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up is the new down. [04 Jun 2008|10:42pm]
[ mood | apathetic ]

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.

3 comments|post comment

the things that bum me out. [06 Apr 2008|10:21pm]
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.
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catch a rat then let it go. [18 Jan 2008|03:22am]
[ mood | peaceful ]

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.


4 comments|post comment

out with the old. [14 Jan 2008|12:16pm]
[ mood | irate ]

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. 

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and so i sprang clung. [14 Jan 2008|12:14pm]
[ mood | complacent ]

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. 

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things you don't see too often. [14 Jan 2008|11:26am]
[ mood | good ]

- 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?

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the return of the prodigal immigrant bastard son. [11 Dec 2007|12:33pm]
[ mood | inspired ]

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

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deconstructing nana. [11 Dec 2007|12:30pm]
[ mood | exhausted ]

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. 

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ode to the shrew. [11 Dec 2007|11:41am]
[ mood | shakesperian ]

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


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york that git with a bow and arrow. [13 Nov 2007|11:23am]
[ mood | amused ]

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!

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resurgences most tasteless. [25 Oct 2007|05:33pm]
[ mood | working ]

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.

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death by panda. [23 Oct 2007|04:51pm]
[ mood | nonsensical ]

esteban was a handsome stud of a pinata. he was the studliest pinata in all of pinatown.

esteban hailed from pinatalunya, pinata capital of spain. unlike most hobos repulsive con herpes who commonly sport a "dirty sanchez", esteban had a "clean sanchez", which is what they called the manliest of manly moustaches in these parts. it was groomed and waxed to vaginally-lubricating effect, often causing female pinatas to swoon in adoration and break out with hives.

esteban would spend most of his days fishing with his irish bagel friend, turd ferguson. why a candy-filled papier mache horse and a bagel would want to eat fish, remains something of a mystery.

"me cuelgan como un caballo! pero mi cara es como un melón!" said esteban gallantly, as he whipped his fishing line out into the lake with the grace of a nun.

"right! mud-wrestling is fer pansies. this be where real man test their me'tle, eh? oi'll be getting this 'ere fishnet out," replied turd ferguson in his thick irish brogue.

"soy un semental sentimental que estos pescados son gays. ¡debo cogerlos y comer sus pescados los palillos vienen a mí los pescados! ¡venido, venga! hahaha!" esteban seemed to shout out to no one in particular.

that sudden bellow began to stir a rouge-ish urge that resided deep inside turd ferguson, his irish blood swelling the way irish men do when they have random urges to behave like a lout. he needed to shout. he didn't need a reason why. and with that, the irish began to let out a loud, proud irish rap that scared away all the fishes in the lake.

    "oohhh oi'm a horny pastry,
     and them short leprechauns make me horny!
     so i does what i could,
     and i shags 'em real good,
     but them bastards, they got HIV!"

"ai caramba! ¡el su cantar hace mis testículos dar vuelta a horrific verde, horrible! ¡pare, en el nombre del amor!"
esteban pleaded him to stop.

he knocked turd ferguson to the ground and pinned him down with a wet hoof. licking his hooves before sticking it into the bagel's ears, he performed a dastardly submission move that americano bullies liked to perform on mild-mannered and bespectacled kids in the playground - the dreaded "wet willy"!

suddenly, from behind the bushes on the bank of the lake, who should pop out but the town sheriff, pan xi the panda with small penis. his penis was small because as we all know, pandas come from china, where 90% of all small penises are from.

with a flick of his bisexual finger, he broke up the scuffle and gestured to turd ferguson, "you have performed illegal hip-hoperation! you go to jail, bad boy!"

esteban shed a single pina-tear as his friend was dragged by pan xi, into the police vehicle made of bamboo. it had no wheel, because pandas hadn't yet discovered technology yet. for all technology as we know it, came from the germans, the greek and the japanese. being from china, all he excelled at was martial arts and the habit of over-pronouncing his R's.

esteban shaved off his "clean sanchez" as an act of tribute, knowing well that turd ferguson likely didn't make it to the panda gaol, for pan xi was known for his love of bagels and regardless of the origin of the bagel, he never discriminated. unless of course, the bagels were jewish.

indeed, turd ferguson must have died a horrible death.

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celluloid freud licks a spattergoid. [12 Oct 2007|02:50pm]
[ mood | chipper ]

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.

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humble me. [20 Sep 2007|05:15pm]
[ mood | constipated ]

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.

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medulla my oblongata. [19 Sep 2007|05:24pm]
[ mood | artistic ]

it's that time of year when i get that mad itch - when the right hemisphere of my brain starts masturbating furiously like a teenager who just acquired a catalogue of milo manara graphic novels.

every chance i get, i tear away from work to doodle a picture or scribble down quirky phrases that'd make good lyrics.

flashes like these always seem to happen when i'm knee-deep in a piss-pool of work. although i'm not malaysian, i've acquired the typical malaysian half-assed, lazy bastard mentality which means when i eventually have the time to work on them sketches, doodles and scribbles, i'll probably end up watching porn or smoking til my balls turn black.

damn you flight of the conchords and munkao (incidentally, neither of which are porn artistes or cigarette brands)!

i was wondering, where do gay people buy their shirts? cos really, most of them have nice shirts. of course, i'm not talking bout the flamboyant gay types who suck random cocks in office toilets - i'm not into flashy, flourescent, vinyl, nu rave prints with the word "cock gobbler" plastered on the chest. lots of well dressed gay men around my office block - or do they just look good cos being gay means one can get away with more than the average heterosexual male?

do i have to be gay to dress nice?

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race cars say go! [12 Sep 2007|04:24pm]
[ mood | dorky ]

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. 

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waldo no show. [10 Sep 2007|04:21pm]
[ mood | calm ]

sometimes ideas need to be purged out in a hurry. sometimes it's just a word or phrase that you're grasping for but it's lodged deep in the bowels of your mind, someplace you've been before only you're not too sure how to get there again.

while persistence and fortitude compels you to batter away at it like a good soldier, sometimes all it takes is a breather of some sort - a walk around the park, a smoke by the window, the popping of bubble wrap or perhaps another failed attempt at solving the rubik cube to clear your mind.

and when it comes, it's very satisfying. like finally finding waldo. 

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seahorses in my palms. [03 Sep 2007|03:33pm]
[ mood | chipper ]

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.

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monsters in our knickers. [30 Aug 2007|03:57pm]
[ mood | curious ]

i stumbled on an article on tattoo advertising - people who walk around with brand names, logos and taglines inscribed on their foreheads for the price of a couple hundred thousand bucks.

while my initial reaction was a mixture of disgust, shock and disbelief, the irony of it eventually dawned upon me - we all have a price, don't we?

whenever we're bored, my friends and i often sit around and come up with ridiculous worst case scenarios that we'd have to consider doing at a given price ie:

+ for 300 bucks, would you attend a church service and act insane - dressed up in a mechanics overall which you'll peel off to reveal a leather s&m getup?
+ for 700 bucks would you sleep in your mother's used underwear for a month?
+ for 2,000 bucks would you eat a cake made out of a construction worker's semen?
+ for 50,000 bucks, would you give your bald, greasy, leper of an uncle a blowjob?
+ for 50 million bucks, would you give up sex for the rest of your life?

i don't think we're all that pious and proper as we portray ourselves to be. given the choice between trading shame for a generous windfall that would set you on easy street, it's merely a matter of how much you can swallow.

and i think underneath the layers of our condoms of social decorum, our make-up of fucked up quirks, taboos and closet oddities are placed on the edge of a great divide of bizarre fetishes. which is why we usually can't tell who's the child molester, shit eater, granny cunt guzzler, rent boy and whip-toting leather clad convent school girl.

one of my favourite time-killers at church is piecing together anathemic acts of deviance with the unlikeliest candidates. it sort of comforts me knowing that underneath the act, all of them holey-moley church girls are still cocksuckers at heart. as if it helps the world make a little more sense.

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blow my fuse but please, be gentle. [21 Aug 2007|03:01pm]
[ mood | irked ]

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.

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