Some Korean children have the power to whine with such conviction, it's almost a biological weapon.
But it's not always concentrated like blunt force trauma— they can drag a scorned whine out like a staggered length of barbed-wire.
It's like for every whine there are also three bonus whines packed into the same breath, just for good measure. It's challenging to try and describe in words, but those who know, know. Whining is just part of the inflection of the Korean language, and for most, it saturates their English like grease in a bucket of "Donky Chicken."
Sometimes you just want to whine right back at them, and today I did.
There are other ways to get my attention besides garroting a cat with your vocal chords every time you open your mouth. Try raising your hand kid.
Okay, you can only go for so long without invoking my mock wrath.
I uncorked the metaphorical bottle, and let out the longest, most exaggerated whine that had been carefully aging in me for the last 4 months.
I whined so hard I lost my balance.
It was great.
I was the sommelier of sarcasm.
And the wine jokes end here.
This lead to a short whine battle of sorts, and although I was at a natural disadvantage, I still have big, strong lungs. I finally overcame the culprit, much to the delight of the rest of the class.
"Teacher is very funny!" they applauded. One even sounded an imaginary trumpet in honor.
The taste of victory was bold and full-bodied, with a subtle soupçon of elderberries and the most vibrant, fluttering finish of eucalyptus.
Sorry, I'm done.