It is it is an alcoholic's paradise. Hungarians may live in a capitalism system, but they really have no clue how it works. I hope to God that Hungary never figures out capitalism, for if they do, they will become assholes like us.

Restaurants in the United States serve much fresher food than they do Hungary. One of my biggest complaints about Hungary was that the food  in restaurants was not fresh and was way too salty. Restaurant food in the U.S. is so expensive that I've only eaten out once since I've arrived. In Hungary I always ate out. When I got back to the U.S. I was dying for a good cappuccino, but you cannot find good cappuccino in U.S. The cappuccino in the U.S. sucks. The best cappuccino in the U.S. is worse than the worst cappuccino in Hungary. But, weirdly, after a while the desire for a good cappuccino subsides and you don't even think about it -- you don't even order cappuccinos. You just get used to the way things are. The U.S. is a miserable, crap country, vacant of culture and soul, but the longer you stay here, the less you realize it. You just become numb and passive after a while, like other Americans.

Have you seen Erika's son in person? I saw his photos on facebook. He looks like such a cutie. I envy Erika. My niece is terrifically cute too. She's two years old. She sent me a drawing. It is horrible. I'm not sure what to do with it.

I'm attaching a photo. Please tell me what it means. I suspect it is a political ad and the person who wrote the comments on it in pen was making an anti-semitic remark. Am I right?

I'm going to try to call you this weekend. You can tell me about your financial struggles then. I need to ask you about The Hungarian Society of Massachusetts.  http://www.bostonhungarians.org I miss Hungarians; I miss their beautiful and kind faces; I need to find someone who will make me some transylvanian goulash;  I'm dying for this. (They don't have Hungarian restaurants here.) I'd do anything for some transylvanian goulash; I'd do anything for a good Hungarian woman too, but I'm unemployed, so I don't even let that thought cross my mind.

The woman from Szeged

Dear LA Woman,

BTW, I've starting blogging again. Yes, this is after I told all my readers, except for you, to fuck themselves. I've published two e-mails to this Hungarian woman, Erika. She was in my class, really sweet and hot, and somewhere in her early thirties. I of course tried to get to know her better. In a move somewhat ruthlessly criticized by Hedi as being unmanly, I asked Erika to help me to buy some food in a Hungarian restaurant. I chose to indirectly ask her out for lunch. This is just the way I prefer to operate, especially if I have to deal with the person if they reject me. Erika just gave me this strange look and didn't answer the question. I was not sure she understand what I was asking, but I said nothing more. For the next for weeks I sort of gave her the cold shoulder. Any woman who was too good for me, well, she could just fuck herself! I learned later, from Erika that she had a husband and a kid. I was a little surprised because, unlike the other women in the class, who were all married with children, she never talked about her family. It didn't occur to me to look for a wedding ring. I don't have a lot of experience with asking out women whom I do not meet online. Then, one day I was going out with my other Hungarian friend from the course, Barbara, and Barbara was friends with Erika, and Barbara asked if she could take Erika along. So we went out and had something to eat. Barbara asked me how my trip to Szeged was. (Szeged is a city in Hungary about 120 miles south of Budapest, on the Serbian border.) I told them that I had cancelled my trip to Szeged because Aniko, the woman whom I had met through OkayCupid, had decided to abort our relationship. (I'm not sure if "relationship" is the right word, for we had never formally declared it as such.) Well, Erika became very interested in me after that. There was something about my having this relationship with this woman from Szeged that I think fascinated her. I think that my wanting to have relationships with mysterious Hungarian women somehow made me okay. I said in my OkayCupid ad that while I did not have a drop of Hungarian blood, I wanted to be as Hungarian as I could be; it was the truth.

I think I will publish this post in my blog too. Take care.

I hope you're okay.

Dickie

Back in the United States, and no longer in Kansas

View of the Danube from Gellért Hill in Buda, Hungary on a rainy, foggy day. The right side of the river is Pest.

Hi Erika,

I got a cultural shock when I arrived in Hungary, and I got a cultural shock coming back to the United States. When boarding the plane in London, people were speaking in somewhat ugly, Germanic sounding language. I was familiar with this language -- I knew the words, as it was English, but I heard it for the first time as a foreign language. Something seemed very wrong because people were not speaking the beautiful Hungarian that, while I understood hardly any of, I was comfortable with. And the people boarding the plane were so ugly. I had never seen so many ugly people before in one place. In Hungary, hardly anyone is ugly. Hungarians are incredibly beautiful people. I was not used to looking at people who were not beautiful. It was shocking. (There are of course exceptions like Eszter. Don't believe the crap I said in front of Zozo about Eszter being beautiful. Eszter does not look very Hungarian to me; she looks Germanic.)

When I got to Boston, Customs really, really fucked with me. They of course had nothing on me, but they interrogated me, asked horribly personal questions, and looked through every inch of my luggage -- even the dust they inspected. Finally, after clearing Customs, exhausted and really pissed off, having two suitcases, one in each hand, I ran to the bus that would take me to a train, that would take me to my apartment. The rear doors of the bus were open, so I hopped on with all my luggage, and the bus driver closed the door while I was half way in. I managed to squirm in, dazed and confused by why anyone would do something like that. A passenger said to me, "You have to pay." I had to pay? Then I finally realized that I was no longer in Budapest. In Boston, like every place in the U.S., you pay the bus driver up front. They open the rear doors in order to let people out.

I was in a big department store in the U.S. called BJ's. A woman was getting annoyed and frustrated with her son, because her son wanted to wander around. That is what children do; it is in their nature. Very rarely do parents get annoyed with their children like that in Hungary. People love the hell out their children in Hungary. Americans do not understand children. Children in the U.S. are often treated much in the way you might treat luggage. You lug your luggage around, and it is a hassle. In BJ's when I wanted to get around people in crowded aisles, I would have to resist the urge to say "bocsánat." Something seemed horribly wrong to be living in universe where you don't say "bocsánatot kérek" to get people out of your way.

Yesterday, when I was driving on the hi-way at night, I thought about the view from Gellért Hill and all the places and people and things I missed about my Buda. It was of course not "my" Buda, but it was the only place I had ever know that felt like home. I cried.

This is probably my last post, assholes

My life has taken on a new trajectory. In a few months I will be living many thousands of miles away.

I now have to protect my privacy for professional reasons. I will be disabling or deleting this blog within a month or so. I may start a new blog, where I will be more vigilant about protecting my privacy.

The enemies that I’ve made as a result of this blog will be very happy about this move, as it means that my posts will not continue to embarrass them. I am still not sure what to do about Wediko. I am considering shaking the motherfuckers down for their domain name – I can certainly use the money; I also might just continue to embarrass them. I haven’t decided yet.

It’s highly dubious if I have many regular readers, if any. I would like to say that I hate all of you, with exception to L.A. Woman, for whom I love. (But it is not a romantic love, don’t worry.)

At a certain point I had prevented people from commenting because of all the trolls and assholes posting their brain farts on my blog. About a year later, I turned the commenting back on, but restricted it to blogspot members only. There hasn’t been one comment since. This, to me, says a lot about the human race -- what fucking shits you all are, in that you can only squeeze out your reeking brain farts when you can do so easily and anonymously.

I think you are all fucking scum. And I have one word of caution for you men not living in the U.S: You’re days of pussy may be coming to an end, for your woman may be fucked by me, and I intend to dish out the best fucks that your woman has ever had.

Tables are turning motherfuckers; time that I got mine. And I’m not only after your woman, and in a much better position to take your woman -- I’m also going to take your job, because I’m probably a lot smarter than you are, I work a lot harder, and I don’t take shit for granted. And when I’ve taken your job, I ‘m not going to feel guilty. And I’m going to hope that you end up hanging yourself over your sudden loss of pussy and revenue. You will feel lonely. It will rot your soul -- your entire being. Most of you assholes, who think you are so fucking superior to me, would probably not last a day in my shoes. I hope you get the chance to see the world as I do. I hope it is your woman and your job that I take. I hope, dear reader, that I fuck you real good, for you probably have it coming.

Have a shitty life, scumbags.

Kevorkian dead. Good riddance, scumbag

Kevorkian snuffed someone I knew – she was not terminally ill. Don’t believe everything you hear about Kevorkian, even if it happens to come from so-called humanitarians and liberals and progressives. He was fucking cocksucker.

The Kevorkian freak showing off his “suicide machine” in 1991.

Dr. Death in his later years