New Species Found, Country Rejoices

Subang Jaya - A mild explosion at a tire manufacturing plant adjacent to a science lab today caused a stir in the local community as hundreds fear that they have been exposed to a potentially mutative airborne virus that will in time, cause them to change into a creature very much in the same vein as the beloved Flubber. In a startling development that has left the country's top biologists and paleontologists baffled, on-going tests are being recorded as the country, if not the world, is on the cusp of discovering an entirely new human species.

The 11:53 am explosion occurred when maintenance engineers were called to Lot C of the Retreading Complex to help ascertain the extent of damages caused by a minor shutdown which happened the night before. Night foreman, Azahar Ramli, 35 said, "The new guy on the team was sitting on a beam right above the gigantic Rothenmeyer retreading machine having his supper and as he was doing so, his spanner slipped out of his tool belt and fell 10ft downwards right into the middle of two large gears so that would probably be the cause". Ramli concluded that as a direct cause of the gears being stuck, the machine's giant pneumatic press cartoonishly let out a wisp of smoke and copious amounts of till-then unknown alarms installed began sounding in a nerve-wracking unison. Workers immediately forgot their bimonthly practiced emergency drills and ran around in a comically astray fashion on the factory floor as some took the opportunity to engage in a poorly timed and ill received water balloon fight.

Middle management have yet to conclude why the new recruit was partaking his meal on the beam itself as the company had just constructed a new cafeteria for all workers and staff members. Our intrepid reporter dug up some employment records when questioning the man and it was revealed that the newly employed worker had just spent the last 6 years working on a construction site and was much more accustomed, as he put it "having meals close to the clasp of the good lord".

All aspirations for the good lord-filled life aside, the explosion happened just as the uber-advanced molecular scientific laboratory next door was testing out their shape shifting device. A spokesman for the company who declined to be name stated "Last night our A-team of physicists gathered to test out a prototype machine which we have been working on. The team leader, for whatever reason, decided it would be best to try and disintegrate a car tire and turn it into rubber nipples, to be sent to Bangladesh because they have milk bottles but unfortunately the shipment of rubber nipples have been indefinitely shelved." As the mishap occurred, vials of biological-molecular matter exploded and evaporated into the air and the scientists in attendance immediately began showing symptoms of rubberdegeneratylitis-melium, a rare disorder long thought to only exist in the mind of comic book writers.

Many complained of taking the shape of things which they came into contact with, especially when sitting in chairs, using the toilet for defecating, driving, and that they only feel comfortable in a cool, air-conditioned environment.

Richard Hwa, assistant team leader issued a statement at a rushed press conference in which he said "Last night, our team leader, through sheer indecision and having the thorough judgment of a boiled carrot, decided to carry out an unstable molecular experiment, in which this most horrid outcome happened. I only hope that in time, our children will be able to forgive us for turning them into shapeless lime green amoebas very much like those in the 1996 Disney movie Flubber." The regretful scientist then hung his head in shame as perturbed protesters began passing around rotten cabbages and tomatoes.

As the media of the world ascend onto this story, conspiracy theorists have voiced outrage that this is in fact, a top secret, government funded project and have warned that this sort of unregulated testing is only the tip of the iceberg. When bombarded with questions regarding the matter as he was leaving the recording studio, avid covers-only artist and occasional Prime Minister Najib Tun Razak was mildly surprised at all the harsh questioning the reporters directed at him. He then duly crossed his arms, looked dreamily into the sun-lit sky before one of his minders prodded him in the lower back with a cattle prod, sending the bemused leader into a salivating frenzy and ushered into a waiting sedan. Later in the day, his offices called select media outlets for a special news conference on "Flubbergate".

Before the news conference itself actually began, press and media were handed slimy lime green fliers that read "Are You Ready For Change?" and at the bottom, in large metallic fonts were printed the sinister laughter "Nyuk, Nyuk Nyuk". Within the flier itself, a personal traffic revamp plan drawn up in crayon by Najib outlined new ways in traffic control. He stated that the nation's traffic lights now run on 6 different colors and that their sequence is as follows. Red...then...teal...purple, yellow, back to red again, down to baby blue, back up to teal purple then finally green. He also added that it was subject to change as and when he saw fit. After this bizarre media junket, the peculiar leader decided to field questions from the comforts of his bedroom via video conferencing as his favorite cat Kittles Fluffington was having a "very bad boo-boo day and doesn't want to play". After smirking at his own private joke and busily pulling the covers up to his chest level, the leader, decked out in a conical sleep cap, stated that we needn't fear these green rubbery entities as they truly are an amazing gift from parts unknown. He stated "Ladies and puppies galore, we are truly here in this day and age on the verge of welcoming new brothers and sisters into our fold, I stand before you unafraid and I have even composed a poem which I hope will touch them in their translucent, heartless gelatinous bodies.

Oh such brightness your green yields
A new hope for country and nation,
I am so happy when running in fields
Come now, please give them a radio station,

Stretchy and bouncy they might be in appearance,
Stand tall and proud as your blob legs allow,
I may not come off as having coherence,
But with bursting pride I will say for now,

Let us roll and bounce with abundant joy,
From 57 and beyond, a name known through the lands
Restrain not with exuberant shouts of " boy, oh boy!"
1Malaysia and a 1000 species, as this poem hits newstands!

As he finished his poetry recital, the leader made his way on to the stage and unveiled that he had spent the last 3 hours receiving infusion treatments to change his lower body to become a kind of pioneering man-flubber hybrid. Parliamentary officials have come in unity to support the move and clarion call by the leader who whenever not lulled in an almost drugged reverie, had always encouraged his men to lead by He-Man's example. Najib's Twitter post for the day read "Ladies, allow me to introduce myself...Masculine Gelatine Love Machine"

The Ministry of Health has issued a statement proclaiming that the Flubber incident isn't an accident gone awry but an opportunity to show the world that even with mutants in our fold, the 1Malaysia concept holds true and strong in the face of adversity. Soft, green, jellylike adversity.

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 lost...boo 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.

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.

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 diatribe...like 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’t...you 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 outlined...you 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.

Turdsday

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!

Cinnamonday

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.

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.

adios.