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)
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)
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