i am the news

up is the new down.

2008-06-04T14:27:58Z

news of yet another petrol price hike effectively cast a dark cloud over an already buggery day. it definitely didn't help getting caught in a ridiculous jam for 2 hours on the way home because people were clamoring to get to the nearest pump available as if petrol was the gold-laced cum of the roman gods.

and while i was stuck in traffic moving at the pace of an ugly pre-pubescent social outcast gathering the courage to ask the hot girl out on a date, i spent most of the time bemoaning how the advocacies of the new post-elections government has led to virtually no improvements to the common man, not unless you come from a place where having to pay more is a sign of your masculinity. how your small cock must throb in triumph.

i started to cringe at the thought of having to pay 30-40 bucks more for a full tank - just the sheer magnitude of the hike alone (40%) is enough to warrant a haemorrhoid. while i understand that petrol by comparison is significantly more pricey in most other countries, i fail to grasp how a petrol-exporting country like ours suffers so much for it?

a simpleton would just say that's a little extra to add to the numbers at the end of every month but raised petrol prices goes a long long way to making everything else expensive - from noodles to choki-choki to condoms. there is no limit to how justification can be attached to a price hike when petrol is used as a basis for argument.

the part that's even more depressing is how everyone is powerless to do anything to stop this. it's infuriating but like most things that infuriate, they're normally beyond the scope of influence for anyone on the streets.

by the time i got to my regular petrol hole, it was close to 9 and i had been stuck in my car for 2 long hours behind a proton waja who had the braking habits of a premature ejaculator. i passed up on getting stuck in the queue in an attempt to salvage some dignity in believing that i'm beyond being a victim to the system.

but now that i've ranted and calmed down a little, it's dawned upon me that the full tank that i fill would be enough to buy myself a carl's junior meal, a pack of pall malls and a mentos. not one piece, the whole tube at the very least.

they say beggars can't be choosers. i'm just more of a cheapskate.

the things that bum me out.

2008-04-06T14:12:03Z

goner and boner are just 1 letter apart but are pronounced very differently from each other. it's sad because you can't rhyme with those 2 words - ie: lenny had a boner, now lenny is a goner.

catch a rat then let it go.

2008-01-17T19:16:39Z

one of the cooler things about growing up is how parental relations eventually shift away from an awkward tension to a more relaxed appreciation of each others nuances which in turn, makes being alone in a car with them less uncomfortable. i discovered tonight that my mum is one cool mother.

my mum and i returned home late at night to discover shuffling noises in the kitchen - the rat-trap had been armed and it had just proved its worth with a gargantuan catch.

as i peanut-buttered my bread, i casually asked her about her preferred method of rat disposal. i proposed drowning it but she felt it too cruel because the rat would die a slow death. as she lit a cigarette and propped a pot of water on the stove, she revealed to me that her choice mode of rat homicide is pouring boiling-hot water on them.

she said it with a cold-heartedness that suggested many-a-rat had been disinfected to death by her. like how animals in the wild are best able to illustrate the contrast between a gentle, nurturing sensitivity and borderline murderous protectiveness towards their kin, the prevention of rat-infestation was just another smudge on the window pane or soup stain on the carpet that needed to be cleaned for the good of the household she keeps watch over. getting rid of rats was just all in a day's work for her.

but rat-death wasn't meant to be, at least not this night.

the rat looked disturbingly huge, like the notorious b.i.g. of all rats. a closer inspection revealed more - it wasn't just one rat, there were 2! one bloated, pregnant mother rat and a tiny baby rat that was hidden underneath it. i swear that confused the shit out of us.

it would've been pretty unlikely that two rats crawled into the trap simultaneously to share a meal. but it would've been even more unlikely that the big rat had just given birth to the smaller one (which we considered for a moment because of a huge wet spot on the newspaper lining the cage). whatever it was, it derailed my mum's plans for rat-extermination.

earlier on, i had mockingly chastised her for the way she handled a bothersome exercise with her mother-in-law : instead of accompanying my grandmother to church (catholic - the extra dreary kind), she forced my siblings to go in her place, dropped the bunch of them off at church and went off for breakfast with her ipod and sudoku book in hand. this was a mother that cared little for sucking up to a naggy mother-in-law, choosing instead to care for this unfortunate rat duo. just as promptly as she settled on boiling-water-rat-death, she had decided to let the rats free instead.

the big rat was obviously pregnant and whether or not the little rat was newborn or some oliver-twist kind of rat that happened to be hanging around the same rat-trap, looking for trouble, it just seemed wrong to murder BOTH an infant and a pregnant mother, irregardless of species. if either of us believed in karma, we'd be were sure we would die horrible, rat-related deaths at the end of our lives.

so we took a drive to the foot of the hill at the edge of our neighbourhood where the fence keeps out the bushes where indonesian workers go to fuck their gay lovers. while feist played on the car radio, me and my mum set the rats free.

they scampered away from the blinding headlights, into the dark as my mum called out gently and ever-so-politely, "promise me you won't come to our house and cause mischief, ok?" - as if she was a kindergarten teacher urging two toddlers to share their lego blocks with each other.

mothers.

out with the old.

2008-01-14T04:06:24Z

i have a really tough time imagining what life must be like past 45. when flesh begins to sag like teabags and mental faculties begin to regularly taper off tangent. being old is when religion is taken all the more seriously and pets truly become one's best friend (probably because all your other friends are dead).

being old comes with certain privileges. for one, you have almost infinite liberty to get away with making other people's lives difficult. send your grandchildren out for errands and ask for the most specific items your wrinkly brain can conjure up: a loaf of crustless white bread, 100 grams of frozen scandinavian kidney beans, 2 sheets (only 2) of mahjong paper, yesterday's newspapers, cottonbuds with those scoopy spoon thingies on one end and a bottle of air from kho samui.

i hope i die in my mid-40s before i become too bothersome to have around. cos as it is, i'm quite a cranky sod and age is a multiplier of cantankterousness. i'd hate to imagine everyone around me sucking up to granddad while wishing he'd just die faster.

and so i sprang clung.

2008-01-14T04:04:02Z

for me, productivity has always come in spurts. things usually get done in a wonderous surge of trance-like exertion but it's usally preceded (and followed) by a streak of malaise.

i spent half a day spring cleaning my room again. if it was a past tense could i say i sprang clung my room? nevermind. i woke up around 10, checked my emails and had a glorious morning shit. ignoring the rumblings in my stomach, i went into a cleaning frenzy - i ended up throwing away a lot of mementos of old. cds i don't listen to anymore, letters from ex-girlfriends, tokens of things i no longer believed in. you never really move on until you're able to throw away these kind of things without any tinge of guilt.

in the midst of cleaning and intense sneezing, i finally stopped to have lunch at around 4pm, right before i was about to pass out dead.

this all happened 3 weeks ago.

since then, i've yet to exert the same amount of effort on any of the other things i had planned - i can't remember ever being this uninspired. not that i've been devoid of any inspiration, just that there seems to be a logjam in my brain that compels me to watch movies and grow fat.

things you don't see too often.

2008-01-14T04:01:54Z

- a lady walking around a mall wearing a tight-fitting top that's 5 sizes too small for her heavily pregnant state. the entire bulge of her stomach was exposed with the protruding bellybutton looking like something out of aliens (the movie). clearly, maternity dresses are a concept that's lost to her.

- a chinese businessman spotted in a toyota camry, engrossed in a hands-free telephone conversation with a bluetooth unit clipped onto his lower lip. seriously. i spent the rest of the day trying to figure out why that was necessary.

- watching fireworks up close is nice and all but watching a landscape bathed in fireworks is even better. makes you feel like you're watching the end scene of some sci-fi flick where the forces of evil had been defeated and all the heroes returned to their homeland to celebrate in a gaudy party.

it's 2008. already?

the return of the prodigal immigrant bastard son.

2007-12-11T04:36:36Z

my friend (who i'll refer to as marty) works in a renowned multi-national consultation firm. i found out he'd been working on a personal performance review which involves coming up with a personal development plan where he'd have to list down objectives and resolutions for self-improvement and growth.

i've always been averse to things like resolutions particularly because i have a fear of lofty objectives. i think it's cos i've always made it a habit to set the bar low - if expectations ever crash, it won't be such a high fall, no?

what's even more impressive is how marty doesn't just have to come up with meaty goals to achieve, he needs to set out to exceed his targets. tough act, no doubt.

here's my attempt at coming up with a personal development plan:

- grow 2 millimetres taller
- beat my current bejeweled high-score of 169, 920
- memorize the apostle's creed (just in case catholic reformation occurs in malaysia)
- renew painting hobby, use newfound painting skills to save money on presents
- learn another language (ie french polynesian)
- download the entire beatles discography including movies and greatest hits compilations
- avoid people i don't like, cut down on small talk
- avoid passing insincere compliments to really shitty performers
- master the moonwalk

deconstructing nana.

2007-12-11T04:33:11Z

there's normally only room for 2 grandmas in your life and if one out of two happens to be nice, you should count yourself lucky.

one grandmother called earlier this morning, the one that lives in the states. it's always nice to hear from her cos she's the nicer grandma. when i was young, she used to pamper me well and feed me frozen mangoes. i think i look favorably upon her because she likes me better than her other grandchildren. so it's only fair that i like her better than my other grandmother(s).

and as any grandma (who doesn't get calls or visits as much as she'd like) would typically do, she'd always ask how i am. i've often had to shelve the urge to say i'm miserable. miserable about all the things in my life that i have little or no power to change. miserable about having to do the whole rat-race thing. miserable about my penis reaching it's maximum length. miserable at all those wasted lotto tickets.

but i'd never tell her i'm miserable. at least not over the phone. cos when you've lived that many years, the one thing that gives you solace and peace of mind is knowing (or at least being told) that your children and their children are in good health and in good spirits.

my other grandma is down from australia and is staying with us. with her, i have to shelve the urge to grow my hair into an afro, only it's too much trouble. so instead, i'll just sing nirvana songs ouside her door at 2 a.m.

they say annoyance is a form of love. or at least i'm sure i read it somewhere.

ode to the shrew.

2007-12-11T04:05:56Z

o' cuntly shrew of no compare
wee minions must all beware
let not be caught in wicked stare
lest malice chafes your underwear

o' cranky, hateful, rancid bitch
the sight of you make my eyes twitch
fingers doth besmirched in a squalid niche
forth your panties speweth toxic itch

o' loathsome cunt of little humor
why doth thou have such a decrepit suitor
might not suicide contemplated sooner
gazed upon your face like cancerous tumor?

o' wicked shrew of anus face
so lacking in good social grace
your being i would swift erase
with a nudge off a 20-storey staircase

fin.

york that git with a bow and arrow.

2007-11-13T03:25:16Z

i've come to the stark conclusion that my boss is a lecherous, perv-git. he has a folder full of his sketches, pages and pages of naked, faceless bodies coiled in yoga-like poses with snakes running between cleavages, eating pussies and whatnot. there are vaginas growing out of palms and intertwined bodies lusciously clutching at any genitalia within reach.

i wouldn't call it shocking or anything cos i've seen other types of bizzarro sex shit in other places (ie munkao's fixation with penises), but it's mildly disconcerting knowing that the geriatric knob twiddler sits in his room the whole day doodling tits and cocks instead of working on an award-winning ad.

interesting fact of the day:

"it is legal to kill a scotsman within the city walls of york as long as he is carying a bow and arrows"

now, i just have to figure out how to get my boss nationalized as a scotsman, ship him off to york with a bow and a stack of arrows glued onto his palms.

but hang on, it's merely a jest. i don't have anything against my boss. i just don't like scotsmen with bows and arrows.

i'm off to scheme!

resurgences most tasteless.

2007-10-25T09:37:15Z

hello. it's been a while, no? blogging has had to take a back seat lately and as much as i've had a colorful past few weeks, the impetus to do so has been rather uhm.. impotent. so here's a rundown of things i did and things i wish i had been doing that have kept me so busy that i haven't been able to blog. seriously.

+ i've grown my hair into a viable shag ala shaggy (of scooby doo fame, not jamaican rapper). some days it's all strokes-y. some days it's more korean daddy pop-star. some days it could pass off as a mop. most days it's just pubic.

+ i constructed a ninja statuette out of paperclips and cigarette butts.

+ i've been painting. my latest work is titled "warm autumn in marseille". it's inspired by the plight of albanian orphans who are caught in the midst of a civil war. it is a conceptual painting of a cucumber copulating with a lemon against a backdrop of starving, fly-swarmed somalian babes. by babes i don't mean children. i mean smoking-hot, naked somalian hotties. covered in flies.

+ i've been thinking about names. what if mary j. blige's middle name started with an O instead of a J. wouldn't it be wicked? makes you think she's some black, irish songstress who's really accommodating. it'd be so much cooler, i think. yes? no?

+ i've spent the past few nights trying to get the neighbourhood kids to help me re-enact the thriller music video. although they all act like monsters and horrid little beasts most of the time, it's hard getting them to pull of "zombie". they're more "bastard hellspawns on a sugar rush". my michael jackson werewolf impression, however, is spot-on.

+ i had myself a false chicken pox scare. a good two days off work nursing a non-symptomatic ailment that didn't really ail me. ate chips and grew a mexican porn-stache.

+ i think i'm finally getting the hang of burping. or at least, my body seems to be at loggerheads with my digestive system resulting in really random bouts of gas that are expelled haphazardly in a manner that seems like it could be a burp, although i can never be too sure. because i don't know how to burp. i only do it maybe 4 - 5 times a year. by accident. i think the things i've been getting are like sissy throat farts.

+ i've attempted to write short novellas. it hasn't been very positive i'm afraid. all i've got are stories about pinatas and donut rapists.

+ have you heard of the transformers rap? it's really good shit: "transformers! robots cannot cry. transformers! my oh my oh my. transformers, catcher in the rye.." it goes on forever, really.

almost none of that is true. i've actually been sitting at home, enlarging my penis to beastly proportions by using sheer willpower alone. that and i've been watching flight of the conchords. good times.

celluloid freud licks a spattergoid.

2007-10-12T07:10:04Z

i grew up during the golden age of cartoons - transformers, thundercats, gi joes and the like. by the time i discovered masturbation and learned words badder than "jerk" and "dork", quality cartoons were a thing of the past. crap like beast wars and reboot started cropping up. stuff like power rangers became the hot shit. for the love of me, i could never fathom why.

in my pre-pubescent glory, i'd watch the same things happen every time the show was on:

evil monster appears. billy the sissy blue ranger shits in his pants. rangers fight evil minions cloned from a can of baked beans. rangers proceed to fight monster. monster cackles, then goes thru an insane growth spurt of titanic proportions. rangers summon robot thingies that take 2 minutes to merge into that robot-zord. robot zord does bulky pose while lightning and laser beams streak in the background while j-pop plays to the delight of all japanese teenagers all over the world. monster beats up robot til red light on chest begins to blink. robot summons sword from sky. kills monster. cue macho pose and lighting bolts. repeat every week with monsters more ridiculous than previous one (ie "mutated carrot with electro tendrils").

i'd always wondered why if they could summon that godly zord-sword thingy with just a collective cheer and a fist thrusted in the air, why not just do it from the start rather than meander about, exchanging blonde beefcake pleasantries until the hapless monster succeeds in damaging the ranger robot with pre-school taunts and insults?

it's infuriating watching how lazy producers have become. at least in old school cartoons they tried to expose the world to issues like closet homosexuality (he-man & the masters of the universe), communism (the smurfs) and living off your wealthy uncle's riches (duck tales).

and don't get me started on ultraman and his tight red pantaloons that expose his tiny japanese bulge. he could just zap that monster with his cross-armed laser thingy and go home and bonk his ultra-wife. instead, he decides to indulge in a romp that leaves half the (cardboard) city decimated until the bulb on his chest flashes red and then he gets around to offing said monster with a move that looks like some gay cheerleading routine.

humble me.

2007-09-20T09:24:10Z

it's funny how parents know very little about their kids - what they really want to be when they grow up? who their idols are? sexual inclinations? virgin or 3rd base oral shenanigans? possession of pornography? what type of porn they're into? ownership of vibrator or fleshlight? ever smoked weed? ever cheated in exams? ever killed a nigga?

i know for a fact that every single one of us has a fetish we're not ready to admit. all of us tried looking up "sex" in the encyclopedia when we were younger, hoping there'd be pictures. some of us like to smell our feet when we take off our shoes, others like to eat their boogers / ear wax. tranny porn, cross dressing, upskirt voyeurs, sex chatrooms, kleptomaniacs, masochists, exhibitionists, really bad karaoke singing? chances are, 1 in 5 people around you are into the same shit you're into and you never knew it.

i for one like to think we're all the same - i'm sure when jesus / buddha / l. ron hubbard had to shit on a bad stomach, it'd smell just as bad as anyone else's. it's a lot easier to deal with inadequacies in each other's lives when we come to terms about how we're all equally fallible and fucked up - just that we differ in terms of magnitude and "wow" factor.

i once walked into a dvd store and caught a neighbour of mine sifting through the smut folder. he was an almost priestly father-figure to the playground kids and i never imagined him to be the porno-type dad - he always seemed more like mr missionary (sexual position, not religious service) to me. and there he was, reading the synopsis of bangkok bum rush vol 5.

his cheeks turned pink when we made eye contact.

i felt uncomfortable. only because his shame made me feel guilty.

in the same vein, i've always wondered why some parents are so eager to delve into the nooks and crannies of their children's lives - expecting those dark corners to be cobweb-free, as if to justify their commendable parenting exploits while they forget all-too-easily that in their own lifetime, they've had their fair share of cock/pussy that they regret.

i'm guessing, if we can learn how to pacify the need to know by conscious ignorance as opposed to blatant curiosity, we'll never have to find out just how dirty it is underneath the carpet.

i've always wondered what my mum will think of me if ever she found out i'm actually a "dirty sanchez mustachio'ed cowboy bull-banging fisters fucking in bell towers bukake-ing bearded nuns in army boots while robotic techno plays in the background" kinda porn-type of person.

no really.

aren't you?

although i'm not ashamed to tell her i think my boss is a shit-faced cunt-rag who eats menstruation on toast for breakfast. but if anyone wants to hold that information against me, i have many bosses so you'll never be able to pin anything on me.

race cars say go!

2007-09-12T08:30:12Z

last week, i got my little brother a remote control racing car for his birthday. i'm sorely tempted to get one for myself now.

by judiciary standards of geekdom, i cannot deny exhibiting fanboy tendencies that are borne from a childhood marred by social ineptitude and a paltry allowance. too broke to afford cool toys and gaming consoles, too shy for the hip playground scenesters all i could really retreat to was the world of comics, lego and 5 o'clock cartoons on tv2 - hence the undercurrent nerdity (okay.. so some might insist that it's not undercurrent, more of a gleaming strobe of nerd rays emitted from my bookish spectacles).

i'd like to believe i'm not disgustingly nerdy - the kind that speak in star trek lingo and quote lines from the matrix liberally. my geek vices (thankfully) have yet to cross into the realm of collecting overpriced figurines or the abomination that is cosplay.

my only weakness is the lust for remote control racing cars. they're awfully fun. and if anything, it's the one toy i truly longed for as a kid - not the shit types that only turn left, a proper quad-directional race car that wasn't attached to the controller with a 3 foot long wire.

i got back from work one day and sat on the steps of the staircase and ran my brother's little race car ragged. it streaked around an imaginary circuit marked out by the marble tiles laden on the floor. i must've sat there for half an hour trying my best to perfect that bastard s-curve that went through the legs of the dining table.

when i was young, i can remember being on a long train ride somewhere. it was almost midnight and the batteries of my gameboy had long died so i just stared out the window. peering at the sky, i spotted a shooting star streaking across the sky and urged on by the words of jiminy cricket, i scrunched my nose and wished hard for a remote control car.

shortly thereafter, i received the first of many enid blyton books. i was sorely disappointed. i don't think stars hear too well while they're zooming across the sky puking out streams of yellow sparkly shit.

stupid cricket.

seahorses in my palms.

2007-09-03T07:39:37Z

i haven't had a haircut for the good part of 6 months. numerous people have come up to me and asked "what's wrong with your hair?" which is basically a slightly more polite way of smothering a vienna sausage with bat poo before shoving it up your nostril.

while i might be compelled to trade my shag for a neat head of hair, i don't like being told what to do, which is why i've vehemently objected to getting a haircut up to this point. i like having my curls back. although, i'd be amused but not altogether surprised if i were to discover a colony of fugitive hamsters hiding in my hair.

i have to say the past few months have been a plateful of sunny side up eggs. or this year, for that matter, has been a pretty good year on the scale of things.

i'm quickly discovering that i'd be more than willing to trade televisions and coffeemakers for a lifetime supply of refrigerated coconuts and a hammock under a shady tree. and large umbrellas to hide under during the rain.

when i was young i had many grandoise plans for running away but the fact that i could only carry a lunchbox worth of food and toiletries ended up being the wrench between my spokes. i used to think i might've gotten away with camping at one of the parks close to where i lived - i'd live in a concrete pipe and read x-men comics and make origami cranes until i ran out of paper. i thought that so long as i had a set of house keys, i'd be able to sneak into the house whenever my supplies ran out or if i really, really needed to take a shit.

i stopped wanting to run away when i realised how much my family, for all it's failings, misgivings and shortcomings, isn't half as fucked up as compared to really fucked up families - the kind that try to poison each other.

if there's any running away to be done, it'll be to some unassuming, largely unknown beach town where i'd hide away with my smelly, chain-smoking girlfriend, sipping on coffee that comes in mugs with seahorses for handles.

blow my fuse but please, be gentle.

2007-08-21T07:08:34Z

in my lifetime, i can only remember a handful of occasions when i was well and truly angry. even then, some might argue that in relative terms, i probably didn't even seem as angry as i imagined myself to be, just slightly more irked than my normal, placid state.

so far, i've never resorted to violent behavior or self-mutilation to soothe the savage bastard and i honestly doubt i'll ever have to. it's really hard to imagine myself being the wife-beating, pub-brawling, wedgie-dispensing villain under provocation. it just isn't in me to conjure up anything more than an intense glare or a scathing rebuke.

but every so often, the growing repository of suppressed anger unsettles me. i fear a day will come where i will face a combustion of nuclear-scale proportions that culminates into some totally uncharacteristic act that forever damages this sense of gentility that i've worked so hard to preserve. something along the lines of arson or driving a van into fire hydrants and postboxes.

on a totally unrelated note, if you are ever in mid-valley and you need to wait for someone or you have 10 minutes to spare or something, hang out in front of the jusco supermart downstairs - there's a staff entrance at the back and i swear you'll see some of the weirdest shit ever.

right in front of the door is a yellow, footprint-shaped sticker facing away from the door. what's bizarre is, whenever staff exit the door, they stop dead in their tracks and bow before walking off to continue whatever it was they were doing. and we're not talking about some half-arsed bow here - it's a full on japanese "if i don't bow you will rape my mother for my lack of manners" kind of bow.

by all that is holy, i cannot fathom why they're being made to do that. what's even more peculiar is how some people who are heading into the staff entrance from the outside bother to turn around to bow, before u-turning back to walk through the door. i also noted that security personnel don't have to bow - they salute instead. probably to drive fear into the hearts of vagrant shoppers, showing them that the jusco brigade means business.

i bought myself an ice-cream and sat on the bench for 5 minutes to observe. i gathered that only lower-level lackeys had to do the whole bowing bullshit because the manager/supervisor looking types didn't bother. the other group of people who didn't bow were the resident staff rebels who are identified by their spiky hair, pseudo-nigga strut and impressively baggy pants hung way below their waists.

word.

make like a cock and doodle.

2007-08-16T05:00:58Z

i was sick last week. the kind of "sick" you feel that's so bad at times, you feel like dying. or having an orgasm. whichever would offer more relief.

i usually enjoy being sick because it's a valid excuse to camp under the blankets like a jew during the nazi era, hiding under a haystack. only i get to bring a book along and sip on vitagen as opposed to fluffing straw out of my nose every 5 seconds.

the other thing i enjoy about being sick is how it often reignites a lost passion of some sort - whether it's reading, drawing or performing a naked cabaret in front of a mirror.

so i got myself a really snazzy pen that i've been using to doodle on most any scrap of paper i can get my hands on. it's a medium thickness artline pen that's good for drawing bold typefaces and bug eyed sea-creatures. i usually start by doodling out words of some statement in huge, bold lines before my mind wanders off and squiggles supporting visuals to complement it.

during my lunchbreak the word "cunt" came to mind. followed by a caricature of my boss.

i'd scan it and post it up but i'd like to keep my job for a while longer. it helps supplement my addiction to money.

the bottom of the tube.

2007-08-08T08:20:49Z

stagnant blogs and smelly dogs! i've been busy of late and so this blog has taken a backseat to more pressing matters like advancing scientific research on developing famous amos scented perfume as well as working on my marge simpson impression. a couple more swags of turpentine down my throat should do the trick.

there is something to be said about the bottom of the tube.

somehow the scarce remnants of your tube of toothpaste, bottle of ketchup, jar of moisturizer, can of hairspray, anti-lice shampoo, herpes ointment and what have yous seem to last forever. much like in the movies where a hidden repository of courage and strength is unearthed when faced with adversaries who outnumber you by the thousands, it's almost miraculous how the last bits of toothpaste last almost as long as the earlier parts when you were squeezing the tube haphazardly, often squirting out more than you needed with little regard that orphans and poverty-stricken africans would never have the privilege of tasting toothpaste in their god-forsaken lifetime.

somehow the same phenomenon doesn't seem to apply when digging for crumbs at the bottom of a bag of potato chips. it also doesn't apply to scraping at the bottom of the barrel when it comes to posting new content in this blog.

oh damn that writer's block inducing cereal i eat every morning!

hello jack.

2007-07-23T09:59:56Z

some of the most jarring pieces of art, poetry and song are anchored in a landscape of sorrow, melancholia and misery. it doesn't take much to figure out that sadness is a far easier subject to frame in the boundaries of a canvas, verse or melody.

maybe it's because bliss and euphoria are feelings that are so unfamiliar to us that we struggle to put them in words or to find colors or imagery that do justice to the sensations that we feel.

and then what? for all our endeavors to create the perfect masterpiece to encapsulate that single, momentary bliss, it would all amount to nothing more than a feeble attempt that leaves you feeling uninspired, frustrated and shallow for flirting with banality and cliche.

so instead, you're better served smiling it off with a cold glass of orange juice, a smoke and some jack johnson playing in the background.

parisian charm.

2007-07-18T08:32:51Z

it's one of those days where work is slow and your head is an empty slate and all manner of random thought can invade your mind at any given moment.

and so.. while i was munching on a twinkie, the lyrical genius of paris hilton suddenly overcame me - okay, in the first place i wasn't really overcome by awe and secondly, i didn't mean it when i used the word "genius"...

for some odd reason, her first single "stars are blind" demanded my attention. i do realise she probably doesn't write her own lyrics and all but who the fuck came up with such a shit-smelling song title like "stars are blind"?

what the hell is it supposed to mean?

the last i checked, stars don't actually have eyes and therefore are ineligible for membership in the "visually impaired masses of luminous plasma" club because eye-less objects can't be blind if they can't see, am i right?

that's like labeling my chair deaf or diagnosing my computer keyboard with a chronic case of tennis elbow.

then again, it's probably hard to be taken seriously as a music artiste when all she's known for is the inability to keep her private parts private.

goodbye grover.

2007-07-13T01:45:03Z

oh look, it's friday the 13th! not that it matters to me cos i've always thought superstition is more of a benchmark of sorts for obsession compulsion disorder. the need to justify and rationalize a sense of equilibrium in the event of a fuckup.

grover pinkerton rafferty - i barely knew you. but you will be missed. you were such a gentle soul even though you kept trying to dig through my palm like a cowboy town jailbird trying to dig out of a prison cell with nothing but a spoon.

otherwise, this has been the smashingest week ever. truly.

lou reed and nosebleeds.

2007-07-05T04:42:34Z

before i got into the office this morning, i had a cigarette and an iced coffee at the fountain downstairs bracing myself for yet another sordidly demoralizing day at work.

morale at an all time low, i expected nothing less than bastardly deadlines, receding hairlines and the type of shit-flinging that would make a shit-fetishist go "ooh" only to receive news so sweet, a tear almost stirred in my eye - news that my bosses wouldn't be in for the next 2 days.

joy!

in the midst of my morning euphoria i had a sudden nosebleed. it was almost perfect. had i been surfing porn or sifting thru a victoria's secret catalogue, it would've been an anime-like snapshot - a boy having a nosebleed in the midst of a pervy moment.

song.

bovine bicep bazooka.

2007-06-28T09:12:40Z

saw something bizarre during my lunchbreak. on my way back to the office, i passed by a beefcake (read: cake made of beef) descending on the opposite side of an escalator. naturally, his biceps here as huge as a brontosaurus' left testicle. the weird thing was, tatooed on the monstrosity was a huge "i (heart) you" inked in indigo.

i'd love to be in the room when he and his mates were coming up with what to tatoo on his arm.

hairy krishna.

2007-06-26T07:29:37Z

i have a theory that women are generally divided into 3 categories, based on their preference of hairstyle in their choice of man.

the first type is the "neat hair" fetishist. this type of woman would like her man to have nicely trimmed hair. think matt damon or your friendly neighbour, edmund the mechanical engineer. women who favor men with this hairstyle do so because they long for security and status in their lives and believe that such things can only be found in men who can afford regular haircuts and hair gel.

these women usually have their lives planned out - the age when they intend to get married, the exact amount of children they intend to bear, bouffant hairstyles, yappity puppy dog mascots and the works. they are also in all likelihood, unforgivably materialistic and lazy in bed.

then there's the other type that likes shaggy haired, scruffy men. they long for excitement and adventure - as if messy locks and unkempt hair signals an indiana-jones-like lifestyle that will whisk them away from the mundanity of their sterile, white bloused, mary-jane wearing existence. additional points if their shaggy specimen has boyish looks like new york rehab regular, julian casablancas or mexican midget, gael garcia bernal.

these sort of women might come from a rigid family background and most likely did well in school and thus, long to break the mould in the name of sticking it up to their overly upright, academic upbringing. they are also likely to be 10 times better in bed on account of having read their fair share of trashy romance novels growing up. moody, shaggy haired boys - this is where catholic schoolgirls fuck up.

i can't say much about girls who dig bald men. my guess is they like them hong kong gangster looking types - dangerous and likely to beat the shit out of road bullies and yappity dogs that bark incessantly in the middle of the night.

i can't say much about them cos i never had a girlfriend when i was bald. notably cos i looked like a monkey. a scrawny, hairless, non-gangster like monkey. the type of junkie monkey that scientists experiment on.

what's your hair fetish?

jap crap.

2007-06-20T09:48:48Z

gotta love them japs.