SOS

My router has given way. This means that I would:

• Have to blog from my father's computer. (No privacy, no comfy room, too many peering eyes)
• Not blog at all until my father replaces the router. (Distinct but very real possibility, but this could be for days, or even weeks, since he doesn't consider the router to be top of his priority list)

Such is life. When things die on you, you look for a replacement. Wish human relationships were that simple. By the way, first day of work was today. Officially a new chapter in my life. PETRONAS, remains in my eyes, as just another glorified government department.

Will try to update in the comings days. I am aware of my obligations as a blogger, haha.

Marriage Porridge

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, as with most fairy tales, a princess will find her prince and they will live happily ever after. Then, things got complicated. They started having kids, the royal families clashed in ideologies and thought, the royal dog fell ill and died of tape worm disease, pandemic outbreak of chicken flu hit their kingdom, and everything under the sun came raining on them.

This seems to be a problem with fairy tales. They always stop before the shit hits the fan. Sure, the evil witch, or the ugly count, or the big bad wolf will make life miserable, but it seems that after so many trials and tribulations, everyone will find that silver lining and die happy, with their partner buried next to them. It became such an obsession, that kids were, and continue to be brainwashed with the notion of a happy ending. That getting married should be the goal of a lifetime, and that raising a family with a dog and a backyard is everyone's dream.

I, like others, grew up believing in the sacred union of marriage. Of finding the one you love, marrying that person and living a life of happiness, together. I believeD, that getting married meant something big, meant something special, and most of all meant a commitment to one another. The problem is, that nowadays, people give up too easily. I see this especially happening with the western world, where the doctrine stands: if you ain't happy with it, pack up and leave. True that maybe if all you have to do is keep on trying and trying, it'll become tiring and really, those are very good grounds to quit, but where do we draw that little line after which everything is just too much to bear.

Then theres the issue of the need for marriage itself. If there is indeed a bind that the contract comes with, how come more and more couples each year are getting divorced? Does it really entail 2 people working really hard at building and keeping it all intact? If so, then why do some other people see having children as the ultimate reason for staying together, instead of the marriage itself? Why not skip marriage and just go straight to making children? Or do we have a long standing issue with society's perception of bastards?

I know of many couples out there that just suppress all their emotion and anger and continue life, semi-happy, because of their kids. Everyone is frustrated, but hell, putting the kids through divorce is a lot worse right? Really kind of turns you off from marriage. We have enough burden grappling with our work/career and wrestling with other commitments. Yet people still do get married. Baffling.

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If you happen to know of anyone working in the CVLB, please pass this message on to them:

The reason why you are currently being overwhelmed with smses and phone calls COULD be because you haven't done anything at all to alleviate the situation. It COULD also be because no action has been taken to bring all those errant taxi drivers/trailer drivers/bus drivers to justice. Maybe, it WOULD do you some good if you did something about the problem instead of getting your sorry asses wrapped in red tape/political clout/half-baked self-centered driver's unions (or shoving it down some other government departments throat). MAYBE then, the complaints will stop. There is absolutely no point in shutting down the hotline just because you can't cope with the daily traffic it generates. TRY solving problems for a change. It MIGHT work.

The Inner Sanctuary

There is nothing better than a dose of Ray Charles to lift the spirits. In Ray Charles lies the allure around oldies and its happy go lucky tunes. Even when muddled in sadness, the tunes still manage to lift you from that hole that you've dug for yourself, with your own bare hands. I'm not sure if it's an apt representation of how things were back then, but a little less complication going about life could actually be good for everyone. I guess we all choose the more complicated path, and if you're a bonafide "drama-queen" like I am, the complicated path is always that little bit more appealing.

I discovered today, from a movie for kids ( I won't mention which one, because they would have to pay me advertising fees if I did), how important it is to have a sanctuary to retreat to, even more so, if you are in the middle of that complicated path. I know of a very special Cabbage who takes great solace in cleaning and clearing up ( I should invite her to my room more often), and others who find solace in music and playing musical instruments, or peace of mind in sleep and food.

Which was why I took a very special trip down memory lane today, literally. My sanctuary is a very distinct and intricate web of woven memories, a colorful patchwork made of my happy times. To enter that sanctuary, I go for walks. It can be a walk to nowhere, or a walk in circles at the back of my desk. As long as I go for a walk, the happy times are in. It becomes all the more special if the walks I go for pass by one of the many places my memories have taken place. I just couldn't help smiling to myself, reminiscing, remembering, and missing. To the rest of you, it's just a normal place, with no significant meaning.

Sometimes all we need to do in our hectic, busy bee lives is to sit down, and take a breather. Sometimes all we need to do in despair is to draw hope from the past. Sometimes all we need is to be truly happy. Whichever way we achieve it and by whatever means. Tell me, how many of us are truly happy. Its been a long time, but step by step, I'm getting there. When will you?

Caveman Joe

The problem with jet lag is that it makes you extremely sleepy at very odd hours of the day. I found myself to be wide awake in the middle of the night, but extremely sleepy as the day awakens. This has led me to sleeping at 6am the past few days, waking up for lunch at 1.30pm, and continuing my slumber until around 7pm. Coincidentally, this could also be due to the fact that prior to my excursion (Yes, I still call it that. Sounds more sophisticated than "holiday"), I've been up to pretty much the same schedule. Coincidentally too, this could be due to the fact that I am fat and like to sleep alot and at odd hours. BUT, I am going to blame jet lag for now, because like all fat, lazy men, I am in denial.

Yesterday, while in the middle of one of my beauty-sleeps, my father woke me up. He asked me to come down and said there was a lot to do. So, being the fillial son that I was, I heeded his commands. He asked me to wear some rubber fisherman boots, and threw me some gloves. I had just woken up, dazed and confused. Then I saw the carnage in my backyard. Apparently the storm had washed half my garden away, with 2 big trees that needed to be cut down because it was dragging and leaning against other trees.

There is an incessant need in all men, big or small, to exude machoness. And I can tell you, that there is no better way to do it than to wield a chainsaw (or drive an 18-wheeler cross-continent). Nevermind that it was a "kuchified" electric chainsaw and not the gasoline powered ones (which I have used before, mind you). I truly felt like the master of that poor half-fallen tree. I ravage it like it was a hot young gorgeous model that begged me for pleasure. I raped it till it couldn't scream in orgasmic pleasure anymore. So that was a little overdramatic, but I really felt like a man in charge, like I was emitting so much sexiness that any woman passing by would eagerly want me to be the father of their babies. My sperm felt strong and agile. Mighty sperm.

Which brings me to another point. I believe that the driving force behind all humans on earth is the need to continue the line, to maintain the family and produce the next generation (in other words, to fuck and get babies). Everything on earth that we have done, from the time we were foetuses to the time we die is geared to ensuring the survival of our species. People might say, how has going to school got anything to do with procreation? Well, the reason why we go to school is so that we will be equipped with basic knowledge which will expand as we progress and finally lead us to our degrees. Then we look for a job, so that we can all become independent, appealing and support the family that we might be building. Families usually mean offspring. Adopted kids are also a legacy of their parents.

But what becomes of the old maid, or the 50 year old bachelor? Truth is, nature is all about survival of the fittest. Species' will continue to survive and evolve because it is the strongest and is able to. I may be mean by saying this, but maybe old maids and sad 50 year old bachelors aren't meant to be the strongest around. And so their legacy dies with them. Since it is the survival of the fittest, it's about people snagging the best the opposite sex has to offer. To some this may mean the smartest of the lot, to others the richest, or the strongest, or most feminine or most beautiful, or most interesting.

Which explains why men feel a primal need to exude testosterone and machoness. Look at me, me Huggawaloo *thumps barrel chest*, me strong *kills 2 woolly mammoths for breakfast*, me can operate chainsaw *ravages the neighbours hedge*. If only my father didn't build that perimeter wall. I'd be busy making womenkind happy now.

The Unforgettable Trip

The hiatus (yes, I realize that 1 month is too long to be called a hiatus) was almost everything I had expected it to be. The UK, and Europe, was every bit as exciting as I had hoped it would be. The environment was a good change. The weather. The weather was appealing, but that depends on where I was. I covered so many places, saw so many things, and experienced what I could never experience here, in Malaysia.

I went on the trip with hope in mind. I came back from it with a different type of hope. There were times when I thought it was all a lost cause. There were times when I thought that all I wanted to do was to return home. The first two weeks were hell for various reasons. It left me emotionally exhausted, emotionally detached, and physically incapable of moving. I was decapitated by what I was experiencing.

I had gone there to see my girlfriend. It was meant to be the culmination of 3 years of planning and finding the right time to execute it. We didn't expect it to be like how it became. When the time finally came, we did it. We broke up after 5 and a half years of being together. (That was actually our second breakup, having broken up a long long time ago). It was painful, it was harrowing, but circumstances never allowed us to be together for as long as I had wanted us to remain.

It was meant to be a closure. A month for us to close the sincerity that was our relationship. To say the last words, to prepare for moving on. I secretly hoped that we wouldn't end, but hope remained as it was, hope. The days following was especially difficult, because Prague and Paris were two enchanting and romantic cities. Paris especially, was every bit as captivating as we were led to believe it was. We chose the cities because of that. We ended up going together as friends. It was depressing.

I remember sitting together in the Parc du Champ de Mars, facing the Eiffel Tower as sunset approached. We had just finished walking the entire of Paris across 6 arrondissements in just a day. She was next to me. But she was so distant and detached. We argued as the Eiffel sparkled for the first time that day at 7pm. We left what was potentially the most romantic setting on earth angry and enraged with one another.

Since that day, we have kissed and made up. When trouble hits our relationship, we retreat to bestfriendome, a safety kingdome to ensure that we never really part. It has happened once before. We are still seperated, but somehow bonded by something greater than common love. There are so many years left and so many opportunities. I do want her to experience everything before settling down. My hope as I return, is that one day, God will reward me for being so loyal to one person.

She told me once that its not about the places you go, but who you go with. So that was what my trip as about. Spending time in Nottingham, Manchester, Prague, Paris and London with a person I had come to love, and will probably continue loving. The future remains uncertain in many many ways, but if it was predictable, it wouldn't be so interesting, would it?

I am OK? No?

The heart and tear duct are connected via what I would like to call an "emotional superhighway". Everytime the heart cringes in pain, sorrow and defeat, an almost instant reaction of tears will well up. Insta-tears. This is most common in women. Not all women, but most nontheless.

In the emotionally retarded man, it takes a little more than just average cringing of feelings. In men, tears are usually painful. Painful to admit and painful to release. So, when a man wails and drowns himself in tears, its because he can't take it anymore. Its because its all gone to a point that if he doesn't wail and cry his heart out, he WILL go insane. Emotional realease. Again, not all men, but most.

The sight of a full grown man crying is anything but pretty. Its embarrassing, degrading and un-macho. No man would admit to it, and no man would openly do it. Yet, somehow, it helps. Yet, somehow, everyone has done it at least once in their lifetime. Yet, somehow, we all feel better afterwards, both men and women. It all seems temporary, but temporary relief is better than none at all. Ask the heroin addicts, they all know.

Of Bulls and Pretense

Bullshit. The universal fuel of life. Burned on by a healthy additive dose of pretense. We all do it. We all encounter it. We all have to live with it. There are many instances in life that do not just aim to test you, but aim to wipe you out altogether. We put up our pretenses, and bullshit everyone into thinking everything is ok.

"If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit."

Actually, you can safely skip the brilliance part and go straight to the bullshit. Saves time, brain matter, and effort. So, in this world of lies and deceit, how does one pick apart the bullshit from the truth? It becomes especially difficult when the bullshitter is extremely good at what he or she does. Even more difficult when the bullshittee was born yesterday and is oblivious to how cruel the world can be. Or that the bullshittee is in love (same effect).

I've come to think of it as a simple assimilation. That something that starts out as factual truth will eventually morph its way into bullshitdome. And that the vice-versa seems to be in agreement with this little theory of mine too. Don't bother yourself with deciphering too much bullshit, and over time, it WILL turn out to be true. Either that, or you'd be too fucked and knackered (new word, new word) to even notice and care.

I've been known as a bullshitter all my life. At the present moment however, I've been stripped of my powers at the top of my perch. I am, as I've put it, a bullshittee now. God have mercy on my soul. (Pretend everything is ok. Pretend everything is ok.)

P.S. It's cold, I'm freezing, but I'm enjoying myself. Will keep you updated, as I've promised.

Eyes Wide Sepet

Tomorrow, I leave for London (yes, this sounds sudden, but I've been planning it for a while now). Just a mere excursion, but I am hoping to accomplish several goals. I won't elaborate on those goals, because I believe that if i reveal them, I will never accomplish them. Funny. Never thought of myself as being supersticious. Most importantly, I will elaborate on those goals after I have safely returned from my excursion (this is an understatement), a month from now. Wish me luck. By the way, I will attempt to post regularly whilst I'm away, in case something interesting pops to mind.

I had a few important matters to attend to today. Namely was watching the much touted movie, Sepet. A movie is good, if it has a good plot, good acting, good script, and resonable editing and directing. A great movie, in my opinion, is one that you can absolutely relate to, plus all of the above. Sepet engages you from the very beginning, with very mundane, but clever scenes and cuts. Again, the core of the movie is portraying familiarity of everyday life to the viewer.

However, I thought throughout the entire feature, that everything was a bundle of contradictions. Not in a horrible way, but more in a Ying-Yang, balance of life and nature way. Everything, from the backdrops, the scenery, to the characters and their attitudes had so much of a stereotype as well as de-stereotype about them that makes you tingle in confusion all over. Everything seemed, to me, both reality and fantasy. Both real and made up. Orked (I keep on pronouncing her name as Ork-ed instead of Or-ked) for instance, was both conservative and liberal. Ah-Loong looked to be the typical Ah-beng, until he opened his mouth to reveal excellent english and supreme manners.

Even more unlikely is the relationship that Ah-Loong shares with his friend Keong. Though it has its very realistic ye-hei (honor amongst friends) and believable friendship elements, it also has a very unrealistic use of English as the main medium of communication ( I spent 5 years of my life in Ipoh, and I have never ever heard 2 chinese guys talking to each other in anything but cantonese or some other chinese dialect). Some scenes too, were totally queer, like the telephone chat between the friends toward the end of the movie.

But picking on the nitty bitty details doesn't and will not do the movie justice. Sepet, to me, has to be watched as a whole. Only then will one appreciate its true meaning, and how wonderful each and every event in the movie is tied to one another. I feel personally, that the theme of the movie, while centering on the on-screen couple, is not about the inter-racial love affair at all. The love affair between Orked and Ah-Loong is only meant to tie the movie together and thus is a distraction from its true message, which is the binding and loving institution known as the family.

I can't help but feel envy having seen the bond between Ah-Loong and his mother as well as Orked and her parents. Both sets of elderly are portrayed as guiding, loving, caring and compassionate people. Both sets display the common goal of enriching their young and guiding them toward doing the right thing. Both parents, are ideally what parents should aspire to be like. The scrabble scene was especially touching to me because of the closeness and bond that was displayed by Orked and her parents (Rare is the sight of a family so physically loving without being labelled incestuous). Even the baddie in the movie held firm to the family if not in his own underworld way. And as wrecked as Ah-Loongs family was, they kept with the tradition of eating together as a family, the symbol of family unity.

As to what Sepet should make you feel, that is entirely personal, depending on how you view the movie. For me, it made me appreciate my parents more, even in their shortcomings. As for the inter-racial affair, you have to be in one to know how difficult it is, and how your parents, and his/her parents, will never be like Ah-Loong's mother and Orked's parents, the understanding, universal, pillars of support for their children. All you'll get, are many many versions of Ah-Loong's father, the man that coughed and almost choked on his dinner when he was told that a malay girl called for his son (My favorite scene).

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.

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?

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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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.

Thieves

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)

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.

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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.

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.