Monday, February 28, 2005

The King am I

Some people take a walk. Others, they stare into emptiness. My friends, often are lost gazing into the window pane, or the computer screen. I, I sit on the throne. Some of the most important decisions of my life have taken place on the toilet bowl. Well, truth be told, I've not had that many important matters to mull and deside upon, but even the most mundane of decisions need to be made, right?

Over the next 2 months, I foresee spending a great deal of time deciding over the golden throne (yes, it is really gold in color). In the water closet, I am the absolute Agong (King). I preside over a small area, in a country with a population of just 1 person, me. I am royalty, commoner and slave, all in one. I rule in silence and in concentration. That's when decisions are best made, when there is nothing around you to prod your dwellling mind and break the thick fog of thought that you're engulfed in.

Until you hear a plop that is (Or several. Flatulence not counted though). By then, all 5-10 minutes of then, you should have made your call. Effective isn't it? No sleeping over it, no reiterative thoughts, no merry-go-rounds. All in less than 10 minutes. All not to be regretted at a later time. All done before the bomb's been dropped.

"Cuckooburra's King of the toilet bowl. Merry, merry king of the bowl is he. Flush, Cuckooburra flush, Cuckooburra flush" your worries away..

Hope I don't become Prime Minister. Might end up with piles.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Pringle Mingle

I gleefully opened a can of Pringles. My fat greedy hands wandered its way into the can. Out I pulled a handful of chips. Oh how I utterly enjoy pigging out on a can of Pringles. I popped the first chip into my eagerly awaiting mouth. *crunch.. crunch munch munch*.

"What the fuck is wrong with this Pringles? Tastes like someone spilled Tioman toxic residue into the can " I thought. I continued pigging anyway (Because I'm fat and I want my Pringles). My left hand which was holding the can put the green tube up to eye level. There's something wrong with this can I thought. Wait a minute. Its smaller, thinner, and weighs less. Kind of what I'd very much like to become. But also kind of like a dick that no woman would want.

Interesting discovery. Malaysia manufactures Pringles. Now news for all of you. My favorite can of Pringles at this very moment tastes like shit. Am I the only self respecting portly junkfood connoisseur out there that thinks I could feed the Pringles to stray cats and even they would puke? Does anyone even notice the change in taste? Why oh why did they have to spoil something so perfect? No wonder they had to actively advertise it in terrestrial tv. No one really wants to buy Pringles anymore. (FYI, I took a whole 2 weeks to finish the can on my own. Unheard of. No one takes that long to finish a can of Pringles.)

It baffles me sometimes how anything good can be screwed upside-down, inside out, right-side in by a Malaysian company. Its the same with just about everything else made in Malaysia for local consumption. Companies seem to think that all Malaysians really want are cheap poor quality goods. No, make that free poor quality goods. But free is impossible, so cheap is the next best thing.

We don't deserve quality. For us, substandard Proton cars that break apart after 10,000 km, with electric windows that don't work and signal sticks that snap would suffice. We can give all the better quality cars to the Mat Sallehs in Norwich. They deserve quality products. They pay with British Pounds. We have to lick their asses. *Yumm Yumm*. Tastes better than Pringles.

I am not going to stand for this. I would personally rather pay Rm1 more for quality then to pay Rm1 less for what I can get now. Why is it that no one in the marketing division of any company seems to understand this fact? Stop feeding duckcrap products into the Malaysian consumer market. I say we deserve to eat/use/consume the same products that anyone else in the world consumes so freely. I blame the exchange rate. We can't afford shit with it. Yes I have a personal agenda. I am a selfish prick who only wants the best my money can buy. I yearn for quality. Heard that Badawi & Rafidah? Wake up and smell the Kopi 'O'. We ain't a 3rd world country anymore. We've got no use for 3rd world shitty products. Where is my better standard of living that you've promised?

Monday, February 21, 2005

Parent's Currents

Foreign feelings. That is what I've been plagued by lately. Plagued is not the exact word, but bothered nonetheless. Up to a certain point in time, I couldn't care less about my parents. I saw them as just people temporarily responsible for me, people that are supposed to pay the bills and keep me alive. I never leaned on them for emotional support, ever (This made me a reclused perve and burdened by my own adolescent problems - excessive wanking). They were too busy with my siblings to have enough time for me anyway*queue sad violin tunes now*. They did mention though, that they were lucky enough that I wasn't troublesome like my sister and brother. Well, lucky enough that I hadn't confessed my troubles and wrong-doings to them at least.

As I've aged, and they've aged, the situation has changed significantly though. No longer do I show apathy toward my parents. In fact, I've evolved one step further by actually caring for their overall well being, feelings and health. Long gone were days when I would do everything and anything I wanted without a care for what they think. Now, everything in my life seems to be at the very least geared toward making them happy as they prepare for their twilight years.

This has made me wonder though. In all the responsibility that has befallen me as the eldest child of the family, how much am I obliged to give? Obligation is a very powerful word to most of us, and is frowned upon by the young at heart. I for one, am still strongly against obligations, be it social, political, economic, religious or racial. I still believe that we should do something because we want to, and not because we are forced to. The line is getting thinner and thinner though, as sometimes, because we are forced to, we want to.

Not only am I wondering how much I'm supposed to give and do, I've also started wondering how long the lingering influence of a parent should remain in the child's life. I know of some friends whos parents still play an active, major role in all forms of decision making. I know of others who are afraid to do certain things not because it is wrong, but because their parents will find out. (Yours truly for one. I am not ashamed to admit this: I am still financially dependent on my parents. Dang.) So, is it expected of a child to devote an entire lifetime to his/her parents, in the hope that the cycle will continue with the child's offspring? What happens if the child is bad? Will the horrendous cycle of hatred continue deep into the coming generations? Who breaks the cycle then, if the cycle can't be broken? Doesn't make sense.

I understand the deep underlying need of all parents to continue protecting their child. But in our society in particular, I find the problem of letting go to be severe. In other cultures, children are expected to leave the home, in search of their own life by a certain age. Not even remotely similar here. Parents will fight tooth and nail to keep their little babies at home for as long as possible. Pleasant to know that parents still want to continue exerting their influence on the child for as long as they shall live.

Today, my father told me about the story of a great socialist of the 1960's who was framed and thrown into the ISA, accused of being a communist. He was telling me about how this politician was revered as the true champion of the public cause. Then he went on about how the politician's son, who is also a minister as his father was, is so different from his father. His son, I had to agree, is an absolute powercrazy nutcase. A real piece of arrogant elephant dung gone sour. But really, besides being the obvious asshole that he truly is, is the son truly obligated to be and act like his father?

Must I be accountable for my father's actions, as he is be accountable for mine? Where in the entire sanctity of a society such as ours does it state that a child should continue to act exactly as his/her parents are acting? Why is it that the actions of a child, which is mutually exclusive and personal, is often related back to his/her parents? Shouldn't each and every individual be personally accountable for his/her own actions? Must there continuously be a link between parent and child?

The child, as I have realized will one day become a parent. In most cases. I'm guessing that I am not in the right position to fully understand the innermost insecurities of most parents, until I become one. I used to want children. I've even got their names down. Now though, I think I'd rather not. For fear of being insecure, as my parents currently are.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Melancholic Despair

Melancholic despair. The rhapsody of harrowing pain, hurt and indignity that has become my existance. Long vanished were days of everlasting sunshine, of playful clouds dancing to the tune of my mind. Laboring to prove that there is indeed a need to continue this suffering. My heart struggles for conviction. None more so, than at a crucial time such as this. I am in pain.

Designated I have become, the banished soul of a cheerful lover. Though dignified I am in this exile, I continue my masochistic ways. The road back to colorful rainbows may have long passed, but heaven it is that we shall continue searching. Even if heaven ushers different realities to the both of us. To be hurt, or to hate, are those really choices? Differing degrees of hell is what I see right now. How deep do I want to fall? Will it be all the same, no matter how deep I go? I am in pain.

Deep in a rut. Our fight almost over. All that we've worked for, ruined by the clipped wings of hope. Darkness befalls all that surrounds us, eclipsing even the once mighty but befallen spirit. No one can help me now. No being powerful enough to intervene. God, the God that we all know by different names, is a mere back-bencher under these circumstances. A sadistic spectator of truths and outcomes. Let everything unravel, He says, for only you control your destiny. I have no more strength for destiny. I am in pain.

Transportation Menstruation

In a nutshell, this was what I wanted to write about today:

"Our intracity busses are a load of crap. Rapid KL have taken over nothing but the management. They have somehow managed to con everyone into thinking that replacing the stickers, logos and ticket stubs are enough to pass the busses off as new. This is what I would call rebranding I guess. If I were to rebrand my lazy ass Ashton Kutcher/Brad Pitt/Tom Cruise/whoever it is the girls go gaga over, wonder how many girls will fall for it. If only it were that simple. I think I'll call my roadside stall Carcosa Seri Negara. Nice ring to it all. Ill even pay for a new signboard.

Knowing then that the busses are a load of old, stale crap, I would like to invite the upper management of Rapid KL and the Transport Ministry along with its Minister for a plonk into that old, stale piece of crap. Take it to your workplace for one month boys and girls. See how you feel. Suddenly the stickers outside don't look too inviting huh. Maybe then they'd stop trying to convince the masses that everything has truly turned for the better. Bloody conmen/women."

Actually, there was plenty more from that article, but all I could remember was what I've written above. The rest has been swallowed into the abyss by the great internet service we all know as Blogger.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Small Talk

Staring into emptiness, my view was suddenly obscured by a very attractive girl. Real eye candy. Naturally, my jaded eyes followed her across the cafe, right up to her seat, which was very conveniently right across mine. Apparently, she and her parents were also guests of the function I was invited to. I was elated. There, seated in front of me, would be the focus of my evening. Finally, a reason for me not to feel like killing myself out of boredom in the company of old men and women. We proceeded to the buffet spread, and I had the worst time of my life. This was because it took my horny, usually chatty little mouth a whole 1 hour before I mustered my first words to her.

"Ha ha Ha *Laughing my most macho laugh, ala Schwarzenegger* 1 month!" I proclaimed.

This was in response to a question on how long it would take me to study and successfully resit my SPM exams. (I know, farfetched. I didn't have much choice. The other guy said that he could do it in 2 months. I had to prove my mettle. I have bigger balls). I wanted to hit myself in the head. Of all my stupid one liners and pickup lines, this was all I could muster. However, all was not lost, for as the evening progressed, we were quite engrossed in the conversation we were having.

Once we had left the function, I realized that I had made one critical error. I didn't ask for her number! Then I realized that I had made another critical error. I hadn't even remembered her name! I hit myself in the head hard this time. But I consoled myself in the fact that it was a feat to Buaya (malay slang for flirt) with anyone in front of her parents and that small talk saved an otherwise boring and reclusive function. I could tell that she liked me. Honestly.

Yesterday morning, I was asked by my prospective employer, an oil and gas company headquartered in Tower 1 of the Twin Towers, to go through a medical examination. I willingly obliged thinking that it would be a two bit examination done in haste, like the ones I had gone through before.

An hour had passed, and everything went well. I was ushered and herded into many different test rooms including tests for HIV and drugs (I had wanted to take the HIV test for quite sometime now. Very nice of my prospective employers to pay for it. I am also very lucky that it has been a while since I smoked pot). The final phase of the test included a physical exam conducted by the attending physician. As usual, he checked for my blood pressure, did an oral exam, ear exam, eye exam and so on.

Then he dropped the bomb. The door behind me closed. He asked me to remove my shoes, my socks, and my pants. (I know that its normal for a doctor to request something like that, but here is a burly, bald, goateed, middle-aged guy asking me to do it. I was a little scared for my virgin ass. Took me a full 10 seconds before I took my pants off.) He asked me to lie down and all of a sudden, the serious looking doctor became really friendly and chatty, engaging in, you guessed it, small talk (I was really afraid now, refer to first story above). While I was replying one of his many questions and comments, he suddenly grabbed my family jewels. All of my beloved Royal Scepter and 2 Feberge Eggs. I gasped for air. Then he asked me to cough, while explaining that he's now going to perform the test for hernia.

*cough cough, cough cough* (It was the most feeble of coughs anyone could muster. I had trouble coughing because someone was grabbing my balls)

He conducted the test, looking straight into my eyes and continuing the small talk. I felt relieved that there was something else for me to concentrate on besides a guy cupping my balls. Small talk saves the day yet again. Luckily I didn't have an erection. Imagine what the doctor would have thought of then. Imagine what I would have thought of myself then. Imagine if it was a cute female doctor. Imagine if it was the girl I had met earlier posing as a doctor.*Imagination gone wild*

Lessons from the past weekend. Small talk is absolutely important. To those who cant, please learn how to. It might get you your girl, as well as keep you away from very awkward situations. You can even grab my balls without feeling awkward (Please don't try unless you don't have a pair). The power of small talk.

Friday, February 11, 2005


Cik Sabehah (not her real name) had just given birth to illegitimate triplets. There was much fanfare surrounding the birth of her impoverished kids, but top of the topics were the questioning of her abilities to raise and feed her offspring. She had been a single mother almost all her life, having previously given birth to children that almost did not care for her. What irked the public most was her willingness to bear and deliver the fruits of her irrepressably itchy loins. Men just moved in and out of her life, like the changing of meals in a day(She had 2 meals a day). She however, just went about her duties as a mother, ever so dilligently.

This was how the "Kampung Melayu PJ" (Malay Village PJ) gang came to being. Out of wedlock. The three masterminds of the gang, the illegitimate children of Cik Sabehah, ruled the area with such guile and bravery that almost belittled their physical abilities. One day, Abu, Mot and Lang (not their real names either, children of Cik Sabehah) had planned a daring robbery at my Aunt's house. It was daring, ingenious, and cunning. Unknown to the occupants of that house, they crept in through the unlock backdoor. Having studied the daily habits of my aunt, her husband and the other occupants, they were pretty sure that it was impossible to get caught.

My Aunt walked straight into them that day. She yelled, hollered, screamed, with all her might. Then she called me. Fortunately I was in the house that day. We took a pail full of water and splashed it on the three siblings. They ran, with all their might. We knew that water would hurt them. We gave chase and spashed some more water. "Darn cats, trying to steal the food," I thought.

Cats, hate them. My friend once told me that cats are like a Malay family. They just keep on giving birth. Nonstop. Litter after litter came. Litter after litter went. That's partly the reason why I hate them so much. They just can't stop giving birth. Sex machines. Nymphomaniacs. Why don't I spay them? Try catching them.

Back when I lived in Kampung Sri Hartamas, (back then it was a village, peaceful and quiet, no impeding highways running through it ) I used to go wild dog hunting with my peers. Hard to believe it, but we did. We would cycle all the way to what is now the Kerinchi Link and shot stray dogs with handmade guns. This went on until there were no stray dogs left, after which we aimed at the general canine population. Suffice to say, one day, us boisterous village kids got scolded by a very irrate owner of a top breed dalmation.

So I turned my attention to cats instead. I had a pet cat once. I knew cats weren't for me. I tied a noose around its head and wanted to take it for a walk one day. So out we went. Except the cat didn't want to budge. It made so much noise, I tugged some more. Reluctantly, it followed me for a walk, dragging half the road underneath it with its outstretched claws. Poor cat.

Then there was this one time I was with my cousin at my grandmother's place. We went for a walk and got bored. Kids, you know. So we devised a plan. His job was to grab a kitten and throw it into a dog's holding pen. My job was to watch in glee and run as hard as possible when the owner came out. It was a mess. I was a fat kid, but I can't remember any other time I've run as fast away from anything. We could hear the dogs owner, the barking and mauling of the dogs, coupled with terrified shrills of the kitten from 4 houses away. Poor cat.

Third incident occured in my hostel in university. I was minding my own business when this nice little kitten came into my room. Apparently it was just lost, and wanted to be friendly. I was friendly alright, stroking it, playing with it. Then I left the room to pick up an assignment that I was about to copy from a friend of mine (I maintain my innocense. It was more a valiant attempt at discussing the correct answer, of which he derived and I checked.).

Horror of horrors. I came back to a room that didn't smell quite right. traced it to a corner of the room where I found the kitten laying there asleep, next to a pile of its own poo. Ever seen a flying cat? Neither have I, up to that point. Threw it out of my first floor room window. The bastard didn't die. Two hypothesis proven correct. Cats are bastards, and they do have nine lives. Poor cat. Again.

I would like to state here that my hatred for cats run deep. I much prefer dogs, even though during my youth, I've abused them. All you cat lovers out there, please take good care of your cats. Don't let them stray into my path, lest you want me to shoot them with my handy Black Widow steel limited edition lastic (is that what they call it in English? Couldn't find the right word)

P.S. In a totally unrelated incident, today I saw my 84 year old grandmother's tits! *More screams of horror* Almost went blind. Burned a hole in my retina. Why oh why did they have to clothe her in that Baju Kuring singkat (shortened malay womens dress)

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Maligned Malay

Before you continue reading, it is advised that you read Tv Smith's and The Roadie's entries on the topic above. Further links can be found at the sites mentioned above.

I grew up confused, and am very much still in searching (No, I've pretty much made up my mind on gender issues =P). You see, by name, I am Malay. I enjoy everything a bumiputra enjoys, and that, in droves. However, by genetic predisposition (I am very much into genes nowadays) I am more Chinese than Malay. See why I'm in searching? I grew up the Malay way, and grew up the religious way. I've left all that now, and carry none of what I've learned when I was growing up. While searching for my true identity then, I've more often than not ended up confused. As hell. Doesn't really help that during the most formative years of my life, I was exposed to racism. (My father and his siblings formed what I would like to call the anti-Indian-and-everything-black-that-moves alliance. The only Indian they ever supported was Kalimuthu aka Batang Kali, for the sole reason that he killed other Indians.)

This type of exposure continued in school. My friend once asked me, what is the difference between a Malay and a bucket of shit. I knew what was coming, but asked for the answer anyway. He replied: "The Bucket". Then there was the "Dayung Sampan" (Row your boat) story. I was hurt, and angry. Hurt and angry enough that I wanted to punch his face. But I didn't punch him. Instead, I laughed it off. I became his close friend. Being one of the very few Malays in my class, I was constantly rediculed, made fun of, and as always, the butt of all racist jokes. This however, made me think. It didn't make me ashamed of being who I am, but it made me think.

From then on, I set about trying to change my friend's perceptions of Malays. In the process however, I lost everything that I've ever stood for as a Malay Muslim growing up. I got my share of praises alright, but I lost everything that has made me, up to that point, me. The weirdest of praises that I've gotten was one from an acquaintence in university who said that I was like no other Malay she has ever met. Two questions had popped into my head at that very moment. Am I that different from most Malays, and has she even met a Malay to start with?

Then came the first defining moment of my life. Up to my university days, I've befriended everyone. However, due to the nature of my school, I was rarely in contact with Malays, except for the few in my class. So, this carried itself into university. Unfortunately, my university was predominantly bumiputera based. Within a week of being there, I was universally labelled by the Surau establishment as "Setan" (devil) and "rosak" (morally spoiled). I was hurt, and angry, a second time. But the difference was I was ashamed of who I was, the Malay. I alienated them as a consequence of their actions (I didn't alienate all the Malays, just the bunch from the Surau. This little incident did make me dislike Malays somewhat though).

To make things worse, behind my back, some of the ultra-chinese chinak were branding me lost and confused and didn't want my company (who said that the Malays were the only ones who talked behind peoples backs and backstabbed?). Great, my "own kind" hates me, and the kind I wanted to be and hang out with hated me too. Fortunately, some others were kinder in thought, and took me in. Toward the end of my time in university, I was part of a very racially mixed group albeit being the only Malay in that group.

Right at this very moment, I've stopped trying to be any particular race. I've decided that the best way to go about my soul-searching is to be who I am comfortable being, the human being. No particular race nor religion is necessary for being that. I am the individual, the person that only strives to be responsible, strives for self improvement, and strives to do the right thing at the right time. I see no use in explaining myself to anyone, nor labelling anyone anything (though sometimes it does help the raging blistering heart to cool down if explatives were thrown at a certain type of people or individual).

I don't see races or religions anymore, but see mere individuals that do not do a race or religion justice. When I generalize (also known as stereotyping) I do not do it unless I truly feel that the general population IS like that. So, instead of condemning our kind, or condemning others for condemning our kind, or just plain condemning other kinds, why not spend time improving ourselves. Why not go out and prove those racist bigots wrong. Be who you want to be, not who society and religion wants you to be. Frankly, I don't care anymore what other people personally think of me. I just go about being the best human being I can. Call me "lupa daratan, tak ingat tuhan, kelapa parut" or what ever. I don't give a shit. As far as I'm concerned, I am trying to be the best that I could ever be.

Lessons to be learned:
  • We don't need Pak Lah to tell us that we need to buck up. (Watch Remember the Titans. Patronage only makes us weaker.)
  • Sometimes all we need is a little/big jolt(of racism) in the ass to get us moving.
  • Incest is bad.
  • Daughter Banging is worse.
  • People come up with stereotypes because there are enough examples out there to warrant that stereotype. Try very hard not to be a statistic.
  • We should all try NOT to be whiny (Do something about it instead), lazy arsed (Can't help it sometimes), poison penning (I strive to become instead of bring down), idle gossiping (Love talking), pyramid (What the fuck is a pyramid Malay?), under achieving (My greatest fear), daughter banging (Don't have daughters), bickering hypocrites (Bickering, weall do it, you've all done it. Hypocrites? Hate them). Humans are humans afterall.
  • Accept things as they are. Move on for the better.
  • Individuality rules in the end.
P.S. I hope I don't sound holier-than-thou. Just wanted to share my thoughts.

Fleeing Siblings

I envy the families that my friends are a part of. Specifically, I envy their relationship with their siblings (With the exception of 1 or 2 similar cases). Granted, almost everyone has spats, quarels, banter, wrestling, death threats and incest brother sister sex, but somehow, barring illegitimate children and dead bodies, everything works out well and good.

I had a fallout with my younger sister not so recently. Thinking about it, I was amazed with how long it took for us to have that fallout. At age 6, she threatened to kill me with a butter knife. From 7-11, she used her claws to such great effect, leaving me with a scar I can still see today. At age 12, when she was bigger than me (she was big, I nicknamed her nangka(jackfruit) because of her shape), she would trash me at wrestling, regularly pinning me down. I survived physical abuse just fine. At age 13, when she was finally proficient enough in the English language, she started arguing for a living. Then hell broke lose.

Whoever the socially inept retarded asswipe that came up with the little saying "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me" must have been high on morphine in some dank, piss ridden back alley, with rats knawing his balls off. Either that, or he was born a deaf fucker. No, that can't be, because I would have still been able to write a derigatory essay to a deaf fucker.

Needless to say, at age 21, she went too far with her mouth on a very very wrong day, and received the beating of the life of her left arm. A nice big black swollen area on her upper arm prevented sleeveless tops for more than a month. I was happy that I beat her left arm up, mainly because it was my last chance to. ( A tinge of regret though, because I really wanted to punch her teeth off. But I thought again that an ugly bitch will be unmarry-able. This will pose problems to me, as this would mean that she would be hanging around longer. See, Im considerate.). My father, the sly sly sly man that he is, was secretly happy, mainly because someone had inadvertantly done his job for him. My mother was there, watching it all unfold, because well, I think shes got a sadistic streak in her.

If you're thinking at this moment that I am the seriously brutal wife beating redneck type, think again. I was on the receiving end of abuse for the better part of 15 years. It took me 15 years to crack. I've also stuck my neck out for her many many times. (When my sister turned 18, my father wanted to marry her off to a 50 year old mamak man, knowing that she was already getting out of hand. He was dead serious. I intervened and pleaded to let my sister continue her studies. Biggest regret of my life. If not I would have had a rich mamak brother-in-law by now). I know plenty of guys who crack for much much less. Plus, I've made it clear that I am severing all ties with her. So, no more beatings, just that one joyous, fulfilling, relieving moment.

So, what recent incident brought up this story? Well, to cut the story short, my younger brother is up next. Sadly, he's only 11, and hes got a mouth that his brain can't keep up with. If he has brains to begin with. We would be happy if he had a brain that was half as smart as his chicken backside mouth was. I would really hate to end up beating his left arm too, and severing all ties. However, only time will tell. Don't think though, that for even a darned second, that I would have any grouses about severing ties with him too.

Call me what you want, label me as you like. I'll pass the bitch over to you to live with and see how you fair. I'll happily throw in my brother as a free gift. We know how much Malaysians love free gifts right? So, any takers? OK. I'll throw in a lifetime supply of Cameron Highlands vegetables for the unlucky human being. No buddhist monks are allowed to participate in this scheme.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Sex: 2 Pax

I was sitting down minding my own business when my mother ambushed me. She sat down and I commented on an article that I was reading in the newspapers. I never really knew how the hell we ended up talking about sex. 10 years too late at that. Funny. I never expected it to be at all embarassing and certainly didn't expect it to turn out the way it did, all mature and "professional".

My parents once commented when I was 16 that it was too late to talk about sex merely because they thought that I might know more than they did. I laughed my way to my room, which left them baffled. Later however, I found out that my father kept a secret stash of sex-help books centering on performance and pleasure (He also had a stash of porn which I accidentally stumbled upon). Sly old man he. Didn't want to share his secrets with me. Tsk tsk tsk, selfish. Little then, did I expect my mother to be gauging how much I knew about the topic and comparing notes.

We didn't discuss much about the mechanics of sex, rather, more on reproduction itself. She started talking about genes, and how strong my grandfather's genes were (He had 6 sons and only 2 daughters). I wanted to say that it was because he had a long dick, pounded it in, shot it deep and yelled hurrah! It, however, didn't come out like that mainly because I have respect for my stout dead grandfather, and I pictured him "doing it" with my 84 year old grandmother and it burned a hole in my head.

So I said that it was instead, due to conditions of the vagina, cervix and uterus, to which my mother agreed. Then I related to her a story my science teacher told me in secondary school of her female ex-student who soaked her nether regions in baking soda water for 30 minutes before sex (I wonder if the baking soda leaves her vagina dry and caustic). At the time that story was related to the class, the student had successfully delivered 2 boys for the family cause (No dwelling on the importance of males. Sensitive topic amongst women). Needless to say, my mother was amazed and reaffirmed her belief that if a male heir cannot be produced, it is because of the woman, and not the man. Science is on my side on this one. Feminists, you can send your dogs back to the kennels.

This was when the conversation got weird. She said that in order to get boys, I had to stop thinking about pleasuring my woman and making her come. She said that I had to fast from sex for 2 weeks before the peek ovulating period of my wife, find a comfortable position, get to it and come as quickly as possible. ( I translated this as wanking for 2 weeks and banging my wife hard on the kitchen table when the time came.) I was pleased with how my mother viewed sex.

Then it bloody dawned on me. My mother wasn't interested in talking about sex. She was interested about conveying to me her need to see grandchildren. Shit, my father is sly and my mom is sneaky. She has apparently reached an age where she is insecure about longetivity and life. Problem is, I'm still young, and as far as I know at the time of writing, I've not been promised to a sweet young thing yet. I'm fearing for my life now, because my father is sly and my mother is sneaky. Who knows what they could be up to.

Lessons to be learned. If you want a son, women have to soak themselves in baking soda, while men have to fast for 2 weeks and fuck her hard and fast. Its all hardwork really. As for parents, if you see them approaching you with intent to talk about genes, duck for cover. Avoid the salvo. Run Forrest, run. Lest you've already delivered the goods.

P.S. Having then known that its pretty hard work conceiving a child, makes you wonder how the hell some people have all the luck in the world conceiving illegitimate children. My mother says its because they're not under stress. Hahaha.

Friday, February 04, 2005

Mediocrity for You and Me

My biggest fear in life, besides waking up naked next to a she-goat in my parent's bedroom with my parents staring at me, is being labelled mediocre. You know, just so-so, average, Tom, Dick and Harry, not good, not bad.

Mediocre. Damn. *Cringing in fear*

I've always believed that I had potential to do well and me being in my life, I'm not the only one that realizes this. I've constantly got weight over my shoulders and a burden to bear. Weight that becomes increasingly heavier and more difficult to hoist as life progresses from one phase to the other. I live in total fear of not making it, of not living up to expectations, of not doing well and of not doing well enough to meet those expectations.

In a way, I am lucky to have expectations. Being the laziest thing on earth (yes, many a piece of driftwood has succumbed to my lazy prowess) I need that sort of jerk, to jumpstart and override all my stored laziness. Most of the time however, it doesn't work, subsequently leading to more rushed instances where I produce sub-par results and performances. Back to being mediocre. Until I can find out for sure if I make it in life or not, I shall continue to be in the worried state that I am currently under.

Doesn't really help then, that our society celebrates mediocrity. Everywhere you turn we are honoring the mediocre among us. Every year without fail we give unending bonusses/extra holidays/government stationary to government staff (see what I mean?), every "Hari Penyampaian Hadiah" is littered with not just the usual 1-2-3 spots, but also most improved student/best chess player/cleanest class/3rd most improved student for each class etc etc. Come to think of it, my parents only expect passes (Yes, 40 marks and above out of 100) from my younger brother nowadays. How the standards have dropped. He gets rewarded for below mediocre results! (He gets to watch A Sharks Tale if he passes everything). If I were to bring home a report card filled with passes, my parents would have hung me upside down from a fan and beat me senseless for not trying hard enough. (I am a jealous sibling at the current moment. Where is my Sharks Tale? =P).

So, if kids nowadays are brought up on a staple of mediocrity with generous sprinklings of decadence, how do we expect to progress? What do we do with a nation full of people who are only average, who only intend to do OK, who worst of all are so easily contented with what they have. What do we do with those who think that rewards are around the corner for everyone regardless of how hard you work, or don't work. Don't give me bullcrap about finding happiness and being contented with life and all that. I am talking about desire. About the will to do better than the average Joe. I'm talking about the willingness to embark on a journey of constant self improvement.

This is truly worrying. I might not have to work so hard to live a comfortable life. But then again, I've never been known to be contented with mine. OK, resolved then. I'm going to throw myself in the deep end. Hopefully, I don't drown. If I do, I hope the fish dont start nibbling at my feet. And if I make it, I'll be reminded of those who have helped me stay afloat. After which I will marry the most beautiful one, and make others my cronies. Till then, its back to my mediocre existence, for now.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Fuck Iraq

Pontooned deep in the everglades of the U.S of A, a father speaks to his son:

Paw (P): What yhou ghot there Jhunior?
Junior (J): Got me a lettah frem deh YooAss Army Paw!
P: I'll be damned! *slaps juniors back in excitement, lets go a couple of sawed-off shotgun shots* Yee Haw! Are yhou damn near ready Jhunior?
J: Sure am Paw! Drill Sargeant gayve meh eh reall screwin the last time Paw! *scratches his ass as a mosquito bites it* Gonna get me some hoehum moeslem ass Paw!
P: You betcha Junior! *shoots an innocent crocodile* Yee Haw!!
J: Mr. Bush sure as hell did deh right thing ehh Paw?
P: Dets right! Ain't me dehh proudest summabitch in dehh confeederatee south! Goonaa send jhunior ere to Eeraq. Dhon't yhou go dying on me jhunior!
J: I swear on this ere white ass of mine that I'll be back ferr Thanksgivin Paw!
*Both of them continue shootin crocodiles and private male bonding*

Junior, being a first time reservist, with no prior training is sent to Iraq. There, he is thought on various ways of getting his share of Moeslem ass. Being lucky to have escaped prosecution after being involved in the oihsadfkjh prison torture scandal, he is posted as a UN watchdog in one of the polling stations in the city of Vhaginah. Junior dies when a suicide bomber rams his kapchai filled with explosives straight into Junior's guard post, killing Junior and 2.71 million Iraqis instantly. The bomber is given a state funeral and hailed as a matyr, while they are still picking up pieces of Juniors liver from the dirt outside his ex-guardpost.

A lot has been debated on the Iraqi war and a lot more has been made into issues, more than what is necessary. I personally don't give a shit if the YooAss army should or should not have invaded Iraq. That's their personal choice. From the conversation above you could easily tell that they're a boisterous lot anyway. Shit, half of them, despite being illiterate-shotgun-weilding -pickup-truck-driving rednecks, bothered to vote that monkey to be president anyway.

What I'm truly angry about here is the fact that everytime a bomb goes off in the name of god and a retarded muslim cleric, it ends up killing more other bloody Iraqis than the YooAss army. Sureee, they kinda repented recently by learning how to shoot down British transport planes instead, but really, how galactically idiotic must you be to boast about it? I'm not sure if they've thought about this, but if you want the satans from the west to get the hell out, the last goddamn thing you should do is shoot down their transport plane. Numbnuts.

I laughed with sarcasm today as I read editorials stating that this be a new beginning for Iraq, how democracy is going to change things and a new dawn will herald future foreign investment to rebuild Iraq back to its glory days. Next to that litter of editorials and personal comments was a huge article on fraudulent handling of aid and reconstruction money. $8.8 Billion still unaccounted for. Try checking the interim president's swiss bank account. It might be there. Just a hunch.

So, why fuck Iraq you say? I think its a simple case of not trying to save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Read the body language of every Iraqi. They're all screaming get the fuck out. My message is this. Get the hell out of there. Everyone. Let that place rot in hell. They'll manage, being the squabbling disunited segregated mofos that they are. God sent 3 religions, 5 Kajillion earthquakes and natural dissasters and 6 Kabujillion wars down there in a bid to straighten them out. Look what's still happening. Don't think Condoleza Rice can do better than God do you?

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Bangsa Malaysia (Cultural Uprising Plan Part 1)

Contrary to popular belief, not all bloggers just sit around and lament about the donkies that are running the country or serenade everybody with useless information like what kind of toilet paper they used today. Yes, I do love to sit down and do my share of kutuking, but then I'm an all action man. So, staying to form, I've come up with the first part of my cultural uprising plan. I call it the Bangsa Malaysia Plan (I plan to make this a reality unlike most people). Todays plan will revolve around making ideal citizens of my country, Malaysia. For the following specifications, I shall rely on foreign technology (secret stemcell technology) that will never be transferred. I have done so because I do not trust Malaysian factories/technology, especially the clandestine ones affiliated with slaughtering chickens.

Physical Attributes
  • Hair: Straight, bushy and black (to protect the head against harmful rays of tropical sun and rain. Abit like an umbrella). v1.1 will feature dirty blond hair dye by Wella.
  • Eyes: No eyes will be necessary. This is to ensure that we continue ignoring everything. v1.1 Might develop slight slitsin v1.1, as brainwashing progresses.
  • Nose: Small, flattened nose more sensitive than a dogs nose. This is to ensure that everyone knows where they are going, due to lack of eyes.
  • Mouth: As big as can be, so that we can continuously talk behind peoples back. Also so that no secret is kept to themselves. We are a caring nation. No secrets should be kept away from anyone.
  • Ears: Similar to the eyes, non-existant. Bangsa Malaysia will be too busy talking rather than listening. v1.1 will be equipped with mini hearing aids, like your grandmas.
  • Skin: 5 inches thick. This is to block out the suns harmful rays (Aren't I a practical person), and to absorb all that skin-whitening shit that is religiously spread on it. Thick skin also usefull for armor, and asking for extra discounts. Skin color will be blue. This is because if you mix yellow, brown, black and fake white, youll get blue (ok, so you wont, but who the hell cares?)
  • Hands: Wide and fat. Will have to be impossible for any purposeful use other than feeding the mouth, which is huge anyway. Wide hands are also useful for blocking spit and saliva that is spewing out of that large mouth when it talks.
  • Feet/legs: Athletic. Thinking of Michael Johnson's. This is to ensure safe and fast escape from any work thrown at them. Athletic feet will also ensure that we can at least excel in sports. We can put impending work at the starting block of the 400 M sprint, and before the word go, our Malaysian will be way way in front. This has to be rectified somewhat, so that he doesn't have too many false starts. VCD vendors will also have no problem running away.
  • Body: Muscular and also athletic. Anybody that learns science will know that such weird upper body attributes will surely need a strong body to prop it up. Plus, muscular bodies are also needed when every form of public transportation breaks down due to poor maintenance and we have to revert back to man-powered mancarts.
  • Brain: None needed. This is to ensure full compliance. Brains will only lead to more complaining. Plus, half the government departments dont require one as entry requirements. So, I'm halfway there.
Future generations will all be born with those specifications. Bugs will be corrected as we progress, if we progress. Current Malaysians will have to adhere to the Plan and will have to go through tupperware jobs (plastic surgery for all those of you who don't know). Following which is a 2 month intensive brainwashing session. All those resisting will be detained under the ISA and be charged with sodomy. Women too.

Religion: Due to the fact that religion is such a big part of us, I have created a religion to be adored by the masses. It will be called *mumble mumble* (yet to be decided). The faith will center around the worship of the Roti Canai as all powerful and enduring. It's powers shall not be questioned. Also due to the fact that we love religious segregation, we shall have seperate sects and denominations. We shall also have variations of the religion worshiping the Roti Telur, Roti Bom, Roti Planta, Roti Sardin, Roti Milo etc etc. Like the great civilizations of the past (Greek and Roman) there ought to be great myths surrounding the Roti family. Holy water will of course be Kuah Daal or Kari, which will be decided based on popular demand. v1.1 will include possible mention of a warrior god by the name of Nasi Lemak and its legion of Sambal.

A new scripture will be published detailing the religion as we progress. More to come on environment, governance, overseas policies, ISA, taxes, the economy and all those things that are currently part of our lives now. Nothing will be left out.