Monday, December 8, 2008

the beach

where should i start.

so swansea...

ive been living in swansea (or in welsh abertawe), a coastal tourist town and the second biggest city in wales for the past two months now. as much as i would like to be fully acclimatised to the 'ways' (the organic feel in hippiespeak) of the town and apart from my weekly forays to the local friendly grocer - tesco extra; my excursions out have been limited to the few social occasions and when sara comes round to visit. lucky for me, this weekend sara took her time off to visit me, and i took the opportunity to see the city and share the experience with her.

im currently writing from my place on alexandra road, 150 metres from the main train station in swansea (high street station) and the street's address is home to a university, a museum and my place which was the main police station but refurbished to a modern en-suite accomodation when they moved accross the street. as i knew the conventional route from llys glas (the name of my building) to the beach, i told sara we would take the 'scenic route' there, via uplands, which was said to be a 'lovely walk' uphill.

towards the end of our 30 minutes journey to the beach, sara started to suspect something was amiss, which i duly explained to her my 'intuitive sense of direction' and explained to her in the most rationale and intelligent way possible. the verbatim was as follows, 'we went up the hill, so we must get back down to get to the beach'. which to me meant we had to go downhill back to the normal sealevel to get there. suffice to say, minutes later we found our way when we saw the beach from the hill and the camera came out to capture the moments.

here are some of the pictures taken on saturday (6th December 2008) with sara's camera and some other pictures before that date.

llys glas, my place of residence

swansea 2 - cardiff 2, 30th november 2008 at the liberty stadium with the coursemates

my preparation - riot geat for the welsh derby

the beach! our footprints on the swansea beach

pebble beach of swansea (without the golf... and bigger pebbles)

sara vs nature

sara's violent again.


so thats it for now, ill try to update whenever i can. see u guys later!


Look familiar?

Monday, November 24, 2008

la fille aux cheveux de lin

la fille aux cheveux de lin

there's something magical about 'la fille aux cheveux de lin' by debussy. literal translation of that would be 'the girl with the flaxen hair'. not wanting to sound overly sentimental, but on some nights one could even see her coming into shape.

i do not wish to speculate but this song is so romantic that i think debussy must have been through certain anguish to come up with something this beautiful. i hope u like it!


Wednesday, November 5, 2008

F**k White People!

Wee Boon/Tom gives an insight into what its like as a Chinese man in a whitewashed country

I feel absolutely no remorse for being racist towards a white person. After all, considering the shit they’ve done to the rest of the world (Here’s a list):
• Apartheid in South Africa
• Classifying aboriginals as plants in Australia until the 70’s
• Feeding the imperial court of China opium so they could conquer them
• Waging war on middle-eastern states in the name of counter-terrorism when what they really want is oil
• Raping, plundering and basically sucking dry Africa and justifying their actions by saying “savages” cannot self-administer
• Forcing down our throats their economic theories. The same theories that got us into this big f**king mess we call the “sub-prime” crisis
• And the list goes on

The last thing you’d care about is your feelings…..

On a more micro-level, white supremacy still pervades our culture in a big way. Just take a good listen to our radio stations and you’ll probably hear some f**king poser in an Anglo-Saxon accent talking about how cool something we don’t really care about is….. and what about our girls?! Seriously, it’s gotten to a point where if you’re white, male and a loser, all you have to do is come to Malaysia and all your personal problems are over!

It’s hard for me to understand why most of us Malaysians revere them like Gods when all they all they really are are f**king retards! From my observations, they are f**king oblivious to the concept of being a guest in someone’s country. Personally, when I’m abroad on vacation I take pains to sensitize myself to the local customs and culture while being mindful of my behavior towards the locals. The opposite seems to ring true for the white man on vacation in Malaysia, He stays at the Hilton at KL Sentral, splurges 6 months worth of wages on renting a BMW convertible for a week, and has a hooker or two on tow, everywhere he goes. I was unlucky enough to encounter such a bastard on my way back from college a week ago when I was trying to enter a main road, I was quite a distance from his car when I decided to go into his lane but instead of slowing down, the faggot decided to speed further almost coming into contact with my car. He horns, cuts into the next lane and flashes me the finger much to the amusement of his kindergarten-educated hooker. If you think that was disgusting enough, you ain’t heard shit yet….

My brother Loong is studying over at Cardiff in Wales pursuing a law degree right now. Over the course of a month since he’s been there, he’s been having trouble adjusting to the culture, which can be hard since White people are only good at getting drunk and catching sexually-transmitted diseases. His homesickness was further compounded when he was placed in a hostel with 3 white girls with very difficult personalities. At first, they were nice enough to introduce themselves, because they probably figured that in any event where they might come home smashed, the one sober guy in the apartment would actually let their fat asses in. After a few days, the niceties stopped and every time they would have their meals together in the kitchen, totally ignoring my brother’s existence, that is until something goes wrong or missing at their place. It’s bad enough my brother has to do the washing up so that their place doesn’t get fined; now he gets accused of taking other people’s stuff. One of the girls actually went to my brother’s room knocked on his door and started making a big scene about her missing chopping board. My brother was of course pissed off when he found out later that the chopping board was found again, but in the hands of the other white girl living in the same apartment. Did she make a big scene this time…. No…….. Choosing instead to laugh it off with her over a glass of wine. If that doesn’t reek of racism I have no idea what does…

So bitch, if you are reading this (ever since Jimmy told me we have visitors as far as Timbuktu, nothing surprises me anymore), I’d suggest that you crawl back to that little hole in wherever the f**k u came out from before because obviously you need some f**king help! You’ve got some f**king nerve trying to impose your f**king imperialist rhetoric on my little brother and if it ain’t because u were a girl he’d probably slap your slutty fat-ass back to Surrey you f**king minger! My brother does not have to take shit for being responsible for his own life and he certainly doesn’t need to make any apologies for trying to be as stupid and condescending as you and your other friends are. This incident and a string of events in the past has taught me if anything that you and your f**king people are f**king idiots. F**k White People!

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Bunch of crunch

I have strong convictions that bumper issues are nothing but recycled and rehashed mediocrity. Literal bricks which we lay down on paper; that which we ardently try to gloss over. Giving new lustre to an otherwise painfully simplistic and disengaging account of events passed. Now that I’ve satisfied my monthly conscience attack of the sudden and revelatory need to uphold ‘journalistic’ integrity (read: snobbery), I have to be wary that what I am about to write in the following article may be the biggest flop since Howard the Duck. This is no longer the age of the word of mouth, my initial clinical reaction towards advertising people isn’t hate and I really try to believe that there isn’t a hell. Strangely those are two very disparate topics to mention in one sentence, let alone one breath. However I’ve come to believe that if there is a race that belongs in hell, it’s made up entirely of advertising people. Yes, I said it, they’re a race.

Not for nothing but let me explain why I’ve resorted to saddling them with such a strong statement. Every nook and cranny that is available, every avenue has pretty much been invaded by the advertising brigade. Advertising on television and radio is fine by me, no two ways about it, you want to enjoy a show, you’ll just have to sit through the advertisements.
But, you can change the channel right? Oh yes, you can. The intended message doesn’t get across, visibility of the product is diminished and sales are hoo. So in order to combat the scourge of the two bit, game show watching, Sunday morning genital scratching television watching public from suddenly developing the mind to work the remote, advertising companies decide to parlay their advertorial misdeeds on a larger scale, literally.

Where else can you watch advertisements on the screen but not be able change the channel? Cinemas folks, that’s the first step of the final frontier, when I was younger I used to think, oh isn’t that just downright dandy, the man who owns the cinema also sells beer. That’s why he’s given to fits of monologue as to how you drinking his brew will make you feel all velvety and swank, as you cosy up to the hip crowd in the newest, trendiest nightspot in town.

I should probably go on and list my varied grievances against advertisements but I’ll stop short and say this, it will not be long before people our age wilfully allow themselves and their children to be branded with tattoos bearing names of corporations, in effect, pushing us further down the food chain and making us the subservient and dutiful ‘consumers’ that they expect us to be.

Just a run through since I last dazzled you with my array of witty, genial but sardonic humour, I went home for the 3-day weekend. Oh it was marvellous, just downright glorious, people in the neighbourhood shops welcomed me, they came in throes to shake my hand, to butter me up with pooh-pooh words, young lusty women playfully flutter their eyelids at me amidst the smoky incense that blanketed the scene.

Shy children played coy and hid behind their mothers while they crane their necks to catch the spectacle that has come to town, the trumpets blared, the djembes banged and the carnivalesque atmosphere crescendoed into a deafening blare. Well it would’ve been really quite nice if all that had actually happened. That would’ve been quite the rousing homecoming.
But in some mirrored way, it sort of happened.

See, when I return to the land of exotic beasts and spicy spice, I am actually treated like a visiting dignitary. Yes, the homeples (home peoples) lavish me with the sort of curiosity and reverence fit for a king of some newfangled young nation, brimming with optimism, it leaves my chest so swelled with pride that it threatens to rip the seams of my shirt.

I never fail to make passing comparisons between myself and that movie where that American girl found out that she was royalty in some European country. In short, when I return home, I always feel like a princess.

That’s not necessarily a good thing, and no, it’s not comforting either that it is a very emasculating notion. For one, the man-based activities in my house are similar to the activities I think most men can agree with and do engage in, loud burping noise making, t-shirt sleeves as tissue using, toothpaste cap left opened, running, pushing one another into walls, couch and television gap bridging, pissing on the toilet seat and various noise related activities that involve orifices.

I too indulged in all manners of the elusive Manimale. For a full 15 minutes, I ran the entire gamut; I pissed and left the toothpaste cap opened at the same time. Immediately I arose to my feet and said “what the...” fully intending to leave the sentence as it is. Yet all budding theatrics aside, I spent the weekend being a good daughterman and I cleaned.

Some weekend it was.

I’ll tell you what else happened. I was killed in a dream, by a soap star. In my dream, civil strife had finally spilled over as a direct aftermath of a global financial doomsday (reality much?) and somehow, as in the case of typical, not-too-distant future movies would have us know, men routinely become highly skilled in weaponry and they hearken back to the days of yore when the ability to throw a spear quantified to receiving a university degree.

I was standing on top of a building, posing actually, one foot on the ledge with so much machismo oozing that if it had actually happened, real soldiers wouldn’t function. They’d just stand around with one foot on makeshift ledges, flashing their greased up scruffy mugs to the wail of distorted guitars, their hair effortlessly blowing in the breeze even when there’s no breeze.

Anyways there I was all Ramboed out, cocked, locked and ready to rock when suddenly an artillery shell whizzed past my head and cracked a wall behind me. The chopping sounds of helicopter blades caught my attention in the distance. I wear a look on my face that said ‘no sweat’ but I’m naturally quite sweaty anyways. I let out an effusive grin and loaded my rocket propelled grenade launcher. Target’s in sight, I let her fly, she hits the copter and down it comes.
But to keep things interesting and on an even keel, I had actually fired off the rocket when the helicopter was right above me, thus it came tumbling down, spelling a certain doom for the already doomed, snarky antihero. I lunge and rolled out of the way but it was too late, the concrete had caved in and I fell, hitting the floor whilst letting out a manly blood curdling growl that Schwarzenegger would’ve approved of.

The wreckage of the chopper was right beside me and suddenly the cockpit door is kicked open and out comes the aggressor. I ran up the wreckage with a grimace on my face and pulled the pilot out but I was kicked in the gut as the pilot removed her helmet. It was Sandra Oh from Grey’s Anatomy and she had clearly been a victim of some higher up Pentagon experiment. She had scales on her arms, her eyes closed sideways like an alien and she had an androgynous male-female voice. Actually she didn’t say anything to indicate that she’d have the voice but I thought it would be cool if she did, so it ended up in my dream.

She stabs me in the guts with a hunting knife and pulls the blade across. Proceeding to dig her hand into my stomach, she rearranges my insides for a brief moment and rips out my entrails. I looked down, I gasp and my jaw drops and I died clutching a flag that conveniently appeared out of nowhere, again to the wail of distorted guitars. The never say die attitude action movie machismo of my dreams was effectively ended by a soap star.

Conventional taxi stand etiquette dictates that it’s all turn based; the person in the front gets the cab first. However, the taxi stand at my work place doesn’t adhere to that rule. This morning I was at the front of the line and I flagged at taxi down, I was about to open the door when suddenly this Misster barges in and effeminately says

‘Eh that’s my cab, don’t be so rude okay?’

‘No it isn’t, I flagged it down, you just happened to easily saunter up my way’

‘Eeesh.... you bitch, so rude la you!’

Whoa oh...he said that whilst giving me the hand at the same time. Ill skillz that thrill on a hill. He’d put me on a spot here, how was I to respond? What was I to say in retaliation? I couldn’t bark something like oh yeah, we’ll see how you do on a rugby field because I realised giving his disposition to channelling his inner Boy George, the Misster would’ve indeed loved to be on a rugby field. Instead I played it safe, I used a line that has been used almost too many times than I could care to recall.

‘Don’t quit your gay job you twat!’

So does that make me a homophobe then?

Have many good ‘morrows y’all cool cats in fancy suede hats.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Morning athletics pre-Halloween rundown award ceremony.

I woke up this morning and I had a mild freak out session because it felt a little too late to be 8 in the morning. It was only about half a minute later then I realised that it’s the usual “what time is it? It’s late, I’m damn sure of that” feeling that comes from going to sleep at 4 a.m. Maybe it’s my highly attuned sense of guilt or maybe it’s the fact that I’m have to work, whatever it was, it stoked my guilty conscience to an enviable high. Yet, that wasn’t the reason why I freaked out.

Now I pride myself on being quite the proficient fothermucker when it comes to performing the comedic, ‘upright jolt’ manner of waking up. I don’t do it often because firstly, I don’t fancy the subsequent head rush. Secondly, this strange houseffice in which I dwell just doesn’t seem like the type of place where one would nonchalantly segue from post-awakening drunkenness to an early morning display of below average athleticism. Then again, why think of a challenge and turn it down?

In the previous post, I was involved in a similar situation, one which involved me and a bed/mattress. Carrying that out was easy. I was the projectile and the movement involved was fairly academic. One motion; jump upwards in a diagonal direction and let gravity work itself. Icarus never got the memo from his father and I don’t think I ever will unless I decide to unleash my talent in his presence. Even though I could still hear the reverberating thud in my head as a result of my indistinguishable silhouette hitting the floor that night, I still psyched myself into feeling on edge. I can do this, I’m three weeks away from turning 23 and I am fairly in good shape.

I shot upright from the floor, I passed the point of no return, and I was in mid air. I landed perfectly on both feet. The perfect dismount, all the judges gave me a 7, at the lowest. Suddenly I felt a numbness in my left knee and I tumbled down into the wooden backrest of the chair in front of me; chest first. I recoiled in pain and in the midst of a groan and laughter fit; I’ve found that comedy is tough and painful. Needless to say, I will now use beds and mattresses in the conventional manner and for its conventional purposes.

I was in the bathroom doing bathroom related activities which isn’t just limited to cleaning oneself. I happen to strongly advocate soaping as a highly sensual motion, you’re caressed, you’re rubbed with scented liquids all over, you moan and you make cum faces into the mirror. But of course this not being my comfort zone, I decided not to soapsturbate myself this morning. I come out of the bathroom and I let out a girlish yelp and this is the reason why I felt a sense of urgency all morning, I thought I had missed Halloween!

This is the month of October and in my restricted knowledge of this sugar induced dress up fest, I actually thought that Halloween was on the 18th but it was an end of month festival. Why was I so concerned with Halloween? Did I have a specific reason to care about it? Had I a costume prepared for this newfangled, once a year celebration of silliness? Not really. My only immediate concern was that I had missed out on the chance to fully lambast what a painfully ridiculous event Halloween is. Especially in Malaysia and if only in Malaysia.

Around the western world, it’s a highly visible and profitable day, children count their candy revenues, and novelty stores sell record amounts of cosmetics and costumes. That is fine and dandy. But here in Malaysia you have to look at it a wee bit differently, we don’t have a history of ever celebrating Halloween, as far as I know there is no festival that’s remotely parallel to the complex inner workings of Halloween. Then again there are things which I hold dear to my cholesterol filled heart and there’s a certain reward to being fair minded to other people’s beliefs.
So carry on, put on your make up, smear your mother’s lipstick all over yourself and go out there and beg for candy, just stay away from those melamine filled ones. Oh and if you’re above the age of 12, just know that the line that divides childish aloofness and what I like to call “the desperate and shambolic attempt to look acceptable” is a very fine line. Come to think of it, even the age of 12 is pushing it already. Just make sure your mother doesn't know about your selfish plundering of her lipstick...and her undergarments as well. Whoops.

Yesterday I tried to engage in small talk with my colleagues, now I suck at small talk, not because of the stuttering or my uncontrollable drooling. I am terrible at small talk because I don’t stay within the confines of the topic, you ask me about the weather and I’ll tell you of the watery, sour smelling wart I found between my toes.

Speaking of which, I just turned down a free lunch with them. Stupid. I realise that my blogging during office hours is a disreputable use of employment time. Go ahead, say your tsks, scoff at the edge of a cliff, shake your heads and compare me to a civil servant but this is the lunch hour. Sometimes I think of award worthy situations, best sneeze or most enthusiastic fart. I’m a person who is foursquare for melodrama and I always thought that if there is an ever an award for Most Overzealous Reaction, I’d win it in a heartbeat.

Either that or a drill sergeant but I’ve not enlisted, I might, I might not. However the idea of spending copious amounts of time with lots of men doing manly things and engaging in manly talk is something which is hard to refuse.

Yet the one man panel has agreed in unison that the Most Overzealous Reaction award goes to Madam Loud Lady. Old people will lecture us every now and then, old people find it hard not to impart their sagacious advise unto the younger generation. But most old people have the tact and wisdom to engage in one sided repartees within the confines of what they know. You however, Madam Loud Lady are so ruthlessly out of line that we, I, hereby recognize your outstanding contributions to condescension and bestow you with the inaugural Most Overzealous Reaction award.

Two plus two equals five isn’t without its merits.

Have a good morrow y'all.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

To better the Joneses.

Hello hello, Mabuhay! I am aware that weekend updates are usually and promptly reported on Monday morning itself. The reason this post was left out was because we publish on the basis of drawing straws and the fellow who got the shortest straw also happened to be the least adequately equipped person. But I could be thinking of another straw drawing session I was recently involved in. That’s what I sometimes do, like how movies have shown us that hordes of people will unquestioningly follow one singular person who breaks out into song and dance; I too am afflicted by this uncommon urge to draw straws. I also might have said too much in regards to being inadequate.

Like I said in my opening salvo not 6 lines ago, weekend updates are something that slithers sultrily down a vine and rests itself on your lap on a Monday morning. However I’ve made it a disturbing habit to rub against the grain but don’t worry, I rub felines and all it’s synonymous variables the right way. I always go out of my way to make people feel uncomfortable, sometimes naturally, sometimes just out of curiosity but mostly for spite and fun. There are lines all over the place and damn it, I say cross as many as you’d like! Now, I have to say that I had a fairly slow paced weekend which was exactly what Dr. Pepper told me to do.

I don’t know who Dr. Pepper is. The last thing I want to do is to visit a doctor named after the very seasoning that served me with the sneezy sniffles in the first place. Before I go on any further, this is a little obscure, but something in the last sentence just made me force a timeout to analyse the language, the syntax, and these strange little things we say in our daily conversations. It perfectly complements one another; last thing and first place. They’re direct opposites. The former’s an ultimatum, and the other is an opportune chance.

I tried explaining this to my friend the other night (Yes, I am that big Thai guy who crashes over on weekends) that ‘this blows’ and ‘that sucks’ both are usually connotative of disapproval or contentment with any given issue. Yet, they’re both direct opposites.

The physics of language, the art of speaking... Oh, the languid penalty of being an over thinker.
But coming back, over the weekend two significant things happened that sparked off this volcanic upheaval inside of me. It just left me seething with such uncontrollable sedated rage a la Bruce Banner without the muscles and Barney’s boxers. On the first matter, I won’t get into the asinine details of it because well it can happen to just about anybody. Let’s just say that I considered the “what if” but I didn’t act on the all important “should have.”

The second thing, and this is really upsetting. This is akin to walking out of the house wearing a top hat and having nothing else on. It is just the type of thing that leaves you fuming and you go off on this self retrospective most of you are doing right now, trying to figure out exactly what it is that I am trying to say. Even if you don’ will. Soon, trust me. To coin it short, I was playing chess and I left my Queen unprotected and wide open and let’s just say that...she was greased down and penetrated.

Innocent little thing, it doesn’t affect me in any way; it’s just a little game of chess. My speech is fine, I still have my sense of balance, I can still string together decent thoughts to make words dance. Sure I’m fine, right? No. No, I wasn’t fine. I had a scowl on my face that made me look like The Dark Knight; the only difference between us is that one actually wears a mask.

I actually stormed out of the room with tears streaming down my face and I ran to the other room and jumped in to mid air to plop myself down on the bed like those girls in the TV series but it was a big mistake because my friend’s brother’s bed is just a mattress on the floor. The silly logic that ‘oh it’s okay, my face broke my fall” isn’t a carefully thought out one and it should be reviewed immediately. That made me cried even harder.

Now this isn’t good. I’ve overstepped the boundaries here, I had only agreed to cry so much. There are regulations, there’s a methodology behind this. But then I woke up and realised that I was on the floor and I had fallen asleep while listening to jazz music. I slept for 6 minutes in total. Nothing really changed; I was still reeling from the chess game that was the sand that slipped through my fingers.

When I was a child I had a fever..well no, actually this is quite precious and precocious, depending on whose reading but I used to think that if you cut a fat person with a knife, layers of fat would just seep out through the cut. Just like a piece of fried chicken. I don't exactly know why I was thinking of cutting people up but now I think there was logic behind that because some people are just too large.

They're like invertebraes, they're bulbous beings. Now I have nothing but love for the formidably formed, the generously girthed, the ominously get my drift but why, oh why do they have to wear clothes that are brought from baby stores? I blame those damn lying magazines. Wearing tight clothes do not, in any way; provide the illusion of a slimming effect.

It just screams quick fix, laziness and not to mention the deplorable but somewhat convenient way in which it allows me to differentiate which is a fatty fold and which isn’t. When a large person chooses to wear tight clothes, certain parts of their loose, lumpy bodies are like quicksand, it sinks in and it’s endless. Like a bottomless inward concave. When that part is covered by fabric, the fabric follows the general direction of said part and it results in what is commonly termed as a camel toe.

I too had the misfortune of having once flaunted the camel during rugby. The only reason I bring this up is because this morning in the train on the way to work I was face to face with this.

If the accepted terminology is camel toe, then that otherworldly vortex between her legs must appropriately represent the camel’s entire hoof. Or lower leg.
I would've taken an actual photo 'cept I don't have a camera and I didn't want to come off looking like a pervert. The moral of ths story is not to wear tight clothes. That’s why sizes exist in the first place.

FYI, I was never the fat kid, I was a walking Macy’s Day Float.

Byez! Xoxo.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

depressive post. or is it really?

When I was younger things didn’t really matter.

It was all for the moment and enjoy oneself. But now, todays action affects tomorrow’s future. But aren’t us humans creatures of the ebb and flow. One day everything is fine and dandy, the next, the mortgage crisis hits. The next day, banks everywhere are being wound up. And unless there is government intervention, people around the globe stand to lose their homes. And the winners? The beggars. Afterall, they didn’t work to make their home. They make theirs with cardboards.

So today, you think may think I’m a depressive cunt.. all mopey and what not. Its just like so many things. Start off bright and slowly fade. Inevitable. Like a star. A celebrity. Tom Cruise. Not to worry folks as tomorrow ill be writing the fun stuff yippee! “What is this piece of shit” you must be thinking. Well its nothing. If I were to own a personal diary I would write it in this manner. Its just that virtual voyeur compels us all to beautify our sentences to make them readable. Today… I wont bother trying. Afterall its my blog! Or something like that.

Hmm.. yeah. Found something sweet on the net yesterday. Brother dearest has the funniest links. Check this shit outt!!


p.s:- yep, the panda wasnt my brother's link. it was mine to atone for my bad post. now everybody say "i love panda"!

Thursday, October 16, 2008


For the past few days, I’ve been reading The Yes Man by Danny Wallace (In my spare time, I enthusiastically hope that a woman, any woman would let me touch her). So far, it has been a good book and Wallace is a gifted raconteur, something which we all struggle to pass ourselves off as.

Another department in which he trumps me mercilessly is the naiveté-tinged recounting of his human inability to take a rain check on everyone and everything. Contrastingly, I admire that sort of indomitable resolve in a person, the unflinching, never-say-die, derring-do that Hollywood has instilled in us all. I think it’s fair to say that I see myself in that sort of light as well (read: bullshit).

Wallace isn’t an intellectual, he's far from being the born gentry, he isn’t Noam Chomsky and he certainly will not get into the intricate layers of the relevance between language and behaviour which by the way is an interesting topic to bring up at dinner if you’re feeling just a dash snobby.

The aspect of the book which I have somewhat grown to dislike is how closely it reminds me of myself. On account of the movie clichés that we’re all familiar with, it’s normal and even expected for villains to have some sort of physical deformity or various physical tics, which serve to mirror the twisted and dark recesses of their souls.

Well lucky me; never has any publication mirrored me this well, not since the International Journal of Impotence Research came out, specifically under the topic of the Micropenis.

Penile size comparison: Fun for father and son.

At lunch I tried to recall instances when I was so spineless, so imminently preordained to get screwed by my own decisions, too weak and powerless to even muster up the courage to cough. Yet for all the raven haired nymphomaniacs in the world, I was stumped for an answer. It is the thought that leaves the lot of us scratching our heads annoyingly in sheer confusion.

More people are affected by this problem than those who watched the Seinfeld finale. And a shitload of people caught the last Seinfeld episode! So how is this possible? Why is it that I can never fully recall the unsavoury situations that I have been in? I decided to dabble in a little psychology, dissociate myself from the conscious thought process. It didn’t take long for me to quit, throw down the gauntlet (which shattered into a million pieces in the shimmering sunlight of yore) and accept that we are all creatures of comfort.

We seek warmth, we seek good will and the occasional breast to face smiting sessions. It is our hunger that we satisfy with shovelfuls of stuttered self reassuring. Come to think about it, I have had my fair share of indecisions and it's a tight space, very much like the shaft that gave away the Death Star. I always think that I am invicible to fallacies if I don't make a quick snap decision. However I also never get to a decision, decisions are like the girls I stalk, I gaze languidly at them, I pretend to want to caress them, I flirt with idea of approaching them yet I carelessly play my gambit, I say to myself, this could very well be the best damn decision in the history of best damn decisions. Then everything falls to pieces and I'm nursing sore pride and a bruised ego. So for now, I'll let indecision reign over me, it makes me feel wanted, it feeds the egotistical emotional glutton who dwells within. It is our hubris this need to be needed, we sport lusty hunger for it and I'm just hungrier than say, any non-descript village in Zimbabwe.

Yummy. I love you like the fat kid love cake.

I don’t think we’re capable of coming up with the bad but probable scenarios. Sure we can all sit around and think of the worst case scenarios, it’s easy because we know that it will never happen to us. That is just the natural inclination of humans, thought is like a swimming pool at midnight, you don’t want to go in because the water’s too cold but you don't want to stay out either because flaking out is lazy. That's why we have toes, to dip in the water, and it's also why we have minds; to be able to just superficially touch on subjects and not dive into the deep end.

Strange how I started off speaking about indecisiveness and ended up wisely gambling away the best two cents my mind has come up with in a long time. Skillz. Recognize.

To sum it all up, I bungled at work yesterday. Yes, I committed the office boo-boo. I sinned on the job. No, I didn’t blow or get blown by anyone under the desk; I only do those things to myself on special occasions. Besides I prefer doing it under a coffee table. Conventional wisdom and my mother’s feather duster collection has shown time and again that meting out punishment is an adult past time.

All religious stories have some sort of comforting moral notion that atonement is the ultimate penalty for wrongdoings. Hell if I had known that, I wouldn’t have tried to engage my executioner in the manner of sassy verbal exchanges in those black-white cop/buddy movies. In short and in much lesser words, I am bound for mediocrity. I am head-on for the tongue lashing that would make a deaf man shudder.

The only important thing right now is that I’ll need all the support that I can elicit from anyone. Which is why I am typing this article with my right hand; the other one is preoccupied with picking out phone numbers and sharpening a large knife. It’s only a prop to get anyone whose number is selected to agree to my invitation.

However, Hollywood has also shown us that real life isn’t as easily resolved as it is in the movies. Perhaps, if I’m lucky I can fend off would-be offenders with the help of these fine gentlemen below:

I made a passing reference to an African nation above on purpose. The collective wealth of the latest Forbes rich list amounts to a meteoric 4.4 trillion dollars. That is double Africa's collective GDP. It is an entire continent made up of almost 1 billion people. So you see, here at el blogos, we're not just limey, sarcastic and snarky bastards, we're also socially aware. Socially aware that unhinged greed and an unchecked harbouring for wealth isn't something to glorify.

Don't glorify it but don't neglect it either.Lastly, I have a new thing to dislike now. I hate speaking to cross eyed people because I wouldn't know which eye to look into and when I don't I come off really rude, like I'm better than them. The other is that I have this inability not to mimic anything I find funny, so if you put me in a conversation with a cross eyed person, chances are, I'll cross my eyes too, not to make them feel comfortable or anything but just for the sheer joy of it. Yes that's right, I said cross eyed people are funny. Aren't they?Cheers Ears...oh sorry, Byes Eyes, normal or crossed!

The Ink of the Brain

We at el blogos strive to bring you the best of every culture (thats rite amigo), and of course today is no different! our latest writer, mushfique hails from the exotic maldivian islands, where he seeks to present his insights on life, struggles with the idea of living large, and of ghost and children in his little poem. come, discover, and be amazed!

The Ink of the Brain When things fall apart -
because taking notice of the admonition would not have done much of a difference.

There are a million and one reasons why we should've never grown up.
Died young just to please the old.
There are a million and one ways things could've turned out.

That's the thing about plans - they never work.
Ambition makes you look pretty ugly.

So what's this then, I don't know what led to this.

We've all had moments like that with you - but looking back to that night,
something was set in motion right then and there.
The sky was set to fall, from the Great Heights;
so we didn't dare look up.

How can something that grand create something like this. It can't be true.
Those train-tracks go everywhere all at once and so it's hard to tell where it goes
or comes back from. So we don't know where the monastics came from or went to.

I guess I can't even see it changing any time soon,
but I hope someday it makes sense to me.

Was it the easy way out?

Whatever it was, it's a pretty huge leap, see where it is today.
In a few days, weeks, months or in a year, look where it's at now.

So what's this then? You always hear about these things.
And in that moment, it never strikes to you as - real.

See, your mind has a few things that it has decided for itself that can not happen EVER,
and that list remains invisible.
However high the logical possibility of that happening is irrelevant to your mind.

It is epithet commonly awarded to humans.

Like fire shattering burnt wood,
it blinds you with brightness when it actually does happen.
You still think you're right, but you're wrong. It's difficult to look straight at it,
so you work yourself into a distraction and look elsewhere.
Away from the light he attained and the light he lives in,
but for you, you feel weary under it's shadow.
And they did not gladden it.

Then the ghost of what-could've-been skulks through the curtains,
when you least expect it.
It would fain be known but it's a tressure trove you will never salvage.

And if that ghost spoke, it would tell stories, it would laugh together over TV, it would sing songs, play guitars, play drums, make documentaries, it would be the big boss at work, it would fight over the remote control all in one night.

We should've never undermined you, the center of our little universe,
You are sacrosanct.
If only you chose to spread that thought over and above the bread infront of you.
Maybe that ghost would be a reality.

God loves His children
and does his children love God
and does His children love his children.

Monday, October 13, 2008


Mondays are strange creatures, there's a Monday outfit, a Monday mindset, Monday music, even a Monday walk.
It's basically the day where you have to be mindful of the mindless that is the hordes of people who are still enchanted by the lull of the weekend stupor.

So what is it exactly that is so daunting, so impossible about Monday? Shouldn't your Mondays taste better? For one, it's the re-entry into the boisterous, bickering, bustle of city life. I am not saying that rural folk don't have their moments of insanity, no. What I'm saying is that in the big, evil ol'city, I'm of the mind that people thrive on it, they are in the worship of it, it is the very spoon in which they burn their fix.

This image accounts for 85% of the Monday morning crowd.

When you see them walking around with this mouth agape bewildered look plastered on their faces, it's not because they're shellshocked by their surroundings, it is simply an unwatered feeling of awe, like they've just magically moved an object with sheer mind power. So to get around all this, I've tasked myself with purposely upheaving my weekends. That's right. Weekends; time to relax, have fun, meet friends, act kooky, knock back a few of grandpa's old cough medicine, shoot someone in the jugular with a dart gun and laugh about it, etc., right?

Good heavens no! Not anymore, at least for the trusty scribe who is myself. Now I am not endorsing this as a lifestyle, I am not vouching for this to be the answer to all your dreams and aspirations, so please, do not endeavor to try this for yourself. The answer? Don't sleep on Sundays. More explicitly, don't sleep at all if it's past midnight, instead, get 12 hours of sleep prior to the fangled, magical, carriage to pumpkin transforming hour of midnight.

Come Monday morning, you'll be as alert as prostitute when the Navy docks in town, you'll know all the moves and you'll be on song. Dare I say it but you'll be reenergized like case study No.2

Now repeat after him.

In fact, you would be so awake, you might even spot out these Kodak moments.

I was walking to the train station. Well obviously I walk, I had too much luggage to run and crawling on hot tarmac really isn't advisable. Not when it's soaked with putrid garbage water. Coming back, I was on my journey and up ahead I saw a woman quarreling with a man. She was gesticulating wildly, her face sporting a warm sheen of shiny beads of sweat and her tongue rolled with the panache of a seasoned argumentalist. Now this is just dandy except for the jarring and ironic fact that, she was wearing a tshirt stating, "For the sake of peace".

The good thing is that she realizes her problem. For the sake...right on.

I saw a beautiful woman today, she was stunning, so serene, long straight nose bridge and well dressed too. i bet she smells tasty. Alas the lofty sensation had to be cast aside somewhere for that is the way of Monday. She had a prune of a mole lodged on her left cheek. Yet, it's not so bad. Personally I would've taken the time to get the mole a haircut though.

What's the deal with women and make-up? It's time consuming and there are lots of compounds to contend with. Really what is the applying of make up if not simply painting one's face? I think they should do that, just pick one color and go, let it reflect your mood. There's a brush and there are colours right? "Oh morning Sandra, I see you're orange this morning, fantastic weekend?"

What I don't get is the women who choose to do their make up in the car and in the train? Is the train an art gallery or something? What sort of braincells float around in their heads? Somehow I think they like the attention and it's our faults, have you ever seen a group of men just gaze longingly at a woman whose applying make up? She might as well be rubbing her breasts with warm oil. So feeble, the human mind. Or maybe they're thinking "Oh no. No, no, that just isn't your colour"

As a post article disclaimer, I would like to stress that this is a site for all readers irregardless of race, religion and orientation. However, please do not abuse this site by inquiring about cruising. We prohibit all inquiries regarding butt banditry, certainly not with any of the writers or administrators of this website. Do not harass the members of this blog with your insatiable ambitions of being a tush terrorist, a rump raider, a keister killer, and a fanny fighter.Adieu bamboo.

Sunday, October 12, 2008


jeremy spent his first few hours in dublin playing football in trinity college dublin's turf when his sense of journalism kicked. in this latest edition, jeremy gives u his accounts on life as a broke student visiting dublin. this article was written on a saturday night and continued the next morning. what a bum...

how money is this shit. im in good ol' dublin at the mo living it up, here for a weekend bender with the mates!

not exactly. the heater is barely working and im cocooned on the sofa, jeffrey (the brother) is out for oktoberfest with his friends. i had the option of going with the expense of breaking my bank, i decided not to and just let the jeffrey have a little space.

so the reason for being here would be to collect my stuff at my sister and brother's place. the travel? 12 hours from cardiff to fishguard, fishguard to rosslare, rosslare to dublin; via bus to ferry then a bus again. in that bus, i have lost count the times i woke up to readjust myself into a more comfortable position in my already small seat. merh... cant complain, afterall i did choose to stuff my face throughout the summer with mamak food and the likes.

upon arrival and trading niceties with brother dearest in his flat in dublin, he could not help but ask, "is that smell your feet?" jeez. fat and smelly now eh.

im glad the girlfriend was there all the way (from cardiff to dublin) and it was she, who managed to keep la rage at bay. prior to the trip on friday, during a meet up with old friends in cardiff, they asked sara, 'why a bus? why not a plane?!' well for one basically its cheaper. but how much cheaper... well not much.

the amount of extra luggages that i could bring back is definitely better than a plane, and change of scenery and the sense of adventure that comes with doesnt hurt aswell. so far- football, tv, dinner meal paid for by the brother... not too bad for 30 euros for 2 days! okay folks, everyone is about to head off now for lunch. it is kei's (sister's boyfriend) birthday and there on the horizon is a free meal in a dimsum place. heh heh.

with this my final meal before i head back to wales, i conclude my reportage on living broke in dublin.


Friday, October 10, 2008

Why Blogs are for Whiny P*ssies

Fong Ka Men provides an insight into what she thinks of blogging and everything else in retrospect in a neurotic, unstructured and obscene rap-video like mouth off.

In my honest opinion, I honestly think so. Seriously, if u take a look at (ok, I was gonna say most blogs) but the blogs of the people that I associate myself with, they just talk about their stupid meaningless lives. Most of the time, it was about their day.

I bought this blab la bla today. Don’t you think it looks cool? My boyfriend said it was too expensive heeeheee *wink*
(man I ff-ing hate those “heee-heee’s” and “he-he’s”. Seriously, who cares about the expressions on your face at that time.
And then they put their irritating meaningless picture.

(Ok, I was looking for a picture of a handbag or some shoes but this is all I could get)

Or it would be something like this.

I had this at the mamak today for lunch cos my frens all sed they wanna yum cha maa. So cool hor… Doesn’t it look yummy? *drool*

(In case ur wondering, this was actually a ‘Pizza’ ordered at Spicy Kitchen (mamak), Kepong. It was honestly naan, ketchup, mayo and chicken bits)

So you get my drift right. Call me bitter and a hater la but seriously, why is it that ‘bloggers’ treat their blogs like some sort of window/diary to talk bout their shitty meaningless experiences or their shitty meaningless feelings.

For instance, I have this group of friends. Some are normal vain and the others are super vain. We call ourselves Evöus (cant be bothered to explain why cos this isn’t my blog and I’m just doing this as apparently my friends hate me cos I am some serial fongfeikei-er and I hope this buys me some brownie points with the contributors of this blogs who are my fongfeikei victims)

So Evöus right, consisting of the ‘normal vain ones’ and the ‘super vain ones’ who blog, are like “Hey, did u check out Wong, Lyn and Ade’s blog?” I’m so super disgusted because in my mind, only egomaniacs who seem to think that the world really cares bout every single detail bout their lives would set-up a blog. All this happened 2003ish, only Form 4 and these chicks were setting up blogs.

Wong’s blog was about what she ate, all her pictures she ever took with her boyfriend Shawn (seriously, ALL her photos that she thought she look good in: all her handphone photos, all her blinky big eyes ‘I’m-so-cute’ photos she took while she was bored in the car waiting for he boyfriend to get his cash from the ATM’… You get my drift. The content of her blog? Who she thought was hitting on her boyfriend, who was bitching about who, who was bitching bout her, who she thought was a bitch.

Lyn’s blog was just the same except she had some ‘major’ controversy ya’ll. Her then boyfriends’ ex-girlfriend posted some really mean shit on hers, so she posted some mean shit back on that ex’s blog, leading to some major bitch fest.

Then guess what – the exact same shit happened to Ade’s blog wei! With the ex and all except, of course this was Ade’s own boyfriends’ ex. Guess what they did. Because it had blown out of proportion, they recommended that I, ok ME, Ms. I Hate Blogs, go post some ‘back Ade up’ shit cos she was getting stomped on by all the other bitches who had combined forces with the enemies from Ade, Wong and Lyn’s blog.

Guess what I did…. I actually did it. Only because I love my gurlies at Evöus. And jeez, let me remind you that I had never seen any of the girls’ blogs. All the stuff that I know up there was cause they we’re talking bout all them “drama’s” so often kay.

So I went on the blog and went through all the ‘mean’ things that they had posted up bout Ade. Man, it was stupid shit like “she’s fat la, she’s a whore, her friends are bitches and they all think that they’re cool, and her bf’s just using her”. I felt so lame for putting up a fight for Ade in her Comments Column. They apparently stopped posting shit back. But seriously, I felt so, so ashamed.

Time went by, and I had totally cut that drama out of my system till today, I had to pull it all out for this article. Anyway, back to ‘time went by’, and I was with Su, one of the ‘normal vain’ and most un-pretentious member of Evöus, somewhere this year, and she said she found out Ade was still keeping a blog - five years later.

It was basically millions of pictures of her shopping expeditions and all her different ‘looks’ she transformed into. And the COOLEST part about it all is that she actually had a lot of hits and people actually followed her blog religiously!

The woman had fans!

She would interact with them (they commented on which way they liked her hair best) and actually ask questions like where she got her mascara from (yup, she took pictures of the mascara product she actually used). We all found it hilarious. These people out there, who only knew her through her blog, were actually concerned with which ‘look’ suited Ade better.

We (Su and I) checked her blog out and cracked-up when we saw all the above. All that happened in one day of her life. It was a really good laugh. Good times man…

Today, I am told about this blog. Set up by my very normal guy friends, who claim are the alter-ego of Evöus. Out of curiosity, because I know they are a sarcastically witty bunch, very articulate and observant, I decide to check it out. With the hype of it being new and all... Guess what I found. Two, bitching about their ‘so-called-friends’, and one, bitching about Mc D’s. As expected, it’s articulate, witty, well-structured, sarcastic and fun to read. Oh, and some pictures ‘experiences’ with Bapoks. But basically, the same shit, different format - A bunch of guys whining about their experiences.

Question is - Why am I joining in with this blog? I honestly feel that the only people who are will be reading this blog are the ones who have written for it, my friends, and friends of the writers. Not to mention that we all run in the same circles. But our target audience is basically ourselves, so who is going to advertise then? Help University College? Methodist High School? Or better yet, my boyfriend can advertise some of his apparently overpriced recreational green Mary-J’s.

Answer: It’s so I can finally say - I did it. I’m part of this culture. And to feel for myself what it’s all really about. It’s actually rewarding, in my own way, to practice my “freedom” of speech ma. Some say it’s therapeutic. Eh, not really. But I do feel proud of what I’ve typed so far because I hate typing. It’s funny how I’m doing this blog thing for my friends again ‘cos I lurrrve them, and Japanese Spongebob said I was funny…

But in this generation, blogging has grown out of proportion because I think we just mainly want to be heard, and we don’t care who’s listening. So I guess it’s good that I know exactly who this blog is going to be read by - my loves, my friends, the writers, and their friends. Which is a pretty good crowd I would say. A good crowd that actually matters to me. And a good target group for whatever I want to talk about. Much better than some unknown cyber fans in my opinion…

Don’t worry, I wont be posting about my shoes or my meals. I don’t even know if I’ll ever do this blog thing again.

But here’s to all who have read this blog and contributed - thanks for being there for me, letting me be a part of this and ultimately, being my friends and always listening to me.

Enough of this sappy shit… If u want some good laughs, check out Ade’s blog and post a comment for kicks!
In case you were wondering, she’s not retarded or some dumb blonde. Well actually, she’s kinda bimbonic, but, a genuine person who actually has a lot of sense, surprisingly; and has always been a good friend to me. Funnily enough, she’s bought soo much clothes and hasn’t had the chance to wear them that now she’s selling them off at her blog, they seem like pretty good buys actually.

Mwahs to all my fwens.

Ms. Rebellious Evöus

Thursday, October 9, 2008

I think I'll contribute some BS to blurtsomething

In the supposedly finite well of human goodness we all come to find that our shit smells just as terrible as the person in the next stall. By saying person I meant guy because I'm a guy and it would be wrong for me to be in a woman's toilet, sniffing out the fumes of her foul pile.

It would be wrong only because I know that I would've forgotten to bring a bottle of chloroform with me and I would've failed in my mission. But that is for another day that has yet to come. Coming back, yes, I have a problem. You see, I'm not spent on the whole "nice guy" theory.

Predictably it reads out as such an empty, last ditch phrase doesn't it? Oh, he's a nice guy. But I have said it before myself, in fact going by a monthly check, I am sure that "nice guy" is one of my oft (over)repeated phrases. Then again, it's just me, I have problems with everyone.

What is with the McDonalds crew? Really you look at them and they're behind the counter, with their McDonalds beret as a part of the uniform and a poor part it is. Dipping chicken in the fryer, with that little earset strapped to their heads, is it really a big kitchen? Do they really need the technological aid to communicate with one another?

Surely the customer noise level can't be that enduring, or maybe its the PA system, with the terrible choice of music. Maybe thats why even with the earsets, they're still yelling across at one another in a disoriented, unorganized fashion. I think every McDonalds should have a decible marker. Everytime a staff's voice exceeds the level, their pay gets cut. Then we'll see what's what.

The same goes for the McGluttons too, if they can't keep it down then they don't deserve to have either types of a happy meal.

I was having a smoke just now and a woman walks up behind me, obviously she wants to get ahead, what with all the "ahems" and various "axekuse mes" that she so sardonically offered.

I give her the right of way because generally I don't like to muck around with people, and she walks past at least a feet away, turns around, looks at me and coughs the loudest, most purposeful, bloodcurdling cough I have ever heard. She coughed so badly that tears started to form at the corners of her eyes. She made me feel sick and I was almost thankful that she's not a smoker herself.

Self righteous people, even for the condescending prick that I am, I can't even fathom what it must be like to live with people like that. I blame the media, I blame mediocre parenting, I blame an unchecked intake of Oprah for the gradual slide in whatever the hell it is that is involved with being so gosh darn swell and self righteous.

I'm going to go wait for the moon now so I can howl at it.

I'll tell you what's misleading...stamps on the letters. Its not the stamp I have a problem with, its the pictures on the stamps. Have you seen this? Animals, buildings, people? Exactly what function does it serve? Does it give you a hint of what the letter is going to be about? And celebrity stamps, which genius came up with that I wonder? "Oh I am late on the rent and I'm getting evicted but at least it was nice that they sent me a stamp of Elvis"

A philathelist is a person who studies stamps. This is the reason why most of us choose not to have our fingers on the pulse of the world.


Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Some people never learn

im picking up writing again after a long hiatus to vent about my current situation. read on, read on.

see, i recently moved to swansea for education purposes and it is here where i met an old friend from my cardiff days. lets refer to him as X for the purpose of the rant. unfortunately for him, when he arrived he did not have a place to stay; so the right thing would be to offer him my room till he finds a place.

chronologically speaking, X would fall in the 'old' friends category. but the truth hides a completely different picture. one with sinister winds and stormy clouds and a wooden house perched on the jagged cliff facing the sea; and at the corner of this picture, a solitary lemming marches up ready to take a deathly leap into the sea. intense.


okay! so in our cardiff days, we basically hung out in different circles. i recall speaking to a chinese national in mandarin and as a passing remark i mentioned that i am chinese (malaysian). X standing at the corner, followed this statement by muttering aloud in chinese, "he speaks chinese, but is he chinese?"

fastforward this to the present, we are all here new to the city and the course, i thought i might aswell wipe the slate clean and offer to help the guy out.

big mistake.

so there we are in the kitchen playing some chess, and X was fondling a pawn stroking it left and right. me not wanting a repeat of such foreplay, i told him to conform with the basic chess etiquettes and move whichever piece that he touches in the next move. he reluctantly agreed and briefly mentioned that back in his competition days, "touch one and move another" is a legal move.

yar okay.

so he played an aggressive game, in which up to the middle game, he had the upper hand by taking my knights, a bishop and couple of pawns. with a series of counterattacks by the blacks, voila, i won this friendly match (combination of the rook and the queen).

now my old friend moves from the table and went straight to the window for a fag. i obviously praised him as he played a good game, and went on to give my shebby singh post match thoughts of the game. i mentioned that he lost focus when he tried to finish me off fast and upon finishing that sentence, X said seethingly,

"jeremy, you're too serious when you play games. kenneth, kien lun and i agree that you take things too seriously, in football, risk et cetera et cetera."

"if you want to succeed in this world, you cannot behave this way"

my god what a sore loser. talk liddat... my father isit? the cheek to say all of that when he is staying at my place! X went on to justify the loss by saying in competitions, participants are only given fifteen minutes to finish the game and because i did not adhere to the competition rules, he lost focus!

come on. this is a social gamela brudder. did u see a timer with a buzzer next to us?

anyway, in most games of risk, minor arguments are bound to crop up; and in football, the player has to be both physical in shielding and getting the ball. heck, when one wants to do well in something, some seriousness is needed! what kind of argument is this?! this fatboy has definitely lost his proverbial marbles. or maybe, he hasnt played any to bother.

with the way he was behaving i most definitely want to kick his snoring face out of the room last night. but i suppose i will never learn, and X was quick (and smart) enough to leave the place this morning before it gets even more heated.


p.s:- as for X's "he speaks chinese, but is he really chinese" comment, i would like to say X has probably one of the thickest brit accent amongst the malaysians in the UK. whitewash much?
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