Butterfly Plays Wingman

When I was younger, altruism was hardly a merit I could commend myself with, less so when I have alcohol in me because quite simply, I do not give a shit.

As maturity sips in and time marches to it's own beat, ignoring my protest of a growing waistline and fleeting stamina, I discovered that karma didn't have an expiry and that it's never too late to cultivate good deeds to soothe it's wrath.

That night, I decided I would do the best deed a guy could do for another - heterosexually speaking. To ensure that the friend would score. To play that sacred sidekick so well, that it would make Robin look as useless as an erection would be on a monk. I was going to be THE wingman.

It wasn't so much that DL had crafted the night, but a sheer co-incidence that there were two Koreans that started dancing before us. I was going to start my relationship with my towering bottle of vodka, but DL had other ideas.

DL: "Wing for me, I'm going for the one on the left."

I wasn't going to protest because while they were nothing close to the K-Pop dolls that MTV celebrates so proudly, they were decent looking to say the least. They were horrible dancers to say the least or maybe they had earphones on, but beyond that there was nothing too visually disjointed so long as we weren't juxtaposing them with the other fleet of blonde models at the podium.

The downside to this duo was that the girl I had to talk to spoke as much English as a Russian squirrel, so I spent half the time trying to simplify a sentence and the other half pretending I had any interest or understood what she was saying.

I would quote many instances where more attractive women would pass and I felt dreadfully distracted, but I saw through this horde of red herrings that karma was throwing before me. I was going to make sure that DL was going off with the girl, even if my facial muscles degenerated from all the fake smiling.

6 glasses in and we were ready to leave, despite the continual cajole from the pumping base that occasionally coaxed my feet into a couple of side taps.

Whilst I wasn't the perfect wingman I had thought I would be, I played it to two very simple principles,

1. Distract the female friend

2. Allow my friend to leave with her friend

For that, I figured that I would have to make a slower exit from the club and leave as much distance between DL with the girl and me. By simple rationale, I derived that distance in this equation, was directly proportional to the success rate.

When we finally got out, DL was already holding the girls hand about 20 paces infront of me. the other started tapping my arm and pointed fervently to her friend and verbalized what I thought was her excitement in Korean - which other than the words 'Nobody nobody but you', I understood nothing of.

I thought maybe she wanted me to hold her hands as well, but the tapping got harder and her string of Korean sentences got louder and more intensed. She was freaking out, over her friend holding hands with what would have been a stranger 6 drinks ago. I didn't know if she was a virgin, a nun or 11 years old but it just got ridiculous.

Then DL made the quick move. Blindingly swift and confident, he ushered himself with the girl into the cab and it made a beeline for infamy. I was left with a confused Korean, still trying to figure out why her friend had left her behind.

I had to contend with the next 5 minutes of what seemed like repetitive questioning from a 3 year old.

Kgirl: "Where my friend?"
Me: "She went back with my friend."
Kgirl: "No.. where my friend?"

It went on and on. In exactly the same question and reply structure, but with varying intensity or agitation and tone. I finally offered to send her back home because she was staying just within 15 mins walking distance from my place and I figured that was the only righteous thing I could do.

Worst.Decision.Ever

For the entire duration of the cab ride, she hounded me to call DL when I found it weird on why she didn't want to call her friend instead. When we got back, she insisted that I accompany her up to see if her friend was back. I didn't know which part of "Your friend is at my friend's place" did she not understand, but maybe that was her excuse to lure me into her home to rape me.

30 mins later, I found myself at the lobby still trying to explain to her that her friend was with my friend.

Probably with 86 "Where is my friend?" questions later, I blew it.

Me: "YOUR FRIEND IS FUCKING MY FRIEND!!!"

And I yelled it with full hip thrusting gestures, hoping to paint the most carnal visual possible to her. She went ballistic.

Kgirl: "NOOOOOO!!!"

Me: "YES!! THEY ARE FUCKING! RIGHT NOW! FUCKING AT HIS HOUSE!!"

Kgirl: "Noooo. Call him now!"

ME: "He is not going to pick up, because HE IS FUCKING HER NOW!"

I started walking off and she continued trailing behind me. Shocked, obviously tired, but still hysterical and still asking me the call him. At some point, I was almost convinced that she was going to follow me home. The last I looked back, she was standing by the road and that was it.

The next day, I called DL.

Me: "Dude, if there was an award for best wingman, I'm winning it. You owe me dude, you have no idea what I had to put up with."

The Queens Strip

When I last stepped into a New York strip club, I thought I had seen it all. Tall leggy women in lingerie, strutting around, whispering into your ear for a promise of esctasy in exchange for nominal fee of 20 bucks, because apparently that's what professionalism is all about.


Naturally, I was wrong about that, along with many other things like algebra equations, lottery numbers and what women want.

When Hoyes suggested that he take me out for drinks at the strip clubs, I never thought much to greet it with any enthusiasm that would so much as to warrant an erection. From what I've seen, strip clubs are as exciting to me as having my nails painted with kerosene.


Hoyes : "I'm gonna take you to another strip club out in Queens. It's gonna to be wicked."

I already had it all played out in my head. Instead of walking in to some plush room behind the grand line of velvet ropes, decorated with leather seats and Victorian paintings, I'd probably be walking in to a bar with the equivalent whiff of decadence and whiskey, just without the upmarket fixtures and chic table lamps.

As soon as we turned in to the parking lot, I realised that I was 5 miles from Manhattan, not wearing a kevlar vest and walking into what looked like a massive club. By simple multiplication skills that I picked up from my years in school, I derived the obvious equation from a simple theory.

If,

Space = Capacity and Capacity is a direct correlation to strippers

Then,

Larger space = larger capacity, which also means there are more strippers and hence more boobs.

I am a genius. Everyday I wake up wondering why I never joined NASA because if I did, we would have found aliens by now.

Hoyes : "This is nothing like you've seen in Manhattan. If you like asses, this is the bomb!"

Even if he never told me, I would have figured that out because there wasn't a strip joint in Manhattan that I've been to that was to this scale. However, in my deep mental soliloquy of mass equations, I failed to notice two very important points.

1. Not only was I the only Asian. I was also probably the only other non-African American.

2. The fact that Hoyes talked incessantly about 'asses'

Naturally I assumed that a country blessed with staging the Victoria Secrets annual shows that they, like every other men I knew would benchmark the perfect ass to anyone who struts down that catwalk. I obviously knew very little about American culture because when I got into the club, I thought I was at a Super Size Me 2 casting call.

Not only did ALL the women have huge asses, but they were booty shaking so hard, I think there was enough ripples on their asses collectively to start a tsunami. And my god, their ass was so dimpled with celluloid, that if the bums were any larger, or if I was smaller, I could walk on them and proclaim it to be the moon.

I stood there, almost petrified because Hoyes insisted that he buy me a lap dance and I couldn't find a single girl in there that could sit on me without causing a possible femur fracture. This place had none of the pleasantries of the other velvet rope lounges that Manhattan gave. Tipping a girl for her dance here meant tossing $1 bills over her as she dances.

The club was littered with bills all over the floor and girls were dry humping everything. Some looked like they were convulsing but generally everyone there could have given Beyonce a run for her money for hip shaking. I don't know the exact term for that, but it's that dance where they shake their asses so vigorously, it looks like they stuck a giant vibrator in them.

It would have been tearfully described as a precarious quandry, had there not been a huge bottle of Grey Goose and Red Bull that made it to the table just as he was about to pick a girl for me.

Me: "Dude, can I do 5 shots of vodka instead?"

Him: "Not your kind of girl here?"

Me: "I'm only picking them if this is a team buffet challenge."

A huge burly guy comes by almost immediately and wrapped his arm around Hoyes. This was the second time in the club that I nearly shat my pants. If Hoyes was going to be strangled, I don't know how I was going to make my way back to Manhattan.

Guy: "Come, let me buy you a dance."

He drags Hoyes to the couch and instantaneously, a girl hops onto his lap. Half the time her ass was inches from his face and half the time he had his face all cringed like he had it soaked in salt water for a year.

This girl shocked me with an apptitude of dexerity I thought I would only see in a gymnast, because she was moving her legs over his head and doing random splits at a phenomenal frequency. If gymnastics weren't such a superficial sport made for lithe figures and buldging biceps, she might have made the national team.

Me: "I guess not your kind of women too huh?"

Hoyes: "No dude, I love phat ass. She just had this weird smell coming off her and I don't know if it was from her ass or pussy but I'm not going to be taking chances."

Me: "Good to know."

Hoyes: "Let's get out of here. I'll take you to another joint where the girls are slim."

So we left the place and headed for the next bar which was a good 10 minute drive. Along the way he assured me that the second place was going to be nothing like the first. I didn't think anything couldn't go below the last joint anyway, because unless we are walking into a farm, any place was better.

The second joint did turn out to be a lot better, but it was almost empty because the place was closing and the girls were going into their final rounds on the podium. When we got there, there was an Asian looking girl on stage that was in the midst of her routine.

We got a drink by the bar and she came by after her dance. Hoyes tipped her a dollar and she turned to smile at me. And smiled. And she stood there for a good minute just smiling at me. I figured she was trying to hint at giving me a lap dance, so I did the only polite thing and declined, because I've learned that nothing really good comes out of a women smiling this much to you at a club.

Me: "No thanks."

She storms off.

Me: "That was friendly."
Hoyes: "Erm, you're actually suppose to tip her a dollar for her dance."

Fuck. I am a disgrace to Chinese across the world. I could well be the cause of Chinese being barred from strip clubs.

Schooling Pedestrians

Seldom am I irked by behaviours and etiquette to a point where it warrants an effort for me to pen my frustrations, because in general I believe alcohol is the quasi solution for all of society’s problems – except for stupidity.

I believe that all pedestrians are innately stupid, until they learn to drive or get hit by a car. Only then do they smarten up. As we learn to drive we realize that pedestrians don’t seem to comprehend the theory that in a collision, mass always comes out the victor, hence we never clash with sumo wrestlers in the ring, but it is perfectly fine to throw rocks at them from a distance.

The most common of it all would be the ‘Pedestrian jay-walking syndrome’. It’s the one where the pedestrian is crossing the road from a distance at such a leisurely pace, that even if the car was slow enough to drive Miss Daisy, it would still have to brake for them. He is looking at your on-coming car and thinks that he has his speed calculations all worked out and that he will make it across in time, but in reality we are slowing down for them.

Unless I didn’t get the memo and that LTA is actually deploying pedestrians as speed regulators, then I would imagine that they should have the decency to run if they want to live. Let’s face it, fixing my front bonnet is a lot easier than mending bones.

My office is situated next to a shop that has some tie-up with a tour agency, and I know this for a fact because everyday, a coach brings throngs of PRC tourist to the shop. I cannot begin to even classify the retail shop because it sells everything from home appliances, to cameras to Chinese medicine, if there was space for a stage, I’m pretty sure there would have been getai performances as well.

So every morning when I get to work, I have to deal with the absolute stupidity pedestrians can offer. For one, none of them give a shit about cars trying to pass them, because I think they truly believe that the road was constructed so that they can all gather in the middle of it for a group photo.

Naturally, they also have no consideration or clue about parking lots, because they are constantly pissed at giving up a potential photo taking slot to a car that is trying to parallel park. I can only imagine how much of an inconvenience the cars put them at because it’s truly hard to find another slot worthy of a photo-taking session.

I never understood these tourist, or if I thought I had the psyche all figured, the anti-thesis deconstructs my every analytical perspective when they can stop directly behind a reversing car just to take pictures.

Parallel parking has never been more stressful because perhaps it’s some sport for them to rush out whenever they see a car reversing and walk behind it. Maybe getting hit by a car is the new Planking on the internet or that they know it’s going to be in the Olympics 30 years from now and so every one of them is practicing it.

Here’s a simple test for you, if you’ve not been thoroughly schooled on this, just to see your aptitude of walking safely.

1. What do you do when you see a reversing car?

a. Walk casually. Behind the car if possible
b. Stop, tweet to all your imaginary followers, warning them of the impending danger and keep at least a 10m distance
c. Ignore it, because apparently it’s the duty for the driver to look out for the pedestrian’s safety

If you picked B, then you belong to a minute fraction of the responsible pedestrian community. You have either been a successful product of the Road Safety Park or you drive a car.

2. What do you do when you cross a road illegally.

a. Run, because getting hit by a car is actually potentially fatal
b. Walk slowly, because so long as you are looking at the on coming car, it will not hit you

For some reason, people tend to think leisurely walking across the road is fine, so long as they are looking at the traffic. What in the world did you get that fucking theory from? I don’t remember it being in the Bible or my traffic police handout.

Unless you are a ruler or a speed camera, you will never be able to accurately judge if you walking speed will get you across on time. If hitting jaywalkers wasn’t a crime, or if men never invented brakes, then jaywalkers would die every minute, or if they smartened up, they’d learn to run.

So here’s a simple motto for the traffic police, school teachers and young parents to educate children on, because if there’s one thing Michael Jackson got right – other than a boy’s age – is that they are our future.

“If you get hit by a car, your survival rate is lower than having AIDS.”

Really, don't stand on the road if you want to live.

The Mute Photograph

I know in life there are times that a line is drawn to keep the morality and integrity of men in check. By breaching it, we fall from grace, beyond redemption and cheers and we face the scorn of the masses who believe it's only okay to poke fun of people behind their backs. And we perhaps await the wrath of karma.

I know it's wrong to laugh at the paralympics, to kick children in the head or to steal from blind people. But I am an asshole, and as such I grant myself impunity from all consequences. Save your moral lashings for lesser men, this blog was built on one premise.

People who are clearly not equal, do not deserve equal chances, because that would be called Communism.

Sometime back I encountered a guy at the club. At first I thought he was a foreigner because he was gesturing and I thought he was just being rude to me when he used these sounds to communicate with me.

"Uhhh uhhh, ahhh, uuuhh."

He was trying to get me to take a picture for him and a local male celebrity. For a start I hate being asked to take pictures, especially for random male strangers, but I am on a campaign to change the world through my graciousness and run for eventual Presidency, so I decided to be nice and help. even if the person has a penis.

I took the first shot and when there wasn't a flash, I knew the picture was going to suck and that I would need to do a retake. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that when you are in a club that is pitch dark, you need flash. I don't give a shit if it's a Canon, you still need flash.

Me: "You need to on the flash."

He fiddled with it briefly, paused at the blurred picture I had taken and then went on in his second attempt to communicate with me. I took the camera and snapped again. Still without flash, which puzzled me.

Did I not tell him that he needed flash? Is it not obvious from your pictures that you need flash for dark places? Is he a moron? I repeated myself to him again.

Me: "You need flash. It's too dark."

This exchange of camera from me back to him for a toggle and disapproving looks cast upon the heaps of failed photography, ran up to six in total. Imagine, I was standing there, dripping in patience while my vodka was being diluted by ice and I had taken 6 pictures, and at each time, telling him to on the fucking flash. That was my only request.

Finally, I got tired of it and I started yelling into his ear.

Me: "YOU NEED TO ON THE FLASH!!!"

He didn't respond to me at all. Not even to flinch despite having someone yell right into their ear. The male celebrity then turns to me.

Celebrity : "I think he's deaf."

Me: "I think so too.. He's just not listening."

Celebrity : "No.. Like I think he really is deaf."

I paused for a long time. Fuck.Me.

It all made sense. I really am a moron. Fuck saving the world or achieving saint-hood, so long redemption, hello karma. I am going to hell.

The Survival Guide Post - that cannot be posted

We may have the cleanest roads, safest streets and most expensive car prices, but being in Singapore also means that we sacrifice access to a certain clubbing culture. I’m talking neon lights, lap dances, topless dancing and bass pumping rave joints that will make Orchard Towers look like a Sunday chapel. And if you’ve been to a rave joint, then you know it’ll take a lot more than alcohol to survive.

How to Survive a Rave Joint

1. Night Vision Goggles

There is more light from an iPhone flash than there is at a typical rave joint, because clandestine motives are the order of the day. It’s sometimes so dark at rave joints that more people actually die from falling over steps and knocking into pillars than drug overdoses.

So if you’ve not been taking your vitamins diligently or you have general night blindess – or nyctalopia for the well informed nerds – then your best bet is having night vision goggles, because besides this, it’s an essential spy tool for anyone aspiring to be a pervert.

2. Water

Forget your towers of beer, or you magnum sized cognacs because the only thing that truly matters in a rave joint, is water, lots of it for that matter. If you haven’t already realized, no one truly goes to a rave joint to get drunk. They get high, but never drunk.

Bringing your own water is paramount for bargain clubbers because the prices for water at some places will put oil prices to shame. Call it capitalism or cruel marketing, but as my economics lecture used to say, ‘when there is a demand, exploit it’ – or maybe that was Bill Gates.

3. Watch your drinks

Unlike the clubs here where you can leave your drinks unattended because drugs are too precious to be used for spiking strangers, rave joints have more drugs readily available than calories at McDonald’s. Spiking your drinks need not always be of malicious intent, because sometimes that is how fellow clubbers there say ‘Hello’.

Always drink from the same glass, never share drinks with strangers and don’t even think of accepting a random drink, because if you wake up one day in a back alley and discover that your kidney is on sale on eBay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

4. Glow Sticks

Although glow sticks are essential to rave culture as fingers are to KFC, it really depends on the type of rave joint that you are going to. Commercial rave joints welcome this because most rave gears come with enough reflective strips to qualify as a run-way should the lights at Changi airport blow out.

Underground rave joints however don’t appreciate lights and bringing one along could get you beaten up. Walking in looking like a Christmas tree could cause panic because it looks like a mobile police road block, and there is a lot of paranoia in these places. Trust me.

5. An open mind

They say the best things are experienced without silly inhibitions and trivial judgments, or at least I said that because if your most exciting weekend activity has been Sunday’s communion, then this might be more than you can handle. But so long as you don’t charge in singing hymns, start evangelizing or spraying holy water – because if the bass doesn’t kill you, the patrons will -, the atmosphere will eventually warm up to you. You’ll live.

Butterfly Judges Shuffling Contest

If you’ve been an avid reader of my blog, you’d know that way before LMFAO ignited a nation into a shuffle frenzy and before lactic acid forced fatigue into my aging muscles, I was a huge fan of the Melbourne Shuffle as chronicled in my memoirs of the immense merits it had to hooking up strangers.

So when Powerhouse staged a shuffling competition, it was only befitting that I took to the stage, as a judge. There is nothing better in life than sitting on a platform and critiquing people for their valiant efforts in crowd pleasing and showboating.

Thing is, I’ve never really like how much shuffling has become over the years and I’ve a simple philosophy to that. It’s not about how well you dance, but how good you look while doing it. Which is why I think over-elaborate hand-movements and body jerks might look good while you are doing a flash mob or having a seizure, it’s never suited for the clubs.

I’ll be honest. I enjoy laughing at people dance because I am a terrible human being and I was actually hoping this would decompose into a mimicry of a Singapore Idol audition, complete with failing lungs and two left feet. So I was disappointed to discover that this was the actual finals and it would take some level of competency to even be on stage.

But I was wrong. God was going to be kind to be an uplift my spirits.

Majority of the contestants had prowess that stretched beyond the novice side shuffles. Some possessed technically sound glides and kicks. And a couple had a well choreographed routine with coupling track to dance along. But two of them left me the biggest smile.

The first was a guy who came on stage and for a better half of his performance, I had my head tilted to the side wondering if he was trying to keep his balance because the floor was slippery or perhaps it was the stage buckling under the reverberating bass, because it looked like he was having a crotch infection more than he was shuffling.

I paused for a long time, frowning in anticipation for him to start his real routine. And when I finally realized that he was actually dancing, I did what normal people would do.

HAHAHAHAHA

I know it is unethical for a judge to be laughing in the face of effort and courage to take the stage, but I am a flawed human being and I have no qualms about laughing at people. The other guys around started nudging me.

"You are a fucker man.”

I don’t think so. It’s like sitting through an entire porn flick without being allowed to have an erection or jeer at the Paralympics. I am terribly flawed.

When he ended his set, I was hoping for the others to emulate him, because had this been a Stand Up Comedy contest, he would have had it in the bag within the first minute. But no, more competent shufflers came up which pretty much the same moves and I thought that the best part of my night had ended with him.

No. God was favourable to me that night.

One of the contestants had pulled out and in his place, the emcee had gotten a girl from the audience. Or maybe she volunteered herself because without coaxing, she charged up the stage with enough enthusiasm to Richard Simmons to shame.

This was a girl, in a tight fitting short dress, in one of those slippers with a stubbed heel and she looked like she was the poster girl for anorexia. She started out with a lot of jumping which seemed like she was having a charismatic praise and worship session, but as she continued, I didn’t know what was more worrying; her bones breaking or her panties that were exposed more frequently than the beat of the music.

I figured that was the only reason the loudest cheers in the club were from the people just in front of the stage. I gave her high marks for technicality only because of her attire and pretty decent scores for presentation because maybe she was actually up there to promote her underpants.

When that all ended, I rewarded my hard work with a bottle of vodka and a lot of Red Bull. Being a judge is exhausting.

The Caveman Tactic

There’s always that equivocal line between ‘yes’ and ‘no’. That subtle cue of a rejection or tease. And the ability to read that will be the greatest gift you can give to your testosterone charged testicles.

The age old saying of ‘when a girl says no, she actually means yes’ was probably coined by a rapist, a deaf one for that matter because there is absolutely phonic semblance the two words hold. However, there is truth in it, a lot of it, because the only reason men don’t understand women, is because women can never make up their minds.

If you’ve actually forced yourself on any women enough, you’ll know that persistence is a virtue that is sometimes rewarded. You can turn most ‘no’ into a ‘yes’ if you try hard enough, long enough or have enough alcohol or chloroform with you.

Maybe she relented because she was playing hard to get, or maybe you irritated her enough, or maybe it was even sympathy, but when a woman really means ‘No’, you’ll know it because she won’t be around long enough for you to try again. Punching you in the face is also a way of telling you she’s serious about saying ‘No’. I’m pretty sure about that.

Despite what your mothers have told you about hard work or essence of chicken, persistence is the real key to success. If you fail, keep trying. Unless you cave in to suicide or depression, success will come – at some point in time.

There are several characteristic situations and actions that most of us will experience some point in life, some maybe every weekend. Like insisting to send a girl home, then jumping into the cab despite her assurance that she is capable of taking a cab home by herself. Or maybe it’s dragging her into the cab with you. Or forcing an inexhaustible line of drinks to her face that will make even Audi’s car assembly line look inefficient.

We’ve come to coin this as the Caveman Tactics.

But Butterfly, aren’t you divulging the secrets of how men hook up with women, I hear you protest? Do you actually think women are dumb enough not to know what we are up to? They know it as much as you want it and it’s apparent from the way we’ve tried to make them drink, to our body language, right down to the erection that you are hiding in your pants. The only reason you scored, is because subconsciously, they allowed you to.

The Caveman tactic in its core, is named after the mating rituals of prehistoric predecessors, a club to the head of a female, and dragging the spoils back to his hut. Over the years, as society has refined itself, so has the tactic, masked under a clever guise of a starting conversation, and then dragging them off when they least expect it.

While the rules have changed, the essence of it remains. The raw aggression, the dominance over the other person and the pure dictatorship of the process would make even Hitler proud. You structure things the way you want, when you need it and where you’ll do it, and the best thing is, you don’t take no for an answer.

The wonder of the Caveman is that it takes a lot of courage – or alcohol – to pull it off, and the brashness of it catches them off guard at times. You know what you want and you’ve made your intentions clear, the only thing you’ve stopped short of, is urinating all over her.

The marked characteristic is decisiveness. You do not ask or leave a window of opportunity for her to think. It is about being as straight as an anti-gay pride activist. Do not ask if she wants to go here or there with you, because the only words she should hear, is ‘Let’s go’, followed by a firm grip of her hand. I’ve been told that pulling women by the hair these days are frowned upon.

It works because you eliminate her thought processes on consequences, inhibitions and troublesome friends who might be worried about her. Naturally this works only if you’ve made her comfortable enough with you, so speaking to her cleavage is not encouraged.

If you’ve just picked up a random stranger and executed the Caveman to a varying degree of success, then one thing’s for sure – other than she possibly being a slut – is that she has some interest in you and have allowed you this far.

While the Caveman is a well drilled tactic that is honed over practice, it is also an intricate process that doesn’t just stop at flushing the girl with alcohol or jumping into the cab with her. Crafting the next move is equally important. We call this, ‘The Excuse’.

It’s about validating your actions and buying time for yourself. An example,

M: “Ｗe’ll go back to get my car, and I’ll send you back.”
F: “It’s really okay., I can go back by myself”
M: “I’ll send you back.” [give directions to your home to the cab driver]

M: “Let’s go up to my place first. I need to rest up a bit before I can drive.”

At this juncture, there really is not much of an option for her. Sometimes, men use other excuses, like needing to take a pee, or to charge their phones, but the intent is always the same because with a penis, comes predictability.

Naturally there are also times when women use the same excuses, of having to pee or charge their imaginary dying handphone. At times like these, the first thing you have to do, is ask yourself, “Are you sure that is a woman? Does she have un-naturally large hands or breasts?”.

When a girl you don’t know agrees to come up to your place in the middle of the night, after a clubbing session, she is not there to just have a conversation with you. Let’s make this clear. Ladies, if you have no intention of getting raped, do not even agree to go this far, because at this point, men are deaf and they will think every objection or resist you put up, is part of foreplay.

We’ve all done this, some of you will want to try this, but we’ve all seen or heard about it.

Daveman – I call him so because he embraces it so religiously – would be my mascot if I ever had to make this into a sport. He works tirelessly on the floor and once he has zoned in, ‘no’ is hardly a word he comprehends, unless it’s a slap across the face, but it’s Singapore and civility is something women here have been institutionalized to practice.

In the past I thought it worked only when there was sufficient contact built up, from casual banter to furtive flirts over drinks, culminating in being able to place your hand on her ass without resistance. However it seems that I was wrong, because it seems to work even if the only contact you’ve had, is a handshake.

Has society finally shed its pseudo skin of conservatism, or has boldness always been rewarded to those who dare venture? Perhaps alcohol has always been a red herring and people are just buried by passive inhibitions, and will spark into a sexual frenzy if given the right nudge, or in this instance – a club to the head.

Deconstructing Promiscuity

If you thought that promiscuity was a male centric sport, then you are sorely myopic to the growing participation of females to this activity over the years, because from what I’m seeing, it looks like conservatism is the new dork in town.

Perhaps it’s popular culture finally taking shape around us and western laden themes of decadence, debauchery, violence and a thirst for all things corporeal finally taking our straight-jacket society by the balls and making it cough out wanton adults. There is hope for the future.

“I am number 4”

AL proudly declared. And no, he wasn’t some telekinesis empowered alien, but if he’d managed to remove anything, it was clothes and I would have said dignity, but I never saw any loss of dignity or pride when it came to consensual sex.

He was after all, the fourth person in the group to have exerted a sexual conquest over the girl. Or was it really the case?

It’s an age old saying, and popularized by Missy Elliot, that when a guy fucks around, he is stag and if a women replicates it, she is a slut. That is society’s myopic judgement on issues they deem inappropriate, like one night stands, self-prostitution and farting in public. For all the feminist movements, why is it that women have less rights to promiscuity than men?

Then weeks later, a fifth by their count, was added to the group. And this was in the full presence of the four and all it took was a little more attention from him and a lot less from them. It was the same familiar story the day after, about how he tried and she caved.

So over a wedding lunch the week after, the four of them recounted about how they did it and how they scored. And then it hit me, perhaps they had gotten it all wrong to begin with. Was it really charm on their part or were they all just part of her plan?

When we look at the rules of dating and one night stands, popular belief and un-written code tells you to “Never fuck within the group”, because it’s bad for image and you are just subjectifying yourself to be tea-time gossip or if you are really good, wank fodder. You might have only dated twice in your entire life, but if it’s within the group, you are deemed as virginal as a Puerto Rican streetwalker with genital herpes as panties.

Me: “I don’t think it’s a character flaw.”

Everyone stared at me as if I had just made a marriage vow to a hooker on bended knees.

Me: “It’s a matter of perspective. Have you ever thought that perhaps she had planned to fuck all of you? For all you know, in a different setting, she could be telling her friends, ‘oh my god, I know this group of guys who are damn fucking easy lah!’.”

We’ve always seen sex as a dominance that men exert over women, but why? It’s not like they enjoy it any less, god forbid, because if all my attention in biology hasn’t gone to waste, I remember distinctively that a female orgasm is far superior to men – if they ever get to it. So why can’t men be the subject of a woman’s sexual needs?

Me: “For all you know, she probably intended on it. It’s called advertising. She fucks one of you and she knows you will tell the others. Another makes a move and takes the bait, and she fucks the second one. It doesn’t look like you are passing her around, it just looks like she is having a buffet.”

Then they formulated a theory about her being scarred and confused from a previous relationship, because heartbreak is the next best excuse to fuck strangers after alcohol. Perhaps she was hurt. Perhaps her previous beau left her such an emotional mess that mindless casual sex is her way of picking up the pieces.

It’s so common to try to justify things we do not know, with reasoning that our moral compasses are familiar with. It seems that the only way most people can accept or comprehend promiscuity is to attribute it as consequence of emotional scarring. But is there really a need to ‘moralize’ female promiscuity? Do people not realize by now that women are very much similar to men?

Perhaps this girl really knows what she wants, and that is to fuck every one of them. Or maybe sex is a trivial sport to her that holds no emotional attachment and does not warrant any trigger of attraction, but just simply a motion she goes through to achieve gratification. Quite simply, she fucks for fun, like men, or if she could breathe underwater, she would qualify as a dolphin as well.

Me: “To us you are number 4, but imagine when she’s telling the story to her friends, it will be called ‘I just scored number 40 last night’.”

Promiscuity was never an exclusive gender right, and it should never be as long as the individual is single and void of all emotional commitments to anyone. Why then should their intent or actions be judged?

It’s a narrow perspective on how we view things and that promiscuity is a man’s right to brag and a woman’s secret to her grave. The fact is that we are too arrogant to believe that sex empowers men, and that we think women are incapable of finding solace, pleasure or even catharsis through any means of temporal profligacy.

Rear Ended

There are many amazing streaks in history. Jose Morinuho went undefeated at home for nearly a decade, Floyd Mayweather has his 40-0 undefeated boxing record and Tiger Woods has scored so many affairs with hookers without taking home a single STD.

For me, it was staying accident free on the road for 12 years. That one time where I got hit while being stationary in my parking lot doesn’t count just as oral sex wouldn’t because it’s really just one person doing everything.

As with all dream streaks, I knew this fairytale would end one day, because it just sounds ludicrous to be on the road 2 hours a day everyday and not get hit by consequences. It’s just like partying in Bangkok. You are not going to hook up with a myriad of women from the clubs without fortuitously locking lips with a ladyboy.

It was just that the occurrence was unacceptable, and by my liberally ductile standards, there aren’t many things I deem unacceptable in society. I think mini skirts are perfectly acceptable even for higher institutions, unless it comes paired with horrible panties.

I think disabilities are acceptable, even leakages in condoms. I think eating food off the floor is acceptable, so long as it’s within the three second time frame. I think cheating is acceptable and even living with hepatitis, but being hit in the back from a start-stop traffic is exactly what I would render a ‘discombobulation’.

It’s embarrassing to begin with because it had to take a magnitude of stupidity and retardation, the kind that you would see in kids who eat ice cream through their eyes, in the reflexes of a sloth on weed, or in suicide bombers. And every time you recount being hit in that situation, people snigger because accidents don’t get any pussier than this.

My friend had his car blown up into flames on CTE. I got a baby bump in the back.

Everything happened like a highlight reel. It was one of those moments that your thought processed at a speed that even a supercomputer would have been proud of. When I saw the rear view mirror of the car and that insidiously looking provisional plate that was stuck on the top right of his mirror, I knew that an impending collision with inexperience was on the cards.

What I didn’t get was why would anyone be accelerating, especially when there was a tail of traffic easing and braking intermittently at every 30 or odd metres. And yet what I saw from the rear mirror looked like he was trying to put his air bags to test from the way he was bolting forward.

I braced for impact. It was nothing short of dramatic. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and I had my foot so far down the brake pedal it was amazing that my foot hadn’t gone through the floor. And I muttered a single word of faith,

“Fuck…”

As soon as I felt my car jerk forward with a thunderous thud that sounded nothing short of a majestic fart from Zeus, I slumbered into a liminal state of denial.

“Got so suay meh..”

In that instance, a million expletives flooded my mind that would have made a gangsta rap sound like a gospel. I think I probably cursed in every language known to man. I was reeling from the shock and impact but primarily still fighting reality, trying to make sense of the absurdity of the whole debacle. How do you get hit with such impact in the slow moving traffic?

It was then that I realized that stupidity was capable of far greater wonders than fate, chance and even a Maybelline make-up counter.

When I finally got out of the car, it felt like an eternity, like I was hit last May and that I went through an entire Christmas still wondering how I got hit. I was pissed and a part of me was trembling with anticipation, because I was undecided if I was going to start yelling or run back to my car if he came out with a bat.

I was pissed because I found myself standing under the morning sun gesturing to the driver who was still in his car. It was hot, I was beginning to perspire and I was wearing a neatly ironed shirt that did not appreciate heat or perspiration.

When he finally got out of the car, I discovered that it was a young boy who looked like he had just gotten his license from a cereal box cutout a month ago. He was nervous, dumbfounded for a good part of the time, apologetic when the situation called for it, but above all, looked like he was prepared to give a blowjob to settle everything.

I hardly bothered speaking either. I made my sentence in clear concise words that I felt were cordial enough to keep him from peeing his pants, but perspicuous enough to let him know that I meant business.

It was a carnival of emotions that started off with, “what the fuck happened” to “give me your driver’s license” to “how do you want to settle”, ending off with what could have been a candid pickup moment had it been a she instead of a boy; “I’ll call you later.”

The damage to my bumper was nothing the sort you would find in a destruction derby. It had scratches, my reverse sensor was knocked out, but for a good part of it, there was surprisingly no indentation, though there was a small crack with flaking paint.

I cannot say the same for his. He deserves it.

I did the standard protocol of taking down his contact – and this time checking to see if the number was correct -, his I/C and driving license. I snapped some pictures, one of my damage, one of his – to gloat over mainly -, and a couple of the situation to illustrate clearly that he was at fault. We then agreed to settle it via insurance, to which at this point the old man in his passenger seat came out to offer his apologies.

I do not take the time to smile at him, nor offer him a hug or handshake, just so to remind them that I am a badass.

As soon as I got back into my car, I see this man running towards my car from my side mirror. Could it be that some kind soul is coming forth to offer his services as an eye witness? Or perhaps a friend of theirs trying to dispute the case?

He: “Hello, I understand you just got into an accident. I have a car workshop and I can offer you very good price for the repairs.”

I don’t know it this was a scam or if the guy was a shark because it felt like he had the ability to sniff out accidents from a mile and be there instantaneously. Or perhaps it was a mere co-incidence. If it was, then his sheer diligence and commitment to work deserves some praise because despite me telling him that I have a workshop and that I am not concerned about repair cost, he insisted that I took his name card and ‘consider about it’.

I sat there for nearly 2 minutes turning down his offer and it felt like I was at a time-share conference, being badgered by hard-sell quips, because ‘they are just doing their job’.

Two hours later, I called LB to tell him about the accident because both of us have the exact same car plate number. He was not the least bit impressed.

He: “Dude, a motorcycle just caught fire right before me.”

This day sucked. I didn’t even have the best story of the day.

Butterfly Votes

There are things that define us as Singaporeans; National service, multiple uses of tissue papers, chilli crabs, strange un-explained obsession with Hello Kitty, singing the anthem without knowing the meaning and that pink IC.

And then there’s that one privilege that has eluded so many of us because we stayed at the wrong places, or maybe because there was only one voice in the government and that whimper became a silence. It was the right to vote.

This was the vote that would supposedly shape our nation, and I’m not talking about finally having a Chinese Singapore Idol or for your favourite local artiste, but about social issues, better financial support and giving new people a chance to earn a lot of money.

It’s the only thing that every one talks about these days and it just reminds me that age is catching up with me, or perhaps I’m just hanging around the wrong people. I’d be honest with you, politics bores me, right until the election rallies come along and I get an information download of the current affairs in real-time drama – but mostly hilarious.

When it comes to politics, I am as adequate as Gandhi would be at Haute couture. I know the opposition is hot on the PAPs heels, I know that there are issues on rising cost of living and I know there are calls for transparency. All these are as appealing to me as a tub of lard.

We want better housing, better schools, lower rental, but have we also forgotten about life’s other daunting problems like the rising cost of alcohol and lack of Trance clubs?

I voted today. Finally. After years of wondering if moving out was the only way I was going to get a chance to drop a piece of paper in the ballot box.

I always imagined it would be empowering, or emancipating to some extent. Or when my vote was cast, that there would be a effervescence of contentment or maybe a kicking doubt wondering if I made the wrong choice.

But no, there was none of it. If anything, it was the nagging blister on my feet and the sweltering afternoon heat that was punishing me for not voting in the morning. It was intoxicating for the best part of my 2 minute walk over to the polling station, in some part believing that my vote was making a difference, of having a voice – finally -, but as soon as my vote was dropped, I realized that the only good thing that came out of it all, was the off in-lieu entitlement for today.

Do I know who’s going to win? I’m pretty sure I do.

We are going to win. Singaporeans are going to win, because despite what the results might be I think I hear that whimper that had gone into silence again. It made a sound and it was heard. And there will be a reply…

Butterfly Gets Charged

There are many initiation rites to life that every Singaporean son go through, like national service, your first flirt with alcohol, the accidental discovery of masturbation, surfing the internet for porn and getting charged.

Getting charged by the military is something that men inherit with time and indolence, and along with the ability to pay a $50 fine with such impunity that we think it as a avenue to solve all problems.

How difficult can it be? I show up at CMPB, I stand before an officer, I bow my head in mock remorse for my actions – or lack of it, and I pay a fine after that. Surely even tying a shoe lace is more complicated than this.

I was wrong.

When they said to come in an appropriate haircut, I imagined that that as long as it was neat, sleek and now where near the flamboyance of a peacock’s tail, it would be fine.

So I spent a whole morning fussing in front of the mirror, cursing the limitations of waxes and wondering if I would qualify as a walking fire hazard for the amount of hairspray I had on me.

When I finally got to the guard house – after braving the raining because I had to park the public carparks and walk over -, I barely even got my hand through to exchange my visitors pass, when started shooting me a bewildered look.

He: “Erm, are you here to report for a charge?”
Me: “Yup…”
He: “You need to get a haircut before you can come in.”

I don’t know if I was hit by the absurdity of being denied entry right at the guard room or having to get a hair cut just to get charged, but I stood there staring at him, half hoping for Aston Kutcher to jump out from behind the file cabinets telling me this was an elaborately casted joke, starting from the documented letter from the military, and ending with them breaking into a flash mob dance involving M-16s and finally culminating in them presenting me a cheque for a million bucks.

Me: “I have to get a haircut just to come in?”
He: “Erh, ya. It’s a regulation.”

This was a plumpish teenager who looked like he would pick a box of donuts over a handjob. And since I didn’t have a packet of chips to bribe him with, I relented grudgingly, pissed that I would now need to drive all the way to my hairstylist in town, pay for ERP charges, car-park, a haircut and a tiring drive back to CMPB. T

his was going to cost me more than it did China for building the Great Wall, and after everything, I was going in to be reprimanded and slapped with a fine. This Monday was turning out to be as disastrous as Justin Bieber after puberty.

My regular stylist was on leave so I went with a junior stylist who looks like he shampooed his hair with bleach on a regular basis. I knew an ‘appropriate’ military hairdo meant that seeing your scalp was part of the mandate, along with slopes and crop tops, but I decided that I was not going to surrender my mullet. Not for 10 minutes of standing in front of an officer at least.

So I kept a little mullet down the back of my head; a defiance to having to abide by regulation, or maybe it was just to hold on that taste of civilian freedom. How bad could that be? After all, I was already cropped neatly on all sides; surely they weren’t going to fault me for just a little infringement.

So I drove back, went through security again and faced that same rigid private who had earlier caused me so much inconvenience.

He: “Can you turn around?”

I stared at him in disbelief. Turn around? I had a haircut that would have even qualified me for boot camp and now he wants me to turn around? I was pretty sure I was going to be subjected to a strip search after this.

He: “I still cannot let you in. Your back hair is touching your collar. I think the barber missed a spot.”

God bless his sweet naïve soul.

Me: “Can’t you just let me in. I’ll just wax it up.”
He: “Really cannot. You can go back to them to ask them to trim it off for you. Just a little bit more.”
Me: “Are you serious? You want me to travel all the way back to get a trim?”

He points to the regulatory haircut print out plastered along the walls. This guy had more rigidness in him than a truck full of Viagra.

So I went back for a trim and when I finally got back to face my chubby nemesis, I had wasted over three hours of my life trying to get into camp to be charged. If I wasn’t perspiring under the punishing mid day humidity, I might have appreciated the vile humour in this.

I had walked pass the security check thrice – which I think might be a new day record of sorts -, tried unconvincingly to persuade a 19 year old to turn a blind eye twice and wasted two dollars on parking coupons. Unless you are going into labour, you’re having a better day than me.

And for all that I had to go through, I was charged and fined $50. Amazing what I do to pay money.

Welcome to KL

When I was young, the country I wanted most to live in was Switzerland. I don’t know if it was inspired by postcards or pictures on chocolate bars, but somehow the idea of snow covered slopes sounded infinitely more inviting than a-go-go bars and strip clubs during pre-puberty.

I look back now in relief that I never chased by boyhood dreams because other than probably great bank interest rates that are housing billions of blood money, I’ve heard that Switzerland is so boring it makes Alaska look like Disneyland.

We complain a ton about Singapore; about propaganda, about the constitution, about CPF, about rising cost of living, about the intolerance on vice, about the mundane nightlife, about the lack of green spaces, about the joke of a beach, about the torrid humidity, about the myth of meritocracy and about the lack of free speech.

We have so much to complain it’s a wonder we have time for anything else. I am guilty of it, I lament on the lack obscenity, of rave joints or coital fuelled parties. Thank God, Kuala Lumpur succeeded where we failed, in nightlife spunk, and it’s not everyday you find Singapore bested in any aspect of living.

Kuala Lumpur has become a second home to me of late and it hasn’t taken me long to find a fondness for the place. It’s no snow covered winter land that Switzerland proposes, but any place with a vivid clubbing scene wins my erection.

Can I see myself living there?

Rave Clubs

It’s something we are no longer blessed with in Singapore. Gone are the days that Boat Quay ruled with trawling groups of ah lians with their Sonia Rykiel bags and Ferragamo hairbands, accompanying their Versace clad boyfriends to bar-clubs that sometimes offered a mountain of drugs that made it look like a Colombian mansion.

I’m talking about hard music that defied the realms of beats and rhythm and is completely impossible to dance to that the only way you can keep up, is shaking your head. Lights are non-existent, and unnecessary given that misdemeanor is the order of the day. You don’t even need alcohol, just a huge bottle of water. Now that’s cheap living.

If you love trance or techno that sounds like it was fed a clinic worth of steroids and speed, then you will live well in the after hours of KL.

And for a city with all other legitimate clubs that close at around 2am – or in Singapore’s context, the time we slip on our shoes to head out to party -, underground clubs come as a communion for all those who believe that parties should end only after 5am.

For whatever drug fuelled enthusiasm rave clubs have taken from societal well-being, they have credited it back by adding vibrancy and credibility to a city who so prides it’s nightlife. And here we are thinking nothing good ever comes out of rave joints. Shame on us.

Food

There really isn’t much of a difference and you don’t have to live on a staple of bugs, rats and half grown ducklings. There’s as much variety there as you would find it here n Singapore and good enough to encourage a growing concern for obesity.

It’s not about the experience of eating, or the diversity of food, or how amazing it taste. The best part is when you pay the bill and realize that it’s almost half the price. God bless exchange rates, so this is how it feels like to be a European in Singapore.

I once had a seafood dinner for four that cost less than a round of martinis. At that moment, I nearly traded in my Singaporean passport. True story.

Jalan P Ramlee

If you know Beach Club and Thai club, then you truly know your clubbing culture of KL. This stretch is as iconic as Orchard Towers and as notorious a reputation as any you will find in KLCC. It’s a simple rule. When there are more females than males at a bar, and there isn’t a free flow, you know that these women are more interested in your wallet than they are in their beers.

It’s flooded with hordes of Caucasian men who are drawn to the exotic sea of women who have arrived from every third world Asian country from Vietnam to Kazakhstan with surprisingly less clothes than they ever had on them, flaunting cleavages and tight skirts, all in a bid to get their attention. They are the very epitome of capitalism, industrious – working every night – and a keen eye to exploit every willing party.

There is no regards for the live band playing, which is a pity because it’s always magical when you put a mic to a Pinoy’s mouth. And neither is there concern for marked up bar prices, because you’ll be spending the better half of your time deliberating if you’ll still have your Rolex or organs intact in the morning if you decide to take them back with you.

Traffic

The traffic in KL is almost execrable it makes the rush hour jam in Singapore look like the Autobahn freeway. During the rush hours, it’s faster to travel on a pogo stick blind-folded than it would be to drive round the corner. The whole city comes to a standstill that the only thing that reminds you that God hasn’t hit the global pause button, is your digital clock ticking away, mocking you as you miss precious minutes of American Idol.

It just puzzling because you don’t ever see that many cars on the road and then once it hits about 5pm, the roads and highways become so packed with all the cars just appearing out of nowhere that it looks like Proton was organizing a flash mob.

If you want to get around the city and do not possess skills of champions which includes teleportation and human flight, then what you need is something that will help you through the long hours of commutation, like an iPhone, a book or maybe a bottle of sleeping pills because sometimes you’ll be lucky if you make it home before Christmas.

The road conditions in some parts will make Mars look like a runway and you are more likely to break your leg in a pothole than you would be to get hit by a car. And from what I’ve heard, the only way a pothole gets patched up, is when it orchestrates a fatality. That’s what you call procrastination.

There isn’t a silver lining to the traffic condition there, except the governance of money that solves all other traffic related offenses like speeding, beating the red light, drink driving and having exhaust pipes that look like they were meant for the A380 Airbus.

There are many merits to this city granted by the stronger dollar against the ringgit, but beyond that living in Singapore has already acclimatized to raging humidity, over-inflation and unexpected floods.

It’s not as glamourous as New York or as fashionable as Hong Kong, but for everything else, it makes it a pretty decent place to live in, if you're forced to flee Singapore, because let’s face it, it's just like Singapore on a little prosiac drip and a painful traffic situation. Let's just keep KL as that 3 hr getaway drive for now, unless you own a helicopter.

The 2008 Hotdog Story

I missed this story completely. This was on the night of the 26 drinks pub crawl.


There was a reason why I didn't actually detail the 'Hotdog Story' on the night we had our birthday celebration by pub crawling along the Singapore river - and if we had on lifejackets, I'm sure it would have passed of as a duck tour.

Well, that was because I didn't fully appreciate the hilarity of the incident, because I didn't see the entire shit pan out before me and largely because I was already tipsy. Here, is the pieced recount from Huixx, LB, Reznor and Tigerlily's versions.

We were all leaving wine bar for Orchard Towers, drunk no less. Niner was already suffering from alcohol amnesia and barely able to do a decent catwalk. Apparently, Niner bumped into some dude at the hotdog stand and that guy dropped his sausage, so he turns round and yells at Niner.

Niner, obviously shit housed drunk and barely able to even focus on cleavage, does not respond to the guy, which pisses him off even more so he moves in to grab Stefan, at which Huixx intervenes.

Huixx: "Hey you!! Stop this nonsense! Here's $4, take it and stop this nonsense!"

The guy ignores her and throws a claw which catches Niner on his face/neck. Pandemonia erupts. The guy is still yelling at Niner, trying to pick a fight over a fucking $2 sausage. The bouncers are sniggering over the absurdity of it. Reznor is trying to pry them apart and in the midst of it all, LB is shouting,

LB: "HAHAHAHAHA!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!!"

Not even knowing what just happened, my instincts kicked in and I immediately restrained the guy from getting into an altercation with Niner - and prevent him from dishing out anymore pussy catfight moves. And for my troubles, the guy yelled, 'fuck off' to me, twice.

At this point, some crazy ass chick comes by, yelling about Niner dropping her sausage too and this girl wasn't even anywhere near the scene when it all happened, and I was pretty convinced she probably just got off the bus and thought she'd try her luck at a free suasage.

Girl: "You drop my sausage! Buy me back a sausage."

And I checked.. there weren't any sausages on the ground.

Tigerlily: "I give you my sausage loh.."

And Tigerlily was also tipsy and trying to pacify the girl with her half eaten sausage.

Girl: "Buy me back my sausage!!!"

Then out of no where, some dude walks by her and says,

MysteryMan: "Yo! I got two sausages for you!" [flashes both middle fingers at her and walks off]

I almost peed my pants laughing.

What Men Think Of Valentine's Day

It’s no secret that men and women see things differently, which is why we never agree on bed sheets, cable programs and cars. When a man sees used clothes on the bed, he knows he left it there because he might use it later, but when a woman sees it, all she sees is a reason to yell at the man.

Valentine’s day is the day of love. Many years ago someone decided that we would take a day to celebrate the effects of Cupid’s arrow, of that mystic chemistry that bonds two people and years on, even with overpriced dinners and flowers, we’ve kept that tradition.

The thing is, Valentine’s day is to women what the Champion’s League finals is to men. It’s a day that we look forward to each year with bated anticipation, only that we want to spend it in the company of beer and a 42 inch TV, as opposed to flowers, chocolates and a big hole in the pocket.

The truth about men

Do men really enjoy Valentine’s Day? No. The ugly truth that you are about to read is that most men look forward to this day as much as they would a vasectomy. Most men don’t get the fuss about a day that generally does not have any significant bearing to their relationship, and adding on expectations that women burden them with because social mores dictates that women should be pampered on that day, just serves to collapse any anticipation men will have about Valentine’s day.

I once dated this girl who liked me because she thought I was humourous. She would laugh at everything I said, until I told her that I would not be celebrating Valentine’s because I thought it was dumb. She didn’t think I was funny after that. She also stopped calling.

I’ve spoken to a myriad of men on their opinion of V-day and the overwhelming consensus is that the only way that it would be bearable, was if it was a public holiday. One of them said. “it’s a waste of a day”, another stated that it was “the worst day to be a man” and the one that took the cake was, and I am paraphrasing because of the need to censure expletives, “the dumbest day invented.”

And these were not men spurned by love, nor were they extremists who would burn flowers to show their disdain for the occasion. They are men, who have in their past celebrated this day simply because it was expected of them. The only guy, who was actually enthusiastic about V-day, was single and had never had a date on that day. Coincidence? I think not.

How we perceive Valentine’s Day over time

Valentine ’s Day is the very epitome of capitalism aimed to exploit men eager to prove their love or determination to impress a girl, leading them to succumb to that sudden over-inflation of flowers and food at their favorite restaurant. And our participation in this commercial celebration of love, varies directly to our duration in the relationship.

I’ve seen how time has exacerbated the enthusiasm of my male friends. In the first year, they embrace V-Day with everything expected of a gentleman, from presents to romantic dinners that had so much thought and planning into it, it would have made a wedding look like a tea for two. Then as the years go by, they strangely get hit by a bout of amnesia every time V-day rolls near, hoping, just hoping that if they forget about it, their girlfriends would too. By the end of it, you’ll be lucky if you get a handshake for V-day.

Every year we hope that girls would tell us those magic words, ‘let’s not celebrate Valentine’s Day’, but that will remain a utopian dream like world peace, orgasms and low fat beer. And even if a girl does say that she doesn’t want anything on Valentine’s day, her estrogens will kick in to remind her that she is innately female as soon as people around her starts getting flowers.

Why do men still celebrate?

Valentine ’s Day has become a day of validation. It’s about people in love reassuring one another through material gifts and elaborate surprises. It’s for people who are alone to feel bad about themselves and tell their pets, ‘who needs love when I have you’, and for florists to remember why they are in this business.

Men celebrate V-day because it is expected of them to. Failing which, a cold war will ensue that will make World War 2 look like a game of paintball. Men know that even when a girl tells him that she is fine with not doing anything, he has to do something - because there is always something when a girl says ‘nothing’.

And so the days leading up to the occasion is a period that man is plagued by panic that stems from an absolute cluelessness about what to do. Do we just get presents? Is dinner good enough? What if it’s not romantic? What colour roses does she like? Does she even like roses? Can we do what we did last year? What did we do last year? Is it appropriate to just write a card?

I’ve been on one too many shopping trips with my friends who scramble for presents at the eleventh hour, because that is an ascribed trait of being a man – we don’t plan until we realize we are going to get yelled at. And all these trips were littered with so many ‘I wonder if she likes this’, that it felt more like a precognition session.

So if you were to leave this day to our absolute dictation, society will never be faced with this torrid inflation crisis and it would be a day like any other, because even if it is a cliché to say that every day is Valentine’s Day, we don’t need to specially celebrate one’, the truth is that perhaps men aren’t just practical, but we’re lazy too.

You see, we empathize on what V-day is for women, how it is a catharsis to the vanilla routines of being in a relationship and how it is a timely interjection to being just a regular girl. Girls want a day to be special, but so do men. So just imagine how special V-day will be for us, if we could just do nothing for once.

Of Cops And Corruption

Growing up, I’ve always heard about the rampant woes of corruption that were inconspicuously married to the police department in Malaysia. I’ve heard that bribes of anything from cigarettes to money to dignity could be the perfect compensation for any traffic offence from speeding to drink driving.

And they are true, because I finally witnessed the blunt of this gross reality that perhaps the servants of these institutions are simply ‘bending’ the law because corruption is a means to sustain a living. Or that perhaps setting up road blocks is just a past time not aimed to deter drink driving, but to make money.

Corrupt traffic police officers are no national secret, unlike Area 54, Roswell, Iraqi nuclear warheads and Hong Kong shrimp dumplings. It is blatant coffee shop topic and banter, and possibly more prevalent in Malaysian local context than Twitter or Facebook will ever be.

In such corruption, defines everything that capitalism stands for, that ultimately, money is everything. And it is no wonder that I see the people here drink and drive with such impunity as long as they have a couple of hundreds in their pockets that will miraculously become talisman that will guide them home, or at least ensure a safe enough passage.

At the rate we were drinking, it would have been an offence to even hold your car keys in Singapore. But this was Kuala Lumpur, home to cool restaurants, complicated roads and where consequences sometimes never catches up to you.

When we finished at the last bar on the outskirts of KLCC, we already had 2 bottles of whisky between the 6 of us. It was a point where no one should be driving, or even peeing without assistance, but I saw that nonchalant defiance of all traffic laws in their eyes and I knew that drink driving was a mandatory curriculum when it comes to driving, along with road rage, talking on handphone and illegal parking.

RO was my designated driver, so he was a lot more discerning with the drinks but from what I learnt about rate of alcohol absorption is that you are fucked anyway if you take more than 8 glasses. If there was a road block, he was going to fail it.

10 minutes into our drive on the expressway, we saw blinking beacons in the distant. In Singapore, if you had that much to drink, the lights are actually an indication for you to jump out the car and make a desperate swim for the causeway. Here, it just means you have to make a trip to the ATM the morning after.

Calmly, he started removing cash from his wallet and furtively began slotting them into various compartments of his car. He was driving a hatchback proton that looked like it was a stunt car for the Fast and the furious, so it was practically a mobile bulls-eye.

The whole conversation played out in Malay, so I had no idea what was going on until RO fed me the post event subtitles, but this was basically what went down after we got pulled over.

RO failed both the breathalyzer test, or as what some of the other locals have told me, these test are sometimes rigged, so having an orange juice can sometimes have the same effect as drinking a whole bottle of tequila.

RO: “So how now?”
Cop: “RM5,000. If not we go to police station.”
RO: “I don’t have RM5,000. Why don’t we go to the station.”
Cop: “RM1,000?”

This was better than the Great Singapore sale. Freedom was having a discount day out and normally I would jump at a grand for having an ‘unblemished’ driving record, but I would soon be taken on a practical course of handling cops in Malaysia. All I needed was a classroom, a notepad and this would have qualified as Corruption Handling 101.

RO: “I don’t have.”
Cop: “You have ATM card? I can drive you to the ATM”

Apparently ATM’s are last options because when they see how much you have in your bank account, they are going to cleave you for all that’s worth.

Cop: “Ask your friend if he has money.”
RO: “He’s from Singapore. Do you want to give him a bad impression of Malaysia?!”
Cop: “How about cigarettes?”

I had no idea what was transpiring between the both of them all this time because I wasn’t born with subtitling capabilities and neither did my iPhone come with one, so I did what I do best when I am confused; I started playing Angry Birds.

RO started emptying his wallet and held the cash just below the window frame. The cop took a glance of it and started to walk off shortly after.

RO: “He wants RM500 now. I just told him this is all I got and if he doesn’t want it, he can take us to the station.”
Me: “We can start hyperventilating now to lower your BAC.”

It was like a game of bluff, RO was calling his dare and only because he knows that this is a staple in KL. It’s about taking whatever bribe that was available or upholding justice and wasting your night doing paperwork.

The cop finally came back and settled for RM150. So that is the price of freedom.

If you actually put that in perspective, they are probably more lucrative than the ERP system because from what I’ve seen about the frivolous caution that the locals practice when it comes to drink driving, he is probably going to make enough for a night to buy over Batam by Christmas.

I'm not implying that every cop in Malaysia is corrupted, God forbid. I believe there are your John Waynes, Rambos and Edward Nortons who are clad in justice trying to better the police department. It's just that I've heard alot of stories from the locals and it's amusing because they talk about it like it is normalized into their routine of life.

I can’t say I hate that system because every wrong can be made right with the right price. It’s like you don’t need to cry over spilt milk there because you can simply mop it up and have it for breakfast again.

But my civic consciousness is knocking against my conscience, or maybe it’s that one too many drunk driving posters about shattering lives or maybe it’s that one poster in Australia that said, “If you drink and drive, you die”, but in any case, we should leave the driving to the cabbies, even if their meters are coincidentally always spoilt.

The 2010 That Went By

We all know by now how fleeting time is. It passes almost in an instant and we’re left wading in our petty procrastinations that when we look back, we marvel at how insignificant time has rendered our year.

Maybe some of you beat incredible odds, like winning the lottery, getting pregnant by accident, getting caught for drink driving or getting laid for the first time since hitting 200 pounds. Maybe some of you have had such a placid year that you have no memory of it. And maybe some of you are just glad that the year is coming to a close.

As with how I’ve done my previous reviews on the year, I’ll draw on the milestones of the year and award myself with memories that have defined my year.

Most Embarrassing Moment

Some time earlier in the year I had one of those nights that started out with good intentions and then exacerbated into a drunken frenzy that started with me first talking to a stone dog, then doodling on the stone chair, then trying to erase off the ink with my saliva under threat from the security guard to call the cops. All that while being caught on camera.

It didn’t end there. We ended up at St James and the security there was asking me to leave because I was walking around with a t-shirt torn at the centre that would have passed off as a vest. It is apparently inappropriate to dress like that unless you have washboard abs or a vagina. Read it here.

Or maybe it was the time I stood at the weighing machine and realized that I had gained 5kg since I got back from New York. It’s a pity weighing machines don’t accept denial.

Worst Outdoor Event

When we planned to attend the rave party at Genting, it was based on a promise that there would be VIP tickets and a solid 4 hours of trance that would tickle every impulse in my body into abandoning fatigue and dancing till my tendons waved a flag of surrender.

Not only did we not get the tickets, we ended up buying it off the black market at a marked up price that will make all exploitive capitalist proud. To add insult to injury, we also realized that there was no alcohol available at the event. The only thing that would have been worse is dancing naked on Mount Everest.

First Accident

There are things we brag about in life, like sexual conquests, pocket money, the cars our daddy drives and who has a bigger gun. For me, it was about an unblemished 11 year accident free record that unpropitiously ended when I was hit while being stationary in my parking lot.

It was amazing because one moment I was tearing my coupons and the next I’m out of my car taking particulars and then 5 minutes from that, I was making a police report with fervid expletives because the guy had given me a bogus contact number, till the cop on the line had to tell me to “..mind your language”.

Read it here.

New York

Bright lights, big city and everything you wish to see on E! Entertainment. What they don’t sing about are the drive-by shootings, drug peddlers and overpriced strip joints. But that is precisely what makes New York the mosaic masterpiece city that the world celebrates about; the imperfect world of dreams.

I never realized how much I missed the place until I got back and started going, “Hey, I was there” or “I know that place” every time the scene of show was filmed against the backdrop of Manhattan.

My time there, was a self-discovery on varying spectrums, like realizing that I’ve been too comfortable in my career, that I can survive a month without doing the laundry, that I can live with public transport, that I don’t need supper to continue my existence and that I don’t need a medium sized bed when I’m sleeping alone.

Best Gift

When I first started my blog, I had a dream, and that was to write professionally and with enough merit, luck, recognition and money, publish a book. I had other dreams as well, like becoming a movie director, selling pirated VCDs and stopping time, but it all sounded so insignificant compared to world peace and I didn’t want to be inferior to beauty queens.

Although I can’t pen a novel about wizards and flying broom sticks any more, I haven’t had time to draft a screenplay and I’ve been procrastinating on blog posts, I still managed to fulfill that dream of having a book published courtesy of Poca, who compiled a series of my writings into a book for my birthday.

I have 10 copies of that and it is the most brilliant composition since men discovered how to write. It’s not sold in bookstores because it is so awesome, they have to discontinue the encyclopedia if it ever hits the shelves.

2011 Resolution

The last time I actively made a resolution, I was still drawing with crayons and was too young to appreciate the finer things in life like coffee, tequila and cleavages – not in any particular order or coupling.

As I approach the big ‘three zero’, resolutions become more of guidelines for the year than targets or recuperation for the soul. I am making the resolution out of fear than I am for general well-being, or maybe it’s just vanity knocking at my door and that I’m giving myself a chance to recapture youth, or the feeling and look of it.

I need to lose weight or tone up, whichever is easier and less tedious. Normally I would recommend myself a religious schedule of bulimic workouts on my digestive tracks, but public toilets are just not too conducive for masking the grunts of self-induced puking, and also because mouthwash is expensive.

I need to lose weight because I risk a wardrobe makeover and never getting to poke fun of obesity anymore. It would be tragic only because I would lose half my wit if I have to exclude a demographic I so fondly love to ‘subjectify’.

I just want to be able to take that flight of stairs with that same confidence as Sherpa Tensing did when he took Everest, or when Monica took a whole load of Bill in and on her, without fearing that I would go into cardiac arrest or tripping.

So here’s to the new year, even if I spent it singing in an elevator with LB, RotiPrata and Totti, or if I disappointedly remained sober through the night. Here’s to loved ones, who have always stuck by us, even when we’ve gained a few pounds. Here’s to friends, who made us laugh at ourselves and gave us bad suggestions, because we learnt what’s right from doing wrong.

And here’s to 2010, because you passed so quickly and taught us that life is given to those who take it. Hello 2011, I’m coming straight at you this time…

ZoukOut 2010

As much as I have a disdain for numbers, I believe there are merits for its invention, like giving value to money, undermining my pay cheque, making hot women contactable and remembering milestones.

And when we are validating our holidays, lives and blog worthy material against the backdrop of that imaginary party calendar, then there isn’t one that is bigger than ZoukOut on our sunny island. And how best can I commemorate this momentous event that is helmed by a line up of trance acts that will give even eunuchs an erection, then putting it in statistics.

7 – is the total number of ZoukOuts that I’ve been to over the years. I can’t say that every one of it has been enjoyable or memorable, but I can’t complain much when I don’t even like the idea of dancing with sand between my toes to begin with.

The fact that I’ve continuously and religious subscribed to this dance festival is perhaps telling of my penchant for parties, or maybe this holy tripartite of booze, bikini and babes just supersedes any excuse not to party. It probably even makes having a fire rave party at a petrol station sound like a great idea.

$720 is what I spent on drinks that night - not even counting what the other guys bought -, so you should know that I had enough Red Bulls vodkas in me to give even ammonia in my pee a serious bout of insomnia. It’s unbelievable, if I peed on the sand enough, I probably had enough Red Bull in me to coax it into dancing as well.

1 is the number of cup(s) of beer I had. Let me recount, I started my day at 10am and I had every intention of partying till the break of dawn – and maybe beyond if my feet was blister free – so if my bar experiences served me right, while beer is great for explaining overweight issues, burping and getting ugly people laid, it is not going to help me survive the night.

2am is probably the time when I first got a drop of alcohol down my throat. I am not proud of this, but I’ve learnt that as we get older and brash ambitions, stamina and binge drinking capacities slowly divorces us, we need to learn to pace ourselves or risk an early surrender to fatigue and inebriation.

3 is the number of people I saw participated in a fight which started over spilled beer. If you put your drinks on the ground and expect people to not step on them at ZoukOut, is as optimistically moronic as collecting your feces on a Petri dish and hoping it blossoms into a rose garden. In any case, there were two topless men fighting and one brave woman trying to break up the fight - sounds like Jersey Shore to me.

4 is the number of unopened packets of cigarettes that I had with me on entry to ZoukOut as a favour. I think that is a record.

5 is the number of hours I spent at ZoukOut. This was enough because my only intention of being there was purposefully built around the fact that Tiesto was going to be spinning. This man is to Trance what Michael Jackson is to pop music or what KY jelly is to gays; an integral part of life.

The disappointing thing was that he was no where close to that deliverance of euphoric education that he had when I last went for his gig at Port Dickson. The music was as engaging as a deaf choir in a meat market and it was hardly the visual spectacular than I had envisaged.

I was expecting a carnage of fireworks that would have made National Day look like the musical fountain or an entrance with substantial grandeur that would make landing on the moon look like it was filmed in Disneyland. And the exit was.. hell I didn’t even know he ended. A spaceship to beam him away would have been a good finish if you asked me.

11 am was when RotiPrata finally answered my calls. He had gone missing all night and apparently, he woke up with his pants half down, lying on the grass patch in the middle of Ang Mo Kio, with no recollection of how he even got there – and he didn’t even have cash on him to begin with.

This story took the cake completely and our hypothesis remains that he was gang raped, then dumped out the car. It sounds way cooler than what actually happened anyway, so I will keep it as that.

For as much as ZoukOut has been a carnival of decadence over the years, I think I’ve hit a plateau for the corporeal feast of half naked bodies – well, half of them actually should be wearing more clothes because fats only looks good when you put nipples on them – because I am too pampered with plush sofas, air condition and excellent bar services to want to be squeezing through an army of sweaty bodies.

But I’ll never learn, or maybe I don’t want to because perhaps deep down in me, I know that surrendering an attendance at ZoukOut is sign of growing up. And I don’t want to. And in the words of some retro male singer minus your dumb mambo hand signs,

"I want to be forever young”

So That's Minimum Wage

The only thing that I took out of China over the last week, other than cup noodles and a tempted will to resist buying a fake iPhone 4, was respect for the majority of the population who are earning a wage than will make flipping burgers at Tampines look like Gisele's catwalk fee.

Okay, I have to be honest. I'd be lying if I said it was respect in entirety because it started with me laughing and telling them to stop joking about it, and then it escalated into amazement, then somewhere down the line when my conscience started warning me about karma, I decided that I would respect them instead. Only because I'm trying to be a better man.

But Butterfly, it's all about being relative to the cost of living index. I know all about these indexes because I invented them when I was drunk and peeing on one leg. And it is because I am measuring against a bevy of lifestyle costs, which I believe to be essential to life like toilet paper, milk and condoms.

In my measure of quality of life and necessities, I have included an irreplaceable list that otherwise absent in life, would prove detrimental to an adult psyche. This includes, beer, vodka, McDonald's and cost of handjobs, along a list of many others.

For the sake of those of you who have never taken economics, geography or sociology, I will explain in brief on how we ascertain cost of living. In simplicity's sake, you take your pay and you divide it against how many Big Macs you can buy and if that other persons pay yields about the same in their country then the cost of living is equal. This is the essentials, because I am asleep when lectures get technical.

I wouldn't say that Zhuhai - the part of China where we were in - was particularly cheap because it bordered Macau and as with the law of proximity, you fuck up everything that is around you. It was not as with some ASEAN countries where you know you can walk in with a USD100 bill and maybe come out with the property deed to a shopping mall.

The other day, we spent an entire afternoon at one of their popular massage centres and I decided to have a foot reflexology because at SGD$20 for an hour, it would have been blasphemous if I had given it a miss.

In general, I do not like making small talk when I am having my feet rubbed because I don't want my masseuse to get distracted and damage my kidneys from pressing the wrong nerve endings, and also because I am not proficient in Mandarin.

But this masseuse of mine kept going on and on about her life for some reason, I could have swore that she was a book about self perseverance in disguise. I had no interest in her ranting until we came onto the topic of salary.

Me: "How much do you earn?"
She: "RMB13 for every one hour foot massage."

I immediately did a quick mental calculation and discovered that she makes $2 per hour, and this is only if she does a session of foot massage. I thought it was a joke and I wanted to snap a picture of her and have all fast foods in Singapore pin it up on their staff board just so that people working there can feel good about themselves.

She: "Good days we get about 4-5 customers."

It's like cheering for mediocracy or giving the guy who came in 5th in the race a standing ovation and a one page interview. All I heard was $10 per day and this girl was beeming with delight that I was her fourth and she might just break her record for day earnings.

And at the same time, a part of me started to respect her because for alot less effort - dignity and clothes -, she could have sold her body and soul - debatetable - to the open arms of prostitution, but here she was, toiling for a months pay which she could have otherwise with alot of makeup and cleavage, gotten in a day.

I am by no means saying that I respect prostitutes any less because I genuinely belief that there are women who are in this trade simply because they love sex or having men push them around, as opposed to rubbing a fungus infected foot that has gone beyond the salvage of Dettol.

It was a lesson in frugality and thrift and you know that this girl had all the right qualifications to present the lecture because she had a tight budget that allowed her $2 on meals daily and a no alcohol or cigarettes policy.

She: "Sometimes customer will give us tips and that's where we earn more money from."

I pretended I couldn't read the English numbers on her tag after that.

Survival Guide # 6 - How To Survive A Budget Airline

These days, it no longer seems enough to get around with just a car or an EZ link card, you need peddles and an inflatable boat, which makes travelling on a budget airline worthwhile again.

How to survive a budget airline.

1. Emergency exit seats

‘Leg room space’ is a term that was thrown out the equation when they created budget airlines whose true motto is “discomfort for all who is cheap”. The seats are so cramp, the only way you can have any remote comfort is unless you plan on amputating your legs after the flight, or you are a leprechaun.

Your best bet is to be seated at the emergency exits. Beg, bribe or flash a boob if you need to secure the seats, but it’s imperative that you get it if you intend to feel your legs after the flight. You might be the first to die if the doors blow open in mid flight, but at least you’ll be comfortable till that happens.

2. Turbulence

You are in a plane that offers $1 flights, either way, your best bet of surviving a turbulence is praying that your seat belt works and that they aren’t going to be charging for life-jackets. I’ve learnt from a recent trip that when they tell you to return to your seats in an event of a turbulence, they are kidding around with you. Being in the toilet is just about the worst place to be, it’s just like sleeping next to the propellers.

3. Entertainment

There should be a law that mandates that any time spent in the air over an hour should be accompanied by a private in-flight screen that comes with the best selection Hollywood has to offer. Since this is a flight that charges everything down to the air we breathe, a laptop or portable DVD player is your best friend since Lassie.

You need to ration your bag with magazines, playing cards or a blowup doll, just pack anything that will keep you from slitting your wrist in mid air. You’ll need it.

4. Alcohol

If you need to smuggle anything on board, let it be a whole range of vodka or sleeping pills, because you will need this when all else fails. Somehow time passes faster when you are asleep, or drunk – doubly fast when it’s both. So the key here is to make a 3 hour flight to Bangkok feel like a trip from Kallang to Bedok.

5. Parachute

Airlines allow you to hand carry luggage on board, so let’s be smart about it and make it something that counts, like a parachute. There are things in life that we must always be wary of, like strangers, ex-girlfriends, cholesterol, condoms and unknown flashing lights from a video camera – sometimes all those collectively. And budget airlines ranks in at the top with them.

Let’s look at this objectively, you will be spending hours on the plane torturing yourself because you decided saving money on airfare was an astute decision like voting against communism, but it actually means that you just saved enough money to invest in a parachute.

If that plane goes down, in that instance before that, you’ll be the most popular person on board, because you will have that one thing that actually mattered.