That Vegetarian Dinner

I’ve always loved weddings. Not because it’s a union of souls and a celebration of love – sometimes for convenience or shot-gun marriages-, but largely because I love cold dishes and shark’s fin and rarely do I leave any wedding thinking of Big Mac and fries.

This last wedding was a little different.

It was between one of my old friend and his girlfriend whom he had been dating for so long, that I believe they were together when Valentine’s Day was created. Naturally, I saw this as a chance to catch up with the boys and also pay for an overpriced dinner.

I’ve never quite gotten the grasp when it comes to how much we really need to give for weddings. Do we give less on weekdays? What is the lowest we can give? Can we take-away unfinished food? Am I allowed to keep the napkins? What do we use as yardsticks? Do people really give empty packets? Do you think we can get through dinner with no one finding out?

There were just so many things drifting through my mind like a kaleidoscopic opera of debates between figures that I decided to stick with $100, for a 4 Star hotel on a Wednesday. I figured it was a fairly decent amount given that mid week banquets are like store wide discounts.

When I got to the table – almost fashionably late because it took me a whole to decide that wine and beer are too much of a staple banquet diet for me to pass up-, I immediately did a quick check with the others on how much they gave.

Me: “How much did you guys give?”
R: “$70”
Me: “What?!”
H: “I also gave $70. Weekday dinners are about there.”
Me: “Fuck! I gave a hundred.”
A: “You know it’s vegetarian food right?”
Me: [Hysterically] “WHAT THE FUCK?!! IS THERE ANY MORE BAD NEWS I NEED TO KNOW?!”

I snatched the menu and scanned through it, looking for erection giving words like ‘shark’s fin’, ‘abalone’ or ‘garoupa ‘, but the only thing that barely teased was the word ‘mock’ planted right before ‘shark’s fin’ and followed by stupid words like ‘bamboo shoots’.

Half the time I had no idea what the menu was saying because if you’ve been to enough weddings, you’d know that they have the coolest names for the simplest food. Things like, ‘double broiled ginko nuts..’, which really is just ‘Cheng Teng’ and ‘Longevity Catch’ which is basically your fish.

Then before me was a whole list of gimmicky names that told me nothing about the food, like ‘Treasure Bag with broccoli’ and there I was hoping there was going to be a slice of chicken in that bag somewhere. There was nothing I could do about it, so I turned to the only thing that would make this worthwhile.

Me: “I’m going to get my money’s worth on wine.”
R: “You know there was supposed to be no alcohol?”
Me: “I would have slit my wrist if that happened, but I’m glad to be alive and thrilled to drink cheap house wine.”

The other down side was my grumpy waitress, who looked like she just menopaused on her train ride to work. She never smiled, never asked anything courteously and her face was always so constipated that she only needed to be purple to qualify as a prune, but I didn’t give a shit because she executed the one task I gave her perfectly.

Me: “Keep this glass always filled.”

You know you’re fucked when tomato slices which are normally decorative or garnishes, become the main dish. The first dish, usually one of my favourites, had been raped. In place of the jelly fish, was kway tiao and I’m assuming the tomatoes represented the squid. Disappointed, I start drinking faster.

Then it just went downhill. Shark’s fins were glass noodles cooked in what I can only assume to be starch with some bamboo shoot that pandas might have enjoyed. The ‘treasure bag’ was stuffed toufu skin with more vegetables and the fried rice looked like it was fried with the same ingredients they’ve been using all night.

I have to verify that I’m not a particular person when it comes to eating, because I eat almost anything – sometimes not knowing what I’m eating. So, when I bitch about food, you’ll know that it’s so bad, if I had brought combat rations, I would be chewing up on it in the toilet.

Me: “Well, at least the dessert should be good right? They can’t possibly fuck up dessert because it’s vegetarian to begin with.”

When they served the bowl of red bean paste, I was secretly hoping they served it with a razor to slit my throat with. It was so diluted, you'd think they were trying to feed everyone with a single bean mixed in sugar water.

I’ve never quite understood why anyone would propose for a vegetarian dinner. Do they not realize that vast majority of Singaporeans are carnivores and for a good reason, because meat just fucking taste better!

I know people say vegetarian food is usually more expensive, but not the one I had. I don’t see how yam and mushrooms can be expensive, because in general rule, food is only expensive when something is killed.

Look, I’ll be very blunt, if I pay money, I’m expecting at least a decent meal with meat, and not having to feel like I’m on a constipation rehab with my dosage of vegetables. If you are vegetarian, then just punish yourself, or your family’s table, and not everyone else. Give us meat.

Big Mac anyone?

The Shinigami Halloween

For most years, Halloween has always been another excuse to get drunk while dressed in something silly. It has always been unscripted, disorganized – save for last year’s decision to go uniformed-, and filled with memorable moments laughing at other people.

You see, Halloween in Singapore has degenerated to nothing more than a silly costume ball. It is the one time in the year that everyone is entitled to leave the house draped in a table cloth or drenched in paint and still be normal. This is also the one time you can walk out the house dressed like a terrorist and still have people coming up to you for a photo.

Halloween has lost its ghoulish themed costumes and makeup from one of gore and blood to increase eyeliner and lipstick. No one wants to be Chucky’s bride now, especially when you can go as Tinkerbell and look so much prettier.

For women, it's become about having an excuse to pull out that fish net stockings and corsets. It’s about deeper cleavages and shorter skirts. It’s about darker lipsticks and thicker eyeliners. It’s about experimenting and blaming failure as an intentional Halloween get-up.

For some strange reason, Whales tend to think that Halloween is a time they get to wear female clothes – instead of things they should be in like a body bag or straightjacket - like corsets, halter necks and mini-skirts. It’s hard even imagining them in one, so when I actually saw them, I believed that they were perpetuating the scare factor and Halloween night is a riot playground for them.

Me: “These fat people have some of the most creative costumes. Just look at that girl, I think she came as ‘Cellulite’.”

I’m partly guilty for not respectfully embracing the nature of Halloween, because the whole group of us looked like we were going for a Cosplay convention instead. You see, we went as characters of Bleach – a Japanese manga for the ignorant – and if I really had to argue my way about it, I would have said that we were death gods.

This wasn’t a casual impetus, but more of a well thought theme, initiated largely by the fact that Nana was pushing for the Bleach theme because he already had it and there was this shop in Chinatown that had an abundance of these costumes, which immediately solved the problem of finding enough for everyone.

This time, we decided to charter a bus for the 13 of us since there was some heavy mobility drafted out on the itinerary, which drew a subtle protest to our ailing livers but was drowned by an immediate promise of Trance, vodkas and champagne.

When we got to St James, it was just Lapi, RotiPrata, Totti, Faith, Poca, Nana and me, which wasn’t so bad because I would have felt silly if I was the only one in that costume. You see, the thing about costumes is that singularly, you look dumb, but collectively you can make even wearing things like trash bags, pampers or New Urban Male clothes look cool.

Obviously, I knew some people were bound to be clueless on who we were supposed to be, because I get people’s costumes wrong all the time. One year, I shouted ‘Marvin the Martian!’, only to be corrected that he was supposed to be a Spartan.

Some waitress thought we were sushi chefs. I would have told her that we were manga characters but she didn’t look too bright and I figured I might need to explain other huge words like ‘manga’, ‘fictional’ and ‘ignorant’ so I decided to ignore her instead.

We started off with 2 bottles of Belvedere and a table spread of Red Bull – which should be everyone's choice mixture if you know you need to survive another 5 hours partying. Reznor and Bev arrive, dressed to our theme, but entirely clueless on what Bleach is about. Next year, we are convincing everyone to come as transvestites.

When we left St James, we were all decently well behaved. We were still capable of speaking without shouting, walking in an orderly file and insulting people when there is a need to – or maybe it was just me.

Poca: “Halloween is just an excuse for girls to dress slutty.”

That’s only for the normal girls. The Whales have it tough because despite what they wore, they all looked like they came dressed as Teletubbies, dinosaurs or bean bag couches from Ikea.

Me: “Doesn’t matter what they wear, we all know they came from TAF club.”

Em Studios turned out to be the best choice of the night. There was some pretty orgasmic Trance that was teasing my feet and if I didn’t have straw slippers on me, I would have gotten an erection. LB bought champagne, Nana was concocting an insidious mix of whiskey, vodka and Red Bull and next we know, ‘Liquid Cocaine’ – champagne, vodka and Red Bull – became the default toast drink of the night.

When we decided to leave for Butter Factory at 3am, it became clear that etiquette, civic mindedness and volume management was beyond us. We no longer spoke without shouting, though walking was still very much within our abilities, which shows that the more we drink, the more our ears cease to function.

Me: “Where’s Nana?”

This suddenly became a concern because Nana was already wasted before we left Em Studios, and we know this for a fact because this always happens when there is champagne around him. And then we started shouting for him so loudly, that everyone started staring at us. When Faith finally managed to drag him to the bus,

Us: “Where the fuck did you go?! Everyone is waiting for you!”
Nana: “有一个，美丽的小女孩，她的名字叫做。。。”

Yes, apparently he is drunk.

All we needed is a fire and we would have passed off as Church camp having a campfire sing-a-long session, only that we were singing Mandarin songs and a lot of vulgarities.

Then we got to Butter Factory, got off, deliberated over entering, decided we should head straight to Zouk instead and got back into the bus. All except for Nana, who was standing outside the bus, struggling to tie his pants.

Me: “Nana, get in, we’re leaving.”
Nana: “I can’t tie my pants!”
Me: “Get in first. You can tie later.”
Nana: “I need to tie my pants!”
Us: “Nana!! Get in!!”
Nana: “I CAN’T! I need to tie my pants! I can’t tie my pants!”
Us: “NANA!! GET THE FUCK IN!”

There we were, yelling hysterically at him to get in and there he stood, rooted and equally determined to tie his pants. It took us about 5 minutes, from yelling to coaxing to convincing him that he could still tie his pants in the bus. If only there was champagne on board, it would have been so much easier, much like convincing a gay to go for an anal probe.

Then he got on, continued to grumble about his pants and then showed his displeasure by biting Poca on her arm. I don’t really remember what happened on the ride, because I know I was trying to grab his balls, Lapi was making out with MinnieMouse, RotiPrata and Faith were having some religious discussion and the bus driver might have plotted to sell us to Cambodia and we wouldn’t have known.

As soon as we got to Zouk, I got out to see a chick in Sari, so I did what all Hindu film lover – or actor - would have done. I broke out into a song,

Me: “Made in India, made in India..”

She was not the least bit amused by me. Fuck her.

Then we got in and we bumped into KK who told me she was some character that I will not remember with that much alcohol in me, unless it is Sailor Moon, Harry Potter or Hannibal Lecter.

Me: “All you need is 2 oranges and you’re all set for Chinese New Year.”

To MM, who went as some Victoria Secrets persona in a sequined bra no less, with wings strapped to her back. Or perhaps it was white bag. Alcohol clouds my perception of matter.

Me: [pointing to her bra] “From Mustafa!”

Then some girl walked pass wearing a mouth mask,

Me: “This girl came as a H1N1 patient!”

She immediately stopped and turned to me,

She: “I’m not!”
Me: “Ya, that’s what we all say when we catch a cold.”

Back To The Toilet Days

They say old habits die hard and I find myself nodding at it, surrendering my self-consciousness to carnal instincts on binge drinking and this insatiable appetite for alcohol – because I think my liver has given up on protesting.

I must confess. I still drink religiously, but moderately in relative measures. I’m no longer as prolific in emptying glasses, shot trays or champagne bottles like I was 2 years ago, but I’m still pretty decent by any standards, so long as there are drinks I favour available on the table – yes, I’m becoming less of a slut and more of a discerning drinker, it’s like I’m a connoisseur already.

The weekend turned out to be laced with such nostalgic themes like, alcohol amnesia, vomiting, hugging my toilet bowl and hangovers. Oh yes, I remember the days, and if you’ve been following this blog long enough and if you saw me, you’d have stood up and shouted,

“Now that’s Butterfly!”

It started with a harmless message from Faith, and ended with a quiet compunction when I woke up in bed reeking of alcohol 12 hours later. It was going to be a quiet weekend, lazing around watching Poca’s growing library of movies, until Faith suggested we head down to Wine Bar for some drinks because our other friends were going.

It sounded like a docile call to re-toxicate the liver, while disguising under the excuse of catching up over drinks. One part of me was too lazy to get out of bed and but I also had not seen the girls for some time, and Wine Bar sounded like a harmless idea – so long as you keep your Citibank cards locked.

When we got there, everyone was late, so Poca, RotiPrata, Faith and I headed to Zouk members for a drink, or a bottle of vodka to be precise. Then couple more cheers later, it became 2 bottles and a bar laced with Red Bull. Before I knew it, I was back to binge drinking.

Then we adjourned to Velvet, and it became 3 bottles. Somewhere between juvenile taunting of ‘can’t drink ah’ and the more mature, ‘bottoms up’, I might have surrendered a part of my memory to vodka, even though I do remember getting into a cab, and it was downhill from there.

I was trying to hold everything in as much as I could, and if I wasn’t so inebriated and bounded by fatigue, I would have cheered every time we passed a landmark to my house. Periodically, I would glance out and see a familiar building and I would think to myself,

“Two more traffic lights. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

And it was a cerebral countdown, landmarks versus a churning stomach, the Sonata cab versus my will to not vomit.

“Left turn into my estate, only 60 metres to go. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

The moment the cab stopped and Poca got out to my side to wait for me to sign off for my cab, I felt it coming. There was no way I was going to be able to wait out the credit card processing and less be able to decently throw up in the toilet bowl. I swung opened the door and,

“Arrrrrrggggghhh.. arrggghhhh.”

It was creamy, taxing on the throat but relieving for the stomach and I made sure not to splatter on the side of the taxi. I am one amazing human being because I am thoughtful even when I am drunk. I secretly congratulated myself for surviving the journey, although Poca wasn’t as amused.

I remembered walking up to my porch, and then sporadic flashbacks of staggering to the toilet and that was it. I woke up the next morning wondering how I removed my contacts or even climbed into bed. Then I remembered the taxi and I smiled to myself, and then I turned to see Poca, who was not the least bit amused.

Apparently, this was what happened.


Not only did I puke by the cab, I puked at the drain in front of my house. I came up, laid on the bed, too drunk to think but amazingly still had enough concern for my eyes to realize that I needed to remove my contacts.

Then I puked in the toilet again, got out, feeling terribly uncomfortable, too drunk to walk properly but yet again, still amazingly had the decency to brush my teeth – especially when hygiene is never a strong point when you have a penis. I am amazing.

In my drunken state, I was murmuring nonsense to her, most of the time she couldn’t make out what I was saying so she ignored me, except for the part where I went to the toilet and she could distinctively make out my noises to be one of discomfort.

I was in there for so long that she decided to come check on me, so she pushed opened the door to find me sound asleep on the floor – which I must say is a huge improvement over the time my mum found me hugging the toilet bowl.

She knew I was out for the count because I did not respond to her, when she unorthodoxly decided to use the prodding balls method, which is an effective method requiring only your index finger to poke at the person’s balls to ascertain if sex is still a remote possibility.

So sternly, she told me to get up to which I responded with more mumblings - the only natural response for anyone inebriated or mute to begin with. Then I got up, stumbled back into the room where I slept happily ever morning.

Until which, only pissness will greet you when you wake up.

The Disobedient Muscle

If you haven’t already realized, erections are a phenomenon, just like Ronaldo, meteor showers, typhoons and recessions. They happen quickly, they never last, are beyond our control and sometimes at the wrong times.

It is the one disobedient muscle in the male body. If females had a disobedient muscle, then that would be the mouth, because they can’t seem to stop nagging.

The thing about erections, is that it is only socially appropriate within the context of purposeful sexual stimulation. By that I mean foreplay, lap dances and watching porn – or Animal Planet for some.

And yet, instinctively or accidentally, occurrences do happen unintentionally and whether it is appropriate is really up for debate. Like, is it okay to have an erection during a massage? Is it actually complimenting for the girl – or guy – who is giving the lap dance? Can men actually have an erection during a waxing session?

I always believed that erections are also a formality, a gesture that replaces verbal appreciations. Like if you are being showered or an unprofessional massage, it would be a commendation of sorts, like, ‘Hello, love what you are doing. Keep it up’.

Then sometimes at a less appropriate time, it can be embarrassing or misleading. Imagine walking into the men’s shower with one. Once, LB and I went for a spa and this was a legitimate one in all sense of the word, right down to the ugly masseuse with powerful fingers that could knead a wrecking ball into a Picanto.

When we came out,

LB: “Did you take off your shorts?”
Me: “No. Why?”
LB: “I asked her if I needed to take it off and she said anything, so I took it off.”
Me: “What?!”
LB: “Shit, I don’t think I was supposed to.”

I understood then that erections can also make women embarrassed.

And yet, when we truly need one, it is sometimes shrunken beyond the call of lust, passion, salacity and marital needs. And it’s always pegged to an excuse like fatigue, inebriation, guilt and fear of armpit hairs and cellulite.

Then sometimes, the penis just fails to respond for the strangest reasons, even against the better advances of a blowjob, cleavages or Maggie Q.

It doesn’t erect on cue, you can’t force it to, though it’s a lot easier to kill one. If you look at it objectively, it’s quite possibly the most important muscle functionally, unless you are a Whale, then that would be your mouth and you don’t need a penis to begin with either, unless it’s to pee.

We’ve been in those situations before. For the men, you’ve experienced it and for the ladies, you’ve seen it – or felt it. The one where she wants it and you can’t. The one where you want to but can’t. The one where you need to but it won’t. The one where you’re not supposed to but you did.

Sometimes I wished it was just as simple as flicking your fingers, because there is no willing it and the pressure to perform only exacerbates the problem. Men have it tough, which now validates my new found salute to gigolos.

Think about it, female prostitutes only need to lie there, lube up, moan for your pleasure and if they are really service-orientated, tell you how great you were. For the male prostitutes, it puzzles me how sex is remotely possible if the customer is a troll.

Is the miracle blue pill truly capable of even conquering repulsion and self-integrity? Can imagination really be such a motivating factor for the erection? Is it unprofessional if they request their clients to cover their faces with a pillow? Or is everything truly possible under the cover of darkness?

Over lunch the other day, we were having a discussion because RotiPrata was laying claim that he has a penis, capable of erection under all circumstances, and that it was something neither fatigue nor alcohol could kill. So a small wager has been put in place; he has to sustain an erection throughout the boyzillian – all this while WE watch.

Now, this is something worth witnessing.

The Survival Guide

If you haven't already heard, I'm doing a series of 'Survival Guides' for Butter Factory's magazine, Rhythm.

The first post is out, you can read it here. If you have something you want me to write, just drop a note. If it's interesting enough, I'll pick it up.

Butterfly Goes To Gigolo Bar

I must applaud the ingenuity of entrepreneurship of the men, who wrestle everyday for a piece of the nightlife dollar. Who would have thought there would be a lucrative market in subjecting men to parade on stage for the fancy of women.

Male host clubs have been on a prominent rise, whilst still strategically hidden from the mainstream pubs. And if you are thinking a club filled with menopaused women who come here as a catharsis to years of tolerating infidelity, aging beer bellies and flaccid dicks, then you are gravely mistaken.

It’s a peculiar myriad of female clientele. One of early 30's women with too much time and hairspray and another of young China KTV hostesses who come in throngs after their working shift, all so just to throw their money back on men. Now that’s what you call sustaining the economy.

Now why would any women want to pay men for company and drinks? It is because the shift in dynamics of power is an insatiable gratification that isn’t gender biased. It is because for every feminist, closet or pronounced, tipping men is sociologically and psychologically empowering – and endearing for some. It is because it is a novelty. And it is because going against norms is something inexplicably human.

There is a paradigm shift in social structures and the birth of the liberal independent woman is giving rise to alternative entertainment. Singing hostesses are no longer the sole realm of men. Women now crave for a catered source of entertainment, even if it means having men strut around with excessive foundation and hair wax, waiting to do anything for their fancy – in return for a tip.

When we got there last Thursday, the place was already packed with people; men, women and gays. All we lacked were some Ladyboys and this could have passed off as Orchard Towers. The good thing was that there were pockets of women who were under 25 years of age, tucked to one side of the club, whilst the other more matured women packed the front.

The draw, as with any male host clubs – I prefer the derogatory term Gigolo bars – are the male hosts themselves. Yet, for this one, they hardly looked impressive, so much so that I was beginning to miss the foundation laced face, gravity defying hairstyles and yesterday’s fashion clad Thai boys.

Me: “They don’t look very tall to me.”

That was from 15 metres away and 3 glasses of cognac down the throat. The moment their set ended and they had to walk round for a mandatory meet and greet session with the patrons, I was left eating my words.

The first 3 guys that came by felt like they were on stilts, or that I was auditioning for the role of Frodo Baggins in a Lord of The Rings extension encore, called, The return of the Male Host giants.

They were at least 1.85m tall, dressed in finely pressed suits and belts that made my Gucci look like a discount. Either way, nothing they wore could save them from their attempt to converse in English, which if they wore a T-Shirt, would have qualified them as refugees. Either way, I went to sit at the back to avoid straining my neck with every handshake.

It’s a dream job, if you have a penis, able to sing decently, hold your liquor well, enjoy groping women and can remember to smile when you get tipped.

The great thing was, some of these guys sucked at it, which is always enjoyable to me when I get to laugh at people.

There were a couple of the guys who were so horrible at singing, they actually got booed and had to apologise. They were so bad, even the deaf would have jeered at them. I was the only person enjoying it because for a brief moment, I believed that Communism was dead.

This other guy had on a pair of sunglasses all night, and this may I remind you was in a dimly lit club, illuminated largely by a stage that looked like it was designed in the 60’s by a blind carpenter. I don’t know what it is with people who wear shades in clubs, because unless it is for hiding your constricted iris, there is nothing cool about wearing it – unless you are Stevie Wonder.

It really is a matter of chance for these guys, because some of them who were luckier, got ‘booked’ by the young Chinese KTV hostesses, whilst the others got stuck with female clients that looked like they were going to see dick for the first time in 30 odd years.

There was one guy who just sat quietly with a lady who had such a huge mole on the face, it was like a squirrel shat on her face permanently. If I had more passion for humanitarian aid, I would have petitioned for someone to pass him a dagger to slit his wrist – or her mole.

In general, as it got later and the younger women started strolling in, it became clear that there was a two prong approach to milking these joints. Women come for the men, and men come for the women who are there for the men. It is a vicious cycle if you ask me.

The thing is, there isn’t a point in trying to understand why women patronize these places – some even patriotically. The best way to digest this, isn’t about conceptualizing the rise of the feminist dollar, nor is it about giggling at the apparent absurdity of KTV women throwing hundreds back at men. If you are a man, it’s really all about waiting for your sugar mummy to roll in.

Cramps The Way

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I’m plagued with a periodic bout of cramps. And last I checked, I had a fully functional penis – except when I have one too many rounds of vodka, or in the face of obesity.

Just last Thursday I was crippled by this radiating pain. A variation of contractions and pulls that for an instant I thought I was growing a vagina. My stomach was cramping so badly, I could hardly do a decent strut to the washroom, where I diligently put the seat covers down before I sat there clutching my stomach in pain. Yes, hygiene is only neglected with inebriation.

It was horrible, but it was also something that I’ve been used to, because this cramp ordeal does have a rather good recurrence frequency with me.

So there I sat at the club, almost sprawled out on the couch. My back slouched comfortably enough to distract the pain and graciously enough so that I didn’t look like I just came out of a backbone removal operation.

I was in so much pain I would have killed for marijuana. It was like being hit by a bus, then ran over by its wheels, then have every alighting passenger step on you. It was tragic, so much so that I would have made a Cambodian kid who lost his leg in a mine field look less worthy of your sympathy.

The hardest part was actually convincing people that I was having cramps, because somehow, people generally tend to think cramps is only a medical symptom isolated in the X chromosome, like excessive shopping, nagging and mood swings.

They: “Why? That time of the month? Haha.”

Yea well, if I wasn’t truly in that much pain, I would have appreciated that cliché humour. The good thing is that no one is funny when I am in pain, because I can’t imagine laughing during cramps. I might tear an appendix or shit my pants uncontrollably, or I might even throw a punch.

Poca was slightly amused because there I was curled up in pain, and bitching incessantly about cramps in the most ironical fashion since Michael Jackson decided to cure racism by turning white.

The One About The iPhone

I am brilliant in many things, like solving puzzles, licking stamps, memorizing lyrics and making women scream – largely for the wrong reasons. I also invented many things like the relationship life cycles, post-it pads and alphabets.

Yet, my brilliance is also marred and humbled in the presence of what most have adopted into their routine mundane life of existence; technology.

You should know that I’m not a big fan of tech gadgets, even though I sometimes imagine myself to be through forced assimilation like purchasing a playstation and most recently, an iPhone. I validate this by the fact that until very recently, my iPhone was completely stock – for 4 months -, and it puzzled everyone on why I would have an iPhone if I didn’t intend to load it with applications.

And for one reason only; because I find downloading these applications a chore. Also largely because I am lazy and I don’t know how to, and I don’t really want to know how to because if I have the time to sit down and download stuff, then it better be porn, Entourage or Gossip Girl.

Obviously there are the downsides of not having games on the phone, especially when you need to pre-occupy yourself when taking a dump. The good thing is that you won’t hog the cubicle and you will be less susceptible in developing piles or cervical cancer.

The iPhone sucks – or at least mine does.

The phone keeps restarting so often that I’m sometimes convinced it is on an eco-friendly sleep mode. It hangs more frequently than inmates on death row and the damn ‘Home’ button is faulty. If you are an iPhone user, you deserve an award for patience, a plague for putting up with this crap or you deserve a hug at least.

If you aren’t one, then let me adequately emphasize of what paramount value this ‘Home’ button is. Imagine what water is to the earth, what Michael was to the Jackson’s 5, what air is to humans, what the anus is to the gay community, what pussy is Ron Jeremy. It is universal, you cannot live without it, simply because by default, that is the only button there is – that actually has a purpose.

Without that, your iPhone is about as useful as socks would be for kids with apodia or contact lenses for Stevie Wonder.

So my phone crashed for the umpteenth time today. I stopped counting long ago, because if I celebrated each time with a candle, I would have made Madame Tussaud’s look like a MacDonald’s children's birthday party. The only problem is that I could not restart it this time.

And I tried everything; holding the soft restart buttons – which is pressing the power button with the almighty universal Home button – long enough to lose an erection while on Viagra. I tried removing and replacing the SIM card. I even said a little prayer to God.

Nothing worked. And it got worse because I would get all these calls coming in but there was no way I could answer them, or switch the phone off. And I didn’t know if they could hear me on the line, because my sentences always opened with, ‘Fucking hell’ and was punctuated with pretty much every expletive you could muster.

This bothered me enough to actually make a trip down to the Singtel store. When I got there, there were two queues at the information counter. One was for general enquiries and the other was for angry iPhone owners, who like me, got fucked over by our phone.

I can’t say I’ve been totally dissatisfied with the phone because there are a few important functions that it has dutifully served me well on, like being black in colour and having a functional alarm clock.

However, a peculiar scene started unraveling before me. There were actually more people sending in their iPhones for repair than there were actually people buying it. This is like charity shows; people generally do not give a fuck where their money is going, so long as they look good doing it. This also meant that there were other morons out there like me.

So why is it, that despite all the faults, people still continue to snap up the iPhone like Vuitton on discount? That is simply because, the iPhone is the coolest gadget to have, since the Tamagotchi.

Then it came to my turn,

Me: “My phone crashed.”
Guy: “Did you do a soft reset?”
Me: “Of course I tried it. It doesn’t work.”

He proceeded to try it anyway. Surely, I had done it correctly. Surely I had put in enough conviction to try the soft reset at least a dozen times over. Surely, I couldn’t be that much of an idiot. Could I?

Then 10 seconds later, it restarted miraculously. I don’t know how he did it, but he had such a miraculous touch, even Mother Theresa would be proud to shake his hands.

He stared at me, almost a contemptuous gaze at my incompetence. I could have done a soft reset myself, but I travelled all the way to town, walked all the way to the place – under sweltering heat and impatient traffic congestions no less – just to have a guy do something even a 7 year old autistic kid on cocaine could have done?

I really outdid myself this time.

Me: “Oh, the phone keeps resetting and my Home button is spoilt.”

Naturally I wasn’t going to make myself look like an idiot. I was going to salvage all I could, even if I had to accuse the iPhone of changing colours if I must. He eventually gave me a queue number for my phone to be serviced.

Girl: “Hi Sir, good afternoon.”
He: “My Home button is spoilt and my phone keeps restarting. Sometimes I don’t get vibrations and the ring tone periodically…”
Girl: “Don’t worry sir, I will be replacing a new set for you.”

They are REPLACING me a new set just because my button is faulty? I can't imagine what they will compensate me if the phone electrocute me. What can I say.

I love the iPhone.

Giving Excuses

Not many people realize this, but excuses are people at their creative best. They are usually forged under the stimulus of impulse and reflex replies. It is an ascribed trait that measures a person’s intelligence, like Mensa, academic merits, brain size and hair colour.

Excuses also act as a social filter, like an automatic induction into a specific caste. Quick witted people give good excuses which become acknowledge as ‘reasons’, while stupid people give dumb excuses which are received by frowns and should generally be acknowledged with a jab to the mouth.

A measure of how good your excuse is, is to always gauge it against the intensity of yelling or nagging that follows, since excuses are generally introduced to a conversation when a questioning nag erupts. Good excuses not only quell a torrential nag storm, but if you are really good, you might even get an apology.

Excuse : [noun] def:
1. an inferior or inadequate specimen of something specified
2. usually a well crafted lie
3. something people subscribe religiously to
4. by default, anything you say after doing something wrong

Excuses are staple diets in our life. They are seldom constructive and should never be confused with ‘White Lies’. Excuses are always well documented in several scenarios.

1. Being late

As much as people know that every reason behind a falter on punctuality is a blatant excuse, people still want to hear what you have to say. It’s not that they truly want to sympathize with you about missing the bus or that you got mugged along the way, but because subconsciously, they are just waiting for a dumb excuse to float by so that they can punch you.

2. Missing a deadline

This is because there are always a million things working against us when there is a deadline to meet. Like, procrastination, lethargy, complacency, X-Box and herpes. Also because people know that if they actually put in enough effort into thinking, they can come up with a valid enough reason to push back a deadline.

It’s weird because missing deadlines actually stimulates communication. Notice how no one bothers to ask how you managed to meet the deadline, but they probe incessantly about why you failed to meet one?

If you want people to know about your problems, miss a deadline. And if people like you in general, or if you have on a low enough blouse, people would generally be bothered to listen.

3. Forgot an important date

What do you do when apologies don’t cut it and a simple honest ‘I forgot’ is a considerate thought lost in the larger picture of disappointment. It’s like believing recycling paper actually saves the rainforest from the greater greed of industrialization. It’s like breaking your leg during a race and trying to valiantly complete it. It might look honourable, but let’s just keep that to the Special Olympics.

Excuses as such, have a strange pacifying merit to it. Largely because people cling desperately to hope and want to believe in the good of you, as disappointing as you may be. It doesn’t mean you won’t be yelled at to begin with, because women still believe that yelling is the best form of reminder a man can get. It’s weird they think that way because men don’t listen to begin with.

4. When you don’t want sex

The rejection of sex, how subtle it may be communicated, is always laced with a good dose of bruising to the ego. This is one time you cannot say ‘no’ and hope that your partner gets the message cleanly.

With blatant rejection, comes a parabolic host of paranoia, insecurities and a reach for that bottle of lube and stash of porn. There is never a ‘no’ that will be met without a retaliation of ‘why’. As such an excuse –well intention or not – saves the day –and erection.

Of course, there are times when excuses should never be used. The most extrusive moment being when the other party is furious, because anything you say, could say or should say is not only wrong, but is stupid.

As I said, excuses are seldom ever genuinely constructive to any situation, but that should never stop you from honing your abilities to dish out respectable excuses. Here are some guidelines on how to give a good excuse if you aren’t blessed with a quick witted mind and an equally smooth tongue.

a. Be convincing

Excuses always seem more credible when you pretend to be agitated about something. For example, if you turn up late for a meeting.

You: “Sorry. There was a traffic jam.”

That is a bad excuse. It lacks so much creativity that a spastic kid with half a nostril in Peru giving an excuse could have won a Pulitzer Prize if he was matched against you. But if you said,

You: “Fucking Chee Bye. I took a cab and I distinctively told the cab driver NOT to go by that way and he refused to listen. Fucking got caught in a jam and made me waste money.”

Now, with enough irritation – or tears -, not only would you have divert pissness, but you would have converted it to sympathy by sheer self-victimizing.

b. Exploit the elderly

Blame pushing is a paramount theme in excuses. Always make use of proven words like, ‘grandmother’ or ‘grandfather’. For added effect, throwing in conjunctive words like, ‘sick’, ‘dying’ and ‘leprosy’ usually builds a more plausible case.

Yes, it’s morally indignant but integrity and humanity are malleable clauses that can be censured at another time and place. The focal subject at hand, is to get yourself out of the situation. Remember, it’s always better when people are blaming someone else, rather then you.
You cannot imagine how many appeal letters I’ve written in mitigation for parking offences. And I think there is some automated appeal acceptance which traces for the above said key words, because you cannot imagine the bullshit I have written and gotten away with, simply by including the words, ‘sick grandmother’.

c. Keep it simple

When reasons get too complex or draggy, it becomes relegated to an excuse. The best reasons are sometimes the simplest.

When I was in primary school, I’d had this classmate who would have tons of excuses on why he didn’t complete his homework. It was usually always such an elaborate story of a series of unfortunate events that I sometimes wondered if we were in math class or at a Charles Dickens recital.

And I realized then that the longer your excuse, the dumber it becomes and the more irate the other maturates. Conversely, the abridged ones that fall along the line of, ‘I left it in school by accident’ always bode better. Think of it this way, a long erected dick looks impressive, but it's alot harder to cover up than a short one.

d. Contingency

Where all else fails, sometimes a more mature approach might work, like apologizing – and meaning it-, showing some cleavage, a lap dance or buying a diamond.

So who says there isn’t a happy ending for bribery?

The Box Of Surprise

Poca has always been a box of surprise – and remember this sentence, because I truly mean it in every sense of the word. What is passion without a little bit of pain to sweeten the joys.

It’s always been a kind of attraction between her and my balls and I say this without any erotic merits to it, so those of you unbuckling in anticipation for a vicarious gratification of this blog and a bottle of lube, you can put Sea Biscuit back.

After all, I’ve been knelt, kicked and heeled in the balls. I’ve also been unceremoniously kneed in the head, but those are events credited to accidents, because it happens to the best of us who choose not to wear helmets or crotch guards.

Then today, she gave me the biggest surprise. A whole fist full of it.

There I lay, with my bolster between my legs, casually commenting on the artistic nature of my pose, and then I don’t know if it’s how people manifest their agreement these days, but I it did not expect this, not even with my ninja quick reflexes.

She punched down on the bolster, right on the area where my balls lay in sheltered sanctuary under a useless cover of foam padding. I don’t remember what happened because I spent the next 2 minutes on the floor, in pain.

This was a punch that Mike Tyson would have been proud of. And as I crouched on the floor, my mind ran through a gamut of possibilities. Maybe there was a mosquito on the bolster? Maybe she had a cramp and her fist just happened to clench up into a punch? Maybe punching is the black in the mantra of foreplay?

It had to be so, because why else would anyone think punching someone else's balls to be totally and perfectly alright?

And when I finally caught my breath,


Me: “WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?!"

Poca: *still laughing* “I thought you wouldn’t feel it!”

Me: “YOU THREW A PUNCH AT MY BALLS AND YOU DIDN’T THINK I WOULD FEEL IT?!”

Poca: “There was a bolster!!”

As I said, she really is a box of surprise.

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 4 - The Taxi

If you’ve been following my blog long enough, you’ll know that I have an insidious curse when it comes to flights. Booking wrong departure dates, missing my flight, having to run out to the tarmac to catch my flight, the list goes on.

That storied past was linked largely with LB. So, one year on, a little more matured and organized, and travelling with Poca whom I would have assumed to be exponentially more meticulous, I thought the days of screw ups have been dutifully discarded. But I was gravely mistaken.

When we decided to party the night before despite an 11am flight to catch the next morning, it seemed like a harmless initiative and treating ourselves to vodka was the best way I knew for saying farewell to Tokyo.

The plan was to have an early night – relative by our standards – and catch a quick wink before making our way to the terminal. The motion was set, our alarm clocks tuned and the route agreed on. We just didn’t anticipate for two things; snoozing – which really is a crime – and train timings.

7.30am : The first of many alarms ring. I question the need for waking up so early when our flight is over 3 hours away. Poca offers no objection. I press the snooze button. We are both delighted at the decision. This is the best decision since democracy was introduced.

7.45am : The second alarm goes off. I nudge her again to wake up. She turns away and mumbles, “5 minutes”.

7.50am : I propose we get out of bed to the count of 20. She bargains and we agree to 40.

7.51am : I begin counting labouriously, slower at each progressing number.
7.52am : I reach 20. She tells me to slow down the count.
7.53am : I reach 35, doze off to sleep and do not remember anything else that follows.

8.15am : I wake up abruptly. We had overslept. Panic spreads the bed covers. There is no debate, no need to coax her out of her slumber and no time to waste. She springs to life.

8.45am : We make an enquiry at the reception with regards to airport transfers. The next transfer is at 9.30am. Poca declares,

“We don’t have time, we will take the train instead.”

I am in a foreign land, with people who speak like they are singing half the time, and signs that provide limited assistance to foreigners. I do not question her decision. I follow her like herpes to genitals. We grab a cab to Tokyo station.

8.58am : We reach the station. We tell the guy at the entrance that we need to get tickets for the Narita Express. He hands us an entrance ticket and points us to the ticketing counter.

9.01am : We request for 2 tickets to Narita airport via the express train. The guy tells us that the next train is at 9.03am and that we might not be able to catch it. We are both blessed with fast twitching muscles with relatively decent sprint timings. We are confident on making it, so we wave him off.

9.02am : We reach the platform with time to spare. The only problem is, everything is written in Japanese and we have no idea which train we are supposed to catch.

9.03am : We seek help from the other Japanese commuters. The ticket must have been written in Korean, because NO ONE knew which platform our ticket was meant for.

9.06am : Convinced we have missed the train, we make our way back up to change for the next departing train.

The next train, which isn’t an express one, is at 9.20 with an arrival time at the airport at 10.50am. The next express train is at 10am and arrives at the airport at 10.30am. We are screwed both ways. We had to get a refund.

Poca: “No, we can’t take the trains. We need to be at the airport at 10am.”
Guy: “Oh 10. Yes yes.”

He prints us the ticket for the 10am train.

Poca: “No. We. Need. To. Be. At. The. Airport. At. 10.”

He shoved the ticket to us again. This was going nowhere, so I decided that I had to step in at some point and arrest this misdirected conversation.

Me: “Refund.”

He understood that perfectly and I solved everything with my first muttered intervention. I might actually have a sound future as a Japanese interpreter.

Now, with that solved, all we needed was to leave the station and take a cab to the airport. The only problem was that now, the guy at the entrance to the station refused to let us leave without an exit ticket. This was despite us trying to tell him that he allowed us in to begin with and all we wanted now was to leave.

We obviously didn’t have one because we didn’t even purchase a ticket to get in to begin with and he was the person who allowed us entry. And now he wants an exit ticket?

To make matters worse, the only way we could get an exit ticket, was to first buy an entry ticket. And do you know where you can purchase an entry ticket? Hands up if you said, “Outside” because you are one muthafucking smart taveller. So how were we going to purchase one, when we aren't even allowed to leave?

When we finally managed to leave – we were so close to making a dash for it -, we were left with taking a cab to the airport as our only available option. It was 9.18am and we got into what I assumed to be a cab.

9.22am : We doze off, drained from all the early morning drama. We are finally smooth sailing and will make our flight in time. If there was a bar and time available, we would have celebrated with a bottle of champagne.

9.45am : I wake up to see the meter at 18,000yen. I do a quick calculation; if 1,000yen is $15 then 18,000 yen would equate to, a kidney if we are in Cambodia. I wake Poca, who calmly tells me that they accept credit cards, before nodding back to sleep.

I on the other hand, can no longer sleep and my eyes are fixated on the meter that is jumping so fast, I wondered if the cabbie was going to be able to buy Tioman with our fare by the time we get to the airport.

9.47am: We pass a sign that says, “Airport 13km”. This is the happiest sign I’ve seen in Tokyo all weekend long.

Remember this TV program called ‘$100 taxi ride’? I now know why they never made Tokyo a filming destination, because if they ever did it, there was only enough material to air it for 10mins and $100 was probably only enough to get them out of a parking lot.

This was fucking ridiculous. I thought we took a cab, but apparently from what it seemed, we actually took a plane, just without the in-flight entertainment, meals and aging flight stewardesses.

By the time we arrived at the airport, the final fare had amounted to S$430! In perspective, not only would people have sold their kidneys, but in Bangkok, that would have taken you all the way to Mongolia in a cab, with a complimentary blowjob at the gas station.

Welcome to my world.

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 3 - The Ageha Pole Dance

Ageha, is what you would call a mega club. Not only is it the largest club in Japan, it is the furthest club in proximity to civilization. We had to walk so far from the train station, I thought that we were suppose to rent a camel to get there.

We got there only to realize that the club only starts operations at 11pm. It was 10.50pm and there were a grand total of 5 other people waiting outside to get it. Do you know what this actually means? If we band together, we won’t even qualify as a soccer team, but at least we can make a full squad for basketball, with reserves.

And this was supposed to be the top club in Tokyo. I made a silent prayer to God, hoping that the Japanese like to hide in bushes and trees until it is time to enter the clubs, only then will they spring out in the hundreds.

The club was impressive to say the least. Huge, nicely furnished and a lounge section that was serviced by tobacco promoters that had legs that ran on forever. There was also a pool, but it was so small, if it had a tap, it would have passed off as a basin. We knocked back 3 rounds of drinks and waited for the place to fill up.

There really wasn’t much else that I appreciated about the club. The music was tame, the crowd was hardly attractive and we had a hard time finding women that were hot enough for us to want to labour through a conversational barrier with.

The only highlight was a pole dance showcase that kept us from leaving the place early. Now, I’ve seen my fair share of pole dancing, more so than most regular men, so believe me when I say, I was blown.

I was expecting a corporeal performance of sorts. One that was to include the staple uniform principle of less is more. A lingerie catwalk, a risqué dance routine that would centre around a lot of grinding with the pole and butt shaking, lots of it.

I was right about the outfits for one; lingerie with killer heels, but when the lights dimmed and the music cued, I knew I was witnessing something magical, something even Chris Angel would be proud of. Something that was going to deconstruct the eroticism behind pole dancing and catapult it into the stratosphere of performing arts, like ballet, ballroom dancing and striptease lap dances.

These girls were working the pole with such grace, poise and technical maneuverability, that I might have dislocated a jaw from gawking. I don’t even know how to begin describing what they were doing because even when they twirled around on it, they actually reminded me of Chang Er flying to the moon - just with alot less clothes on.

And these girls were generally slim, save for one which looked like her childhood ambition growing up was to be a thug, and yet they were pulling off moves that you would wish you had when doing chin ups for IPPT. I don’t know how they did it, but they were practically rolling up and down the poles without hands and balancing their bodies perpendicular off the pole.

Did you say ‘What the Fuck?!”

That was exactly what I was saying at every 6 second interval. And if I understood Japanese better, I believe that was what the other people were saying as well, because there were a lot of whistling going on, so if you are trained to communicate with dolphins or dogs, you would know that those people were also saying,

“What the fuck!”

Now that truly is pole dancing. The next time you go to a Thai club and there is a chick on the podium, dancing with a pole, you can throw your shoe at her and tell her that isn’t pole dancing because Butterfly says real pole dancers don’t need hands to climb poles. If your dance is all about holding on to a pole while grinding against it, then that’s not pole dancing. That’s called ‘trying to balance’ – or maybe you have yeast infection and it’s itchy down there.

Do you even know how much abdominal strength it takes to balance themselves on the poles like they do? Their abs are so toned, not only can you wash clothes and crack chestnuts with it, they could have crash tested a Volvo against it and still come out smiling.

All that spectacle and awe and we didn’t even have it down on film or pictures because these Japanese have a very strict law about photography in clubs. I don’t know why, maybe they are afraid people might secretly tape them preparing a Jagerbomb and the world would know the secret to it. And it’s times like this, you wish you didn’t have an iPhone.

We left shortly after because we had an early flight to catch. Now the problem was getting back to the hotel. Of course, being so isolated on the fringes of the city area meant that the club had to counter this by offering free shuttle services to Shibuya station and from there it was a lot easier for us to get back.

When we got out, the shuttle bus was nowhere in sight and Poca suggested that we save the trouble and just grab a cab instead. This was her 5th time to Tokyo and I was just clocking in my 40th hour there, so it was wise to just heed her words.

When we got back to our place, which was about 10 mins away or the distance equivalent of 13km, the fare choked me. Our fare back had cost us 5000yen - $75 for those slow at counting. Yes, I heard you loud and clear, because that is exactly how I reacted.

“What the FUCK?!”

And if we thought this was bad, we had no idea what was going to happen in 5 hours time...

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 2 - Womb

“Hajimemashite”

There is quite an intrinsic quirkiness to the Japanese language. It’s something exaggerated yet so addictive because the people there – the young women especially – speak as if they are singing. Every sentence sounds just as harmonious as the one before and the only thing more distracting than the accent is the eyeliner, or maybe the mini-skirts.

It means ‘pleased to meet you’, it’s a cordial greeting boundaried by social order and formalities, but they can put such a melodic ring to it that sometimes I wonder if they are offering a handjob.

I can’t really say I’ve been thoroughly impressed by the girls there. I mean I had such great expectations, constructed by fed images through race queens, porn starlets and models. I had the impression that there was something breathtaking at every corner.

If it wasn’t a hot lady strolling pass in Gucci boots, then maybe it could be some odd couple fucking in the public train. Maybe I have adult videos to blame for it because I was under the impression that girls walked round in public wear a trench coat and nothing else, or there was a black van on every busy street with people fucking inside.

But no. Tokyo girls have hardly impressed me the way Taiwanese girl have. Ganguro girls are plenty, so much so that I sometimes forget that this is Tokyo and not Bali. I don’t know what’s up with the whole tan skin craze because some of them take it so far with their deep tans, bleached blonde hair and white eyeliner and lipstick, they remind me of the Gingerbread Man.

I also heard stories about how women get approached on streets to act in porn productions or get dogged by indecent proposals by Poca and from what I’ve seen, this could actually be true. So theoretically, this could explain why there weren’t many really hot women around, because they’ve been pulled off the streets for the greater good of entertaining the vicarious deviancies of men sitting at home in front of their computers.

We were in Tokyo on a Friday night, so there was a natural gravitating towards the mandatory visits to the local nightlife. The problem was, there was just too many clubs we wanted to visit and time was a luxury we just didn’t have. Poca had her work cut out for her.

Poca: “Listen to this. Gas Panic is a Roppongi institution, where young people go to grope other young people. The music there is so loud that your mating ritual needs to be physical rather than verbal.”

If I wasn’t so engrossed in trying to find the Japanese game show channels, I would have stood up and shouted “Bingo!”. I don’t think any club could offer a better description than this unless they were peddling lap dances and tequila shots at $3 a pop.

Picking a club to go to was easy, the challenge was to find our way there. It’s not that the cabs were of much help either because every time we told them our destination, they always repeated the place with such bafflement and exclamation, it was like as if we were telling them to head to some street in India.

Gas Panic didn't turn out to be what I would expect of a meat factory, complete with obscure dark corners for furtive make-out sessions. It was a bar decked with round tables and sporadic crowds stippled around the place. I don’t know if it was the time, the lack of females or alcohol, but it featured a rather placid crowd that looked more contented in conversation than bar top dancing.

We had a drink each then decided our time in Tokyo was far too precious to be sitting around waiting for an euphoric showcase of grinding or a carnal skin fest to erupt. We were going to move on to greener, more decadent clubs to fill our appetite for debauchery.

The next stop was Womb, a reputed Trance club with quite a reputation for being ranked in “The World’s Top 10 Killer Clubs” - whatever that means, because it could just mean that more people die here than any other club. But they host a lot of the Avex Trax artiste, so we reckoned it would be decent enough, or otherwise we were going to be just another fatality statistic.

The thing with these underground clubs is that they are almost impossible to find because there are just so little branding and a lack of a proper entrance. The entrance was at the back lane, through this little door that not even Indiana Jones would have found. But once we got in, the place was huge with thumping bass reverberating off the walls. I would have had an erection, if not for the insane 3500yen cover charge.

Note: 1000yen is about $15

The great thing about drinks there, was that they are fucking potent. They practise the gentlemen’s pour which is about 45ml as opposed to the 30ml shots in Singapore. So we kicked back with another two rounds of Red Bull vodkas and enjoyed the view.

I don’t know if people are just naturally friendly or horny in Japan, but I only need to leave Poca alone for a split second before guys will swarm in for her. The only time I see this happening in Singapore is when you are a Caucasian male stepping into Orchard Towers.

Some girl took the seat next to Poca, who did a quick Manhattan once over on her, then turned to me.

Poca: “I think she’s hot. Give me your cigarettes.”

I watched as Poca played the oldest trick in the book. It was a textbook icebreaking conversation starter and she was rolling it out like a seasoned pro.

Poca: “Can I borrow a lighter?”

And this was how we met Miwa, who thankfully was fluent in English and nice enough to get me a pack of cigarettes. I was almost convinced at one point that Poca was really going to lasso her back with us, but we left before she did because the club and crowd was hardly worth walking out to sunrise for.

Me: “You didn’t close baby.”
Poca: “I have her number don’t I?”
Me: “Closing is only if you got her home with you.”
Poca: “Closing is when I have her number.”

Then 12 hours later, we got a call from Miwa.

Miwa: “I got you both on guestlist for Ageha.”

That was the best thing I any Japanese has said to me all weekend long. And so, we were heading to the biggest club in Japan on Saturday, complete with a guestlist. We are back to being privileged clubbers again.


Note: I will post fringe stories and pictures on Facebook.

Ohaiyo Tokyo Pt 1

My impression of Tokyo has been a mosiac piece of induced perception from movies, drama serials and porn. It is the birth place of sushi, Honda, eyeliner and ninjas.

Tokyo, what's not to love? Raw fish, overpriced transportation and girls who will suck cock for Louis Vuittion - or at least that's what porn has been proliferating. It's the destination of every puberty initiated boy.

It's taken me 28 years, but I'm here. The porn capital of the far East. The mecca of bleach blonde hair and eyeliner. The maverick of technology, revolutionary father of vending machines and a society bounded by tradition. Call it what you may, but if you actually re-arrange the word 'Japan', it actually spells 'paradise'.

Coincidence? I think not.

If you've actually been here, you'll find that the people here don't actually speak, but they sing. I've been here for under 24hours and every other Japanese here speaks with such a melodic accent that if there was bass in the background, it would qualify as a karaoke.

I don't know if it's mandatory for them to sing their words, but everytime you enter a shop or restaurant, they greet you with what seems like a song it's like you're walking in on a Japan Idol audition.

And the girls?

I don't know if it's legal here, but some of them have on so much hairspray, they would by any law, be classified as inflammable and banned from petrol stations.

At the time of writing this, I just got back from a trance club and Poca just picked up a Japanese chick. It's too late for a full post - blame it on vodka, and lots of it - and too early for a judgement to be drawn.

It's summer here and humidity warrants a frown. Thankfully, it also means a lot more mini skirts and skin to be paraded.

I am being re-introduced to a decadent culture by Poca. This is going to be good..

The One With The Butterfly

I have a rival; a namesake that has been commercialized and capable of getting a girl into that convulsive utopian state of induced orgasm – something where even I fail at times.

Poca: “Stacy got me a Butterfly”

Our conversation was clear, concise and beating on a mutual understanding that we weren’t talking about brooches or hairpins, insects or swim strokes. It was something right off the shelf of a sex novelty shop and something I knew that if proved adequately effective, was going to bench the penis for a full season and only going to be substituted back in when the batteries ran flat.

We had no idea what it was, only that it was ironically called ‘the butterfly’. And my mind went on another carnival of vivid imaginations on how it would look like and how it functioned. I made a small protest over drinks with them that went unchallenged.

Me: “I hope you didn’t get Poca a dildo, because that is going to retire the penis.”

Men in general do not grasp the looming threat these toys pose. They destroy relationships and cut your sex frequency exponentially. This is like Coke finding out about Pepsi, like Sampras making a comeback. And there the government is scratching their heads over declining birth rates when the problem is being commodified and made for easy purchase.

The only people that really need a dildo are Whales, because any self respecting – and sober – man will not and should not be fucking them. And the only things that will be in their general virginal region, are sanitary pads, toilet paper and bacteria.

Stacy: “It’s not a dildo.”

I didn’t follow much after that, except that I distinctively remembered words like, ‘batteries’, ‘enjoy’ and a lot of girlish laughter.

When we got back, Poca was excited about unwrapping the present. It was something made of rubber and shaped like a butterfly. And all I thought was, “this is an odd shaped dildo”. How was anyone supposed to use this? Was I supposed to insert this? Maybe it’s to be strapped on? Do I throw it at her?

Then we figured out the wires and how it was connected to an external remote. Now the ‘batteries’ part were all beginning to make perfect sense and for that, I was going to sacrifice two sacred grails in my life, my TV and cable remote.

Usually under no circumstances would I remove the batteries from the remote, because that is like taking life away from me itself, and I cannot imagine the day without the luxury of channel surfing, but this was at 4am, I had my pants off and my erection had priority over HBO.

As soon as we had it operating, we realized how it worked. It was a butterfly with flickering feelers that was its primary point of stimulation. The only worry was that it was vibrating so strongly on its own, just holding it felt like I was having Parkinson’s.

Poca: “Is that the slowest?!”

It was, but it could also have passed off as a seismograph. This wasn’t a contraption that was premised on rocket science to work, so I knew what needed to be done. I was going to place the vibrating feelers between her legs so that it would stimulate the clit and hopefully we can a good enough orgasm. Simple.

So I worked this methodically. Clothes off? Checked. Legs spread? Checked. Vibrator functional? Checked. Put vibrator on clit? Checked. Get kneed in the head? Did not see that coming.

The vibrator was so ticklish and her reflex reaction to it was so strong that she threw her right knee that connected impeccably to my head, flinging it back. I dropped the vibrator and begun clutching my head in pain, while she continued giggling and shaking herself off from the tickle.

Poca: “HAHAHAHAHA! Damn ticklish lah! HAHAHAHA!!”
Me: [clutching head] “You kneed me in the head..”
Poca: “Damn ticklish!!”
Me: “Damn pain..”

I don’t suppose anyone thought that this would be the derived outcome, especially not Stacy who had been so sure she was that catalytic inductor to bringing our sex lives to a new high, one coupled with the merits of sex toys.

Stacy: “So how was it? How was it?”
Me: “I got fucking kneed in the head. What do you think?”

We need to run a petition to get these toys banned.

And this is Enzo

Dogs are fascinating creatures. Or at least men have made them out to be, because they say dogs are loyal and that is despite the number of ass they sniff and do people actually realize how promiscuous dogs are?

That said, I’ve always been a huge dog lover. I hate Chihuahua’s because if they had shorter legs, they could pass of as a rat, but generally I love dogs. I don’t know why I do because I’ve actually never had a good experience with them.

When I was 7, my neighbour’s dog ran out of the house when we were playing by the road. I was always good at running but my sister shouted out to me.

“Don’t run! The dog will chase you!”

I was 7, my sister was 8 and I trusted in her worldly wisdom. I stopped, she continued running, along with all the other kids. I had to get 4 stitches on the arm 2 hours later. Till this day I still wondered why I actually believed her.

Just over the week, Poca got a new Golden Retriever puppy that she named him, Enzo and he is the coolest puppy ever. He loves licking, nibbling and resting on boobs. He hates to be put in a box – I relate to that metaphorically -, he eats, sleeps and pees consistently and he whines when he doesn’t get attention. He sounds exactly like me already.

I’ve always known that it takes a lot of time and commitment to raise a dog, or if you are living in my house, consent from my dad, because I don’t think I know anyone who detest animals more than my dad. When he first saw Enzo, he was staring at him with so much contempt; I thought my dad perhaps thought Enzo was a bear or a porcupine.

I don’t know much about puppies, but Enzo pees like he is trying to turn my front porch into a lake. Which was why we were worried to have him sleep in my room because pee on my parquet floor is hardly amusing. I also didn’t want him to be left at the porch because my neighbours are Chinese nationals and people eat dogs there like it is french fries.

The amazing thing was that for the entirety that we had him in the room, he never once peed. He chewed on my cable wires a lot but he didn’t pee. He also chewed on my pants and bed sheet, but he didn’t pee, which is a merit by itself.

Maybe he knew the consequences of it. Every time he chewed on our fingers, we would flick his mouth so I think at 3 months old, he knew that we were going to castrate him if he peed in my room. He is one amazing dog who cherishes his penis.

And so my chapter with him begins..

The One About Bobdog

“You have a lot of sex” she said.

It was conversation littered with quick teases and climaxed as I ran my fingers down Poca’s thighs as she made that statement. There was a tacit rule of tease between us. No quick movements, I won’t tear off her pants and she won’t attempt to tickle unless the motive is for me to swerve off the road.

Me: “We should go buy some toys.”

We all know the erotic merits of sex toys. They enhance foreplay, stimulate our voracious struggle for an orgasm, provide a catharsis for perverts and they make better substitutes for a cock – it’s that big and it never goes limp, how are we ever going to compete.

She: “I want a Cheshire cat.”

A Cheshire what? My mind furtively struggled to picture what that was, while I kept my smile to disguise my ignorance. Sex toys had always been a novelty for me and my abecedarian gasp on this was slowly formulating a picture of a dildo, with the tip shaped like a Cheshire cat and striped in colour.

Yes, maybe that’s what it was! A Cheshire Cat shaped dildo and when insert, gave the recipient the widest grin she could hope for. Smile like the Cheshire Cat; now that would have been the marketing slogan.

She: “Oh, no, I want a Bobdog.”

A Bob WHAT? Now surely this was getting too fancy for me to keep abreast. My smile was only going to hide that much ignorance, but I was running out of ideas on what these were. When it comes to sex toys, my experience with it is as much a eunuch would on wearing condoms.

So this Bobdog matter, was it another dildo shaped in a bobdog, because if it was, then unless I am truly vanilla, but dildos are really beginning to resemble those Fez candy dispensers.

Me: “What the fuck is Bobdog.”

Coming clean was the best way out of this. The last thing I needed was to be looking through the stores for a dildo, only to realize it was a blowup doll.

She: “You don’t know what Bobdog is?!”

Her astonishment told it all. Perhaps it was coupled with a tinge of contempt for my ignorance that how could someone like me be such a novice on this. It’s okay for Butterfly not to know Tulips from Roses, but surely sex toys would have been a textbook conversation. It was almost as if her eyes pierced right through me and branded me Vanilla.

Me: “It’s a sex toy?”
She: “It’s a cartoon character! Did you not have a childhood?!”
Me: “I had a childhood and it was called HE-FUCKING-MAN!”

Me: “What the fuck! I thought you were talking about sex toys!”
She: “You said toys!”
Me: “We were talking about sex! How the fuck did you move from sex to Cheshire cat?!”
She: “You said we should go buy some toys! And you said before that you were going to get me a Cheshire cat toy!”
Me: “Sex Toys! Fuck! And here I was trying to figure out what a fucking Cheshire cat and Bobdog was.”

It was almost a sigh of relieve to know that perhaps the dynamic progressions of sex and all its peripheral deviancies have not left me behind. I guess watching porn is still the best kind of news for armchair sex toy shoppers.

She: “Let’s play a game and see how long we can abstain from sex.”
Me: “That is the fucking dumbest game I have ever heard. Why can’t we just compete to see how many hamburgers we can eat. Why the fuck would I want to play a game that keeps me from having sex?!”
She: “Because it enhances the sex because the foreplay is longer!”
Me: “That's what the dildo is for!"

Just another day of my life.

Butterfly Goes To Turf Club

When I was younger, I used to hear my parents tell me about their day at the turf club and it was always littered with words like ‘alcohol’, ‘food’ and ‘gambling’. All that lacked, was some topless pole dancer thrown in and I swear my childhood ambition would be to work there.

Why would anyone not want to be there? After all, the place is testosterone charged, and people travel all the way to Kranji to place a bet and maybe lose a family. I won’t even begin to talk about how fucking far off the place is, because I’m glad that if anyone invades us, Kranji is going to be one of the first territory we lose.

I’ve never been an avid gambler – or at least I try to put some restraint to it – because I am gravely impulsive and I bet on hunches that fail most of the time. But I do know how horse racing is ran and how the payout system works – which is flawed and reeks of match rigging.

I had to literally drag myself out of bed because against the thought of having to drive all the way cross country to that forsaken province of Kranji, I would much rather have herpes. What was worse was that we had a wicked night before so not only was I dehydrated from puking, I was also so tired, you could do an anal probe with a vodka bottle on me and I wouldn't even twitch.

When I got there, I realized that there was pretty much nothing I could help out with at the event, except to block space and potentially throw up on random strangers. So what else is there to do, but to gamble on a couple of races.

Me: “Let’s bet on horse 6.”
DC: “Do you know how to bet?”
Me: “Ya, we pick the horse and we pay the bet.”

DC went off and then returned with a stack of betting slips that had so many boxes to fill, I thought it might be some HDB application form.

DC: “So how do we fill this up?”
Me: “How the fuck do I know? Do I look like I know how to bet?”

He went off again, the came back shortly with another smaller betting slip.

DC: “That was the wrong form. This is the one.”

It was smaller and had a lot less boxes to check, but there was also no option to place bets. DC looked at me, confused and equally disturbed. Then he went off again. 3 minutes later, he came back with a huge grin on his face.

DC: “This is the right one!”

It was another betting slip, even smaller than before with very distinct options on horse, match and bet amount. This was so easy to fill up, I actually believed these were custom made for spastics with brain tumor, because you cannot possibly fuck up on the betting. Unless you are blind.

When the race started I nearly choked because no.6 was actually leading the pack all the way to the 600m mark. Then it fell back to 2nd, then 3rd, then 4th and 3rd again just 200m before the end. I was about to win on my maiden bet. Life cannot get any better.

By the time it had crossed the line, there was a photo finish and no.6 had faded all the way into 5th or 6th, either of which I don’t care because it is a loser and no one gives a shit about mid placing horses.

Me: “Fuck! Let’s bet on no.9 the next race.”

While people spend hours analyzing horses on weight losses and form, I pick them by random selection, sometimes by name. DC went off to watch them parade the horse at the grounds then came back looking sufficiently drenched in revelations.

DC: “Dude, I wanted to bet on any horse if it was called Sea Biscuit, but there wasn’t. But the next horse was called Sea Cucumber and he was looking right into my soul.”
Me: “What number is that?”
DC: “9.”

Was this sheer coincidence? Could this be some divine sign? Was this my Lamborghini calling out to me?

We made our way to the grand stand to watch the race. Bet slip in hand and a fist full of hope that our lives were about to be touched by a horse with a silly name. No.9 wasn’t in the top 4 for a good part of the race, which was okay since race leaders always tend to fall behind half way through the races.

By the 3rd quarter, no.9 was no where to be seen, which was still okay since there was a possibility of the front horse tripping up near the finish line, because shit happens. By the end of the race, we saw No.9 galloping in strong to overtake the last horse to finish 2nd last.

Me: “FUCK YOU AND YOUR SEA CUCUMBER!!”
DC: “I swear it was looking into my soul.”
Me: “Fuck your soul!”

The damn horse cannot run but it is able to stare into souls? I say this one belongs in Hogwarts.

Butterfly Digs Peer Pressure

I’ve always believed that with age comes an abandonment of many teenage entitlements like, sudden erections, pimples, pocket money and submission to peer pressure. I always thought that with age, a degree of resoluteness inures us from submitting to the petty coaxes of our friends.

Apparently, I am wrong – along with many things lately, like guessing the exact number of the human population and phone numbers of random females. Last week, I learnt that if you cannot convince someone to do something, get more people to help in convincing. Remember, teamwork is the source of all successful peer pressuring.

We were at Butter Factory the other week and Yang started bugging DC about a bottle of Krug that DC apparently owes him. I don’t know what that bet was, but DC also owes me a WRX because we had a bet on Transformers 2.

His premise was that Devastator – the combined Constructicons, or if you are really not a fan, the huge robot that was sucking up dirt – was not featured in the film. This was despite the fact that Wikipedia says it is and that in a distinct scene, Megatron actually said, and I quote verbatim,

“Devastator, come here!”

But no, DC chose to ignore all this basing on his principle that Rampage, supposedly being part of Devastator, was fighting Bumble Bee at that time, and hence it was impossible for Devastator to be in the film. Today we discovered that Rampage isn’t part of Devastator, and DC is still not convinced.

Me: “Dude, I went through all that trouble of finding the web for evidence. I deserve at least the steering wheel, or the seat buckle. Or a hug at least.”
DC: “Fuck you!”

Anyway, Yang started bugging him about the bottle of Krug – it’s a champagne for the uninitiated-, and we all started jumping into the fray. It was an alternation between snide remarks and sarcastic banter that was always punctuated with, “but up to you”.

We were playing up the guilt card so much that it would have forced O.J Simpson into confessional murder. We were relentless, sneaking in every chance we had to verbalize our disappointment in him for not honouring an agreement. We just kept going at it with so much vigour, that if my words had to wear dresses, they would be Spartans.

Obviously I was pretty sure that DC was never going to cave because a bottle of Krug is close to $400 and I wasn’t sure if he actually had a bet with Yang or that Yang was just kidding about the whole issue, and DC wasn't someone who would admit losing. I just went on about the bottle because if someone else is paying for expensive champagne, then it sounds like a great idea already. I don’t care, really.

Then 20 minutes later, he snapped.

Me: “You know what we need?”
DC: “Shut up la! Order the bottle la!”

You know the feeling where you are so happy, but shocked at the same time that you cannot find words to express how you feel? That was entirely not the feeling that I was having. I was shocked because I didn’t think that anyone would be foolish enough to cave. And especially not DC.

The whole thing seemed like a TV commercial with the punchline at the end that says, “Peer Pressure: Exploiting stupid people always”, complete with a two thumbs up and a huge grin.

It was almost like a moral education snippet that taught me, persuasion works best in teams and with a lot of bugging. All it took was persistent teasing and edging from Yang, Hao and me, and that bagged us a $340 bottle of champagne. Sometimes I wonder if there’s really a need to work.

I wasn’t entirely keen on the champagne to begin with because I was still bearing the consequence of the previous night’s binge drinking session which ended at 5.30 in the morning and I was up at 9 for work. My stomach was queasy and I hardly had the appetite to digest a decent dinner, the last thing I needed was to be gulping bubbly.

Yang: “Dude, the best way to cure a hangover is to drink more.”

Two glasses of vodka Red Bull on.

Me: “Fuck you. I feel like fuck. My stomach is bloated and I can’t puke. But I can always puke because I’m that good at it. No like for real, if there was an Olympic sport for this, I would be your national hero. You would want to hug me. Not give me that look.”

Then we turned to the champagne that was chilling on the bar top. There sat the labour of less than an hour of taunting, or teasing, of just banking that somehow, humanity hasn’t smarten up fast enough to avoid the woes of peer pressure.

You got to love it.

Butterfly Hates Virus

I’m still here. Still not believing in fairytales and still convinced that while love may be great, it still makes people stupid. There won’t be a guided tour of my foray out of misogamy because I believe the last one left an impact already – and I like it when you gawk while reading.

There are more pressing issues I must address. I call it my civic duty, my educational proliferation and I must say I’ve done quite well in the past, teaching you the finer things in life, like laughing at Whales and idiots.

I have to address the current looming bleakness society is facing. No, not the recession because if you haven’t already noticed, there is no such thing as a recession. It is an urban legend to scare people, like the boogeyman, gremlins and Michael Jackson.

I’m referring to the swine flu or commonly known now as the H1N1, which has the epidemic potential to be the no.2 killer in society, after obesity – which coincidentally should also be punishable by mockery.

It concerns me, not because the situation here is exacerbating exponentially, but it concerns me because people are partying a lot less. And with lesser people at a club, it means less beautiful people to look at and an even lesser chance for guys to score a blowjob at the carparks. Thankfully, for the less discerning, there is still Orchard Towers.

It’s a pitiful sight to see the nightlife dwindle to such a state. And all this, I am convinced, is because people are avoiding crowded places because they think it can be potentially fatal. They cannot be more wrong than this.

When the tsunami hit in 2004 and wiped out like a fraction of the human population, I survived. And I did all this by just sitting home surfing the net. You see, death is all predestined. Sure, a few people caught the virus while out partying, but no one has died. And you know why?

It’s because as cruel a tool as fate is, it knows that clubbing is an honest recreational activity and hence it should not be punishable, unlike stupidity and obesity. Sure, they have to be quarantined and they might be in a lot of pain and discomfort, but optimistically looking at it, it’s really an extended sabbatical.

It really was a tragic scene on Saturday night, especially when there was decent trance music spinning after I had like 8 glass of vodka and tequila in me, to see a significant dip in quantity. And equally tragic when I saw two Whales at the podium looking like they were either trying to dance or they were being shot with a taser gun.

It also pains me that the authorities are taking this quarantine issue so seriously and yet they are leaving other socio problems unchecked like, mail order brides from China, increasing demise of smoking areas and fat people.

They are identifying viral infected clusters and isolating it, when what they really should do is ban Whales at buffets and all economy class flights. I’ve never been abreast with the news so I don’t know what the severity of the virus is right now, but I do know that Michael Jackson didn’t die from it so it can’t be that big a deal.

We live only once – nine if you are Catwoman – so I say we should live it without consequence, without reprimand and without inhibitions. People have died living less and giving more, so what’s holding us back on living larger and taking more?

If there is a bottle of vodka next to you, kiss it. After all, people have been telling me that alcohol is a great disinfectant.

Butterfly Goes For Lady Gaga

I’ve always believed that Sundays were given solely for the purpose of recovering from hangovers or adrenaline tagged activities like channel surfing and having Mac delivery, or if I’m really lucky, maybe I’ll get a blowjob, while do all that.

After all, it is the Sabbath day, and I intend to – and usually do – honour all sabbatical renditions with the right approach, and that is with a lot of sleep and an equally sinful dose of laziness.

I’ve never been an ardent fan of pop music to begin with – yes, occasionally I am guilty of a private karaoke session in the car to Britney Spears – but generally I will not even spend any bandwidth on downloading those songs.

So, when I was given VIP invites to Lady Gaga, I accepted it with as much enthusiasm a polio kid would have for the mass dance on Prom night. I just assumed that it would be a cool event to be at because there were the words, ‘cocktail reception’ printed on it.

When we got there, we saw a huge line already formed up and we immediately had qualms about even making the walk there because it was 6.30pm and there was still a sun very much present, and perspiring on a Sunday from anything other than sex, is just somewhere below, ‘getting defecated on’ in my ‘Things Never To Do List’.

Even while I was waiting at the VIP queue, the people around us were raving about how excited they were and how much they were dying to see the showcase and immediately, Poca and I felt like we were alopecians queuing at a shampoo discount line.

The great thing was that VIP for this event actually meant VIP and there was priority access and a chaperone that escorted us from the reception area to the VIP area. I didn’t understand why there was such a need because it was pretty much a single walkway, but I also understand the need to have contingency for stupidity. If men can't get even wear their boxers right, what’s getting lost in dome?

The lead up to the actual show was horrible, saved only for the fact that there was one segment where they got four ‘lucky’ people to get on stage to compete for a chance to win ‘attractive’ prizes.

I say ‘lucky’ because no one is really lucky when they have to go on stage for these shit. For one, you will almost always get laughed at and people like me are still going to laugh at you after you get down, and really, if you look at it objectively, it’s really a carnival field day of humiliation.

I also said ‘attractive’ because, you are never going to win real prizes at these events. It’s not like you get to win a car or holiday, and you’re like only going to win related products like t-shirts and if you were really awesome and you trashed the competition, you get a free CD. Like, whoopee doo, you saved $18, could have downloaded it for free anyway, and you were decently humiliated. Mum must be proud.

So they had on this one guy and three other girls who looked like they had to sign a parental consent form just to be out past 7pm. What they had to do, was to do a strut and pose, or at least that was what I thought they were supposed to do.

The first guy that went up was the epitome of how I would want my main character in a comic book to be if I was going to write about the gay dork community. He was so incredibly thin, you would worship at his feet if he told you he beat obesity. He was also tall and he had on clothes that I would appreciate if I was ten years younger and didn’t want to hook up with any women for the rest of my life.

He was such an awkward mess that even him walking to the front was a comical sight to begin with. If if I thought that was hilarious, everyone responded to his pose attempt with the only way possible.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

It was a raucous pandemonium of whistles and laughs. He was so bad at posing, he made the Statue of Liberty look like it was doing a full on para para dance. It was hilarious, to the point that I was worried I would rupture an appendix because I actually believed that if they gave spastics a chance to catwalk, this was exactly how it was going to look like.

The second girl was equally entertaining to watch, just that we had no idea what she was trying to do, because she was incorporating so many motions at once, like a hip toss and a butt shake and maybe she was also doing the Macarena at some point. If this was a seminar on multi-tasking, I would have stood up and shouted, “I want to be like her!”.

But, it wasn’t, so I turned to Huixx and Poca.

Me: “That is Parkinson’s disease!”

The other two wasn’t half as funny and the last girl by far was actually the only one amongst them that looked like she didn’t have a psycho motor dysfunction. When it came to the crowd to vote who they thought it should win, we had a hunch on how this was actually going to swing.

Immediately when the MCs pointed to the guy, the crowd erupted and I emphasize, erupted with cheers – the same sort you would hear during the Paralympics. The other three hardly even came anywhere remotely close to what the crowd was rooting the boy for and it puzzled the MCs because this was clearly the worst performer of the lot.

One of the MCs remarked,

MC: “Do you know what this is called?”

Of course we fucking know what this is called. It’s called COMMUNISM, because we were clearly giving someone who was clearly unequal, an equal chance. And we even allowed him win. If this isn’t a Communist product, then nothing Xiao Ping has done, is.

When Lady Gaga came on, it was half as appealing for me. I came partly because I did secretly increased the volume when ‘Poker Face’ came on the radio and also because she was a stripper and I was expecting some serious pole dance shit to come on midway.

She was entertaining, I have to credit her for that and I will admit that she does have good stage presence and pretty awesome vocals – and cleavage, from where I was. Just that, when I have seen four idiots pranced around, watching professionals do it isn’t as engaging.

Now, if anyone has tickets to a Spelling Bee competition for people with lisp, I want VIP tickets for that.

Freedom In Malacca - Pt 3

If there was anything I learnt about from the first night, was that I could - and should – not leave anything to chance if I was going to thoroughly enjoy my trip and salvage a decent story to palaver the ones stuck in Singapore.

There was only one reliable source that yielded the greatest quotient of possibility in turning this around into something that would allow me to start my stories with, “it’s such a waste you didn’t go” and sign off with a “you should have been there”, and that is alcohol.

It was a highly intensified session of binge drinking and liver corruption because we got back from shopping in Malacca town late and we were trying to be at the event at 10.30pm. This gave us about a 1 hour plus window and we started doing a pre mixed bottle that we were going to take with us on the bus.

It started cordially until LB went on to his fourth glass and started yelling at everyone else to drink. I don’t remember much between the toasting of glasses and gulping of vodka, but I do remember we were jumping on each other and in the midst of all the chaos, I got my balls knelt on.

I distinctively remembered this because it was so painful, the flow of oxygen practically cut itself off from me and I was writhing on the ground in agony. It got impacted with such weight that I thought my testicles might have being crushed to a point that I could pee them out as powder.

By the time we got into the bus, we were singing random songs in unison and it was hilarious because we were yelling so loudly and I actually think we were getting the lyrics all wrong at some point. All this while we were licking off a pre mixed vodka bottle was being passed round the bus like the village slut. If only we had the bottle in pink, it could have passed off as Paris Hilton.

When we got there, LB had breached his state of jovial intoxication and was now entering into a fatigue driven demise. While most of us were jumping around, he actually picked out a spot in the middle of nowhere to sleep.

The rest of them got themselves signed up for some Samsung contest, which was judged on who could say ‘Freedom’ the longest in a single breath. I was already drunk and climbing all over their set up in the booth, which comprised mainly of a huge mock up cone designed as a loud hailer.

Totti and Muthu both took a swing at it and at that point of time, I had no idea what they were doing except I knew that they were mumbling into the loud hailer. It looked like it was simple and I thought all we needed, was to say a public confession – hence the presence of a loud speak.

Me: “FUCKING CHEE BYEEEEE!!!!”

The Samsung girl was in total shock. I had no idea why.

She: “Excuse me sir, you are actually suppose to shout, Freedom.”

Oh, so that is what the whole contest is about. And here I was thinking that this was a confession booth and all.

The great thing was that Totti and Muthu actually won a phone each and that there were fireworks this time round – although it lasted for 3 seconds. So if you tried to apply mascara? You missed it. If you tried to check the time? You missed it. If you tied your shoe lace? Yep, you also missed it.

When we got back, we decided to have one last session in the pool, only that I didn’t realize Ken was already high when we got back. He was in a world of his own, twirling his hands into the sky and entirely losing himself to some psychedelic shit that was playing on the mp3 player.

This was all cool until we got out to wash up and Muthu suddenly called us into the room. And there stood Ken, clearly dazed, confused and wearing the funkiest looking shorts I have ever seen.

To begin with, the shorts were of queer colour, but he is entitled to wear them because it would be like wearing his national colours of faggotry proudly. Next, the shorts looked like it was an inverted toga top. It was tight around his ass and overtly loose on the other thigh.

It took me close to a minute just standing there and watching him sashay out entirely oblivious to realize what was happening. He had in his boxers worn the wrong way and somehow, miraculously, he had managed to squeeze the part that was meant for his legs onto his waist.

This is entirely puzzling as much as it was a hilarious sight, because Ken isn’t even the slimmest of person and I will never figure out how he managed to squeeze his waist into that small opening. You have to be THAT wasted to even wear your pants that way and not realize a shit, or you could be a moron. I’ve tried to do it sober and it is almost impossible, so I have no idea how he actually managed to do it while he was high.

It took him until he was just in front of the door to the pool to realize that there was something wrong with his shorts. Then he re-examined himself and shrugged almost as if he had given up trying to figure what was wrong.

By then we were all in stitches and I almost had to chew on the sofa cushion to stop myself from laughing. When he got back, his shorts were back to normal and it was the worst 2 minutes of my life because I was trying so hard not to giggle that I had to pretend that there was something interesting on TV.

Ken: “Can you pass me the Pringles?”

Then a minute later, he had fallen asleep with his hands still stuck inside the Pringles can. So we did what any considerate friend would do, we left him asleep on the sofa and went back to our rooms. Went we got back in bed, Poca started laughing hysterically.

Poca: “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”
Me: “Can you not laugh so loudly.”
Poca: “Are you guys seriously just gonna off all the lights and leave him there?”
Me: “Trust me, with all that shit he’s taken, he is not going to remember what happened.”

The next morning, we woke up to hear some pussy complain reverberating through the living room.

Ken: “I woke up and my hand was in the Pringles and I don’t remember what happened. Aye, why you all just leave me outside ah?”

Well that’s because in life, being stupid means you will get laughed at.

Freedom In Malacca - Pt 2

When we got to the place, it brought back memories of last year. It had almost replicated an identical venue, from the event girls in short skirts to the laborious journey on foot from the drop off point to the actual event ground.

This year, it looked like it tied up with the circus because there was a huge ferris wheel and some spinning ride right in the middle of the venue along with a myriad of fast foods and product sponsor booths. All this needed was a horror house, an elephant ride and midgets selling tickets and we would truly have had a circus.

It was no longer the carnival of meth that I was hoping for, or maybe there was but the blatant use – or abuse - of it publicly was so absent that I wondered if the recession actually increased literacy and people finally understood the ‘no drugs’ signs around.

I know I was well intoxicated because I have quite a bout of acrophobia, and under no circumstances in the presence of sobriety, would I ever volunteer to take a ride on the ferris wheel, let alone stand while it is moving. This is for a fact because the last time I took a cable car, my hands never left the grip on the seats and my legs were shaking so badly, I wouldn’t know if I shat my pants.

The bad thing was that the music was teasing at best, until Ferry Corsten came on and it became a lot more audibly simulating enough for me to break out into spurts of shuffle. And you know that the night is not going well when your ‘friend’ who is a guy, hits on you.

Ken came up to me and in his most gay tone and stance – which is the default, one arm under the armpit and the other arm perpendicular to it with a bent wrist – and said,

Him: “She say she will lend you to me for one night.” *giggles*

I'm not even sterotyping; right down to the giggles, that was how it is.

I took it like how any straight heterosexual men would, with stone cold silence, shock and a lot of fear. I don’t know if he was waiting for an enthusiastic response, but I might as well have been a eunuch in an orgy.

Which fucking part of me looks like I will remotely be interested in having a man suck my dick? Sure, sometimes LB and I bicker and he tells me to suck his dick, but surely Ken was smart enough to know that homo jokes are only funny in gay-land. And to straight men they are only funny, like NEVER.

And as if like there was a private competition between Ken and Anse on who was going to piss off the most heterosexual people in the world, Anse who is a lesbian by hobby – I say so because she claims to have a boyfriend but I can totally understand lesbianism because I too prefer pussy over dicks – decided that she would out do him by feeling up Heather’s ass and Poca’s abs.

Next thing I know, I get a call from Dennis telling me that he cannot get tickets to enter. If I wasn’t so beyond sympathy and comprehension of the matter because of the swirling of vodka and tequila in my blood, I would have felt remotely sorry, but this debacle cracked me up to no end. This is what happened.

Dennis called me in the afternoon informing me that he was going to hitch a ride up with another 2 guys. His plan was to leave Singapore at 8 and arrive in Malacca before 12, which allowed ample time to party. This was however, a utopian mirage that I knew was never going to materialize because of certain factors.

1. Some years ago, LB, Ash, RoundEyes and I had a similar plan to drive up to KL for a night of madness. That was when I realized that if you leave Singapore at 8, you are fucked because man invented a horrible plague known as traffic. You will be stuck. Period.

2. Transport was a huge issue. There was no way he could bunk in with us to travel back to Singapore.

3. The event was only till 2am and I had no idea on what time the ticketing counter ran till or if there was even available tickets to be purchased at the door.

He’s responses to every of my concern all started with, “Fuck it” and was punctuated with “I don’t care already”.

Me: “How are you going to go back?”
Him: “Get a bus from the reception.”
Me: “The reception? Our resort is in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a bus station here.”
Him: “Fuck it. I will just go get a cab to drive me back. I know this kind of thing have to spend a bomb. I don’t care already.”

It was characteristically him, not so much the impulse, but he was always doing things that we could never find a practical stem in. So when he turned up at the event and was denied entry because the ticket sales were closed, it amused me to no end.

Apparently, one of his friends turned up late and they ended up leaving Singapore at 10pm and reached the event at after 1am and was denied entry, despite the fact that he tried to bribe them. He was pissed because not only did he miss the event, his friend who was late had gotten himself high and was bitching incessantly about not being able to go in.

And that wasn’t even the most ridiculous part of the whole debacle.

We dropped him off at one of his friend’s place along with LB, which he later told us was a chemical haven because people were kicking down doors and drawing lines on dishes and he was so scared he hardly slept.

The next day, Dennis took a cab back to Malacca town and from there boarded a bus bound for Singapore. When I heard this, I only had one relax response.

“What the fuck?!”

He had travelled almost 4 hours to Malacca, missed the first night of the event, crashed over at a friend’s place, and now he was heading back to, wait.. brace yourself..

Catch a movie, because he had already bought tickets for it.

Like WHAT?! Why would anyone even travel up all that way, missed the first night and not want to go for the second night? Why would anyone after going through all that misadventure, not want to maximize his stay? Did movie tickets inflate to $200 a stub while I was away? One week on, and sober as I type this, I still cannot digest this in any logical light

His response to that?

“It was an experience of a lifetime” – complete with his two thumbs up and a smile.

The worst thing about the event was that there was no alcohol being sold at the premise. Let me stress. We are at an outdoor party and there is NO alcohol. This is as ridiculous as not selling condoms at a sex shop.

And when you have people like me who have been on alcohol for the whole day and in need of maintaining that state of inebriation for better functionality, you get a displeased person, much like not giving a Catholic priest a little boy to work with.

Collectively, this becomes a disaster because anything that does not have alcohol, sucks. This is a simple premise upon which society has come to function and it is a base concept really, because alcohol is the solution – and creation – to all life’s problem.

If I thought the finale was going to salvage the night, then I was grossly optimistic. Last year, there were insane pyrotechnics that lit the sky enough to make National Day look like some WWE entrance. This year, it started with huge sparkles lighting up the sides of Ferry Corsten’s console. I charged forward when I saw this.

Me: “The fireworks are starting! The fireworks are starting.”

A minute later, and still no fireworks or any more sparkles.

They: “That is it?”
Me: “No la, the fireworks will be at the end.”

2 minutes later, Ferry Corsten is off the stage, the music has stopped and people are walking out. No fireworks.

Me: “Yep, I think that was it.”

Freedom in Malacca - Pt 1

There are calendar dates in life that we circle because of the magnitude of significant importance it has in impacting our lives, like graduation, weddings and rave parties. If you actually do know how to prioritize, then you’ll know that the prospect of attending a rave is worth a 4 hour bus ride.

The last time we organized a group trip out of Singapore to party, Tiesto – you should bow in reverence – was spinning over a two day event at Port Dickson and that event was aptly called Freedom. And rightfully so because it was a catharsis of sorts and a credible excuse to escape the righteous consequences of the law.

It was the right composition of what a rave should be. We are talking mind blowing laser lightings, goose bumping fireworks, bass thumping music and chemical tripping patrons in sunglasses at a night event. There were so many of them there in sunglasses, all they needed was sun block to convince me this was in actually a mass sun-tanning gathering.

This year, in the absence of a commercial Trance deity, I was reluctant to commit to trip up to Malacca to shuffle to acts that were already playing at Zouk couple weeks prior. I’m glad I did, because although the event periodically contributed to a yawn or ten to me, there were peripheral incidents that left me in stitches.

It was a 10 person trip that finally went through on the 11th hour through calculated planning from Muthu. I was basically travelling up with 8 people who were my closest friends and 2 second degree friends whom would eventually become the focal subject of my reiteration of the trip.

Contrary to what you might perceive from my archival chronicles of misdemeanor and probable anger management enlistee, I am actually very casual and easy going – unless of course you are a Whale, then I have every right to hate you, until you pay me to stop -, so when I actually write about you, then you’ll know that you either did something right or very wrong.

To make this easy for me, I will call them Anse and Ken, because that is their name and I have no intentions to mask reality for now, or protect identities for people I will not be hanging out with anyway.

When we started the trip up, I actually thought they were pretty entertaining because they were dancing to my silly songs while LB, Tigerlily, Faith and Totti surrendered to sleep. Sure, I thought Ken was effeminate to some degree and Anse was plump, but they looked sporting enough for me to overlook the short-comings.

Right after we got pass customs, we decided to buy liquor so the driver took us to the duty free zone and we got 2 bottles of vodka and a bottle of tequila and it came up to about RM300, which is what you would expect to pay for duty free goods.

When we got out, we were informed by the driver that we actually had to declare taxes for the alcohol. We thought this was the most ridiculous thing we heard, other than someone escaping prison through the toilet.

There was absolutely no logic in having to pay taxes because we were buying duty free goods, so why the fuck should we be taxed for something that is duty free? This was like having to pay for masturbating.

Me: “How much is the tax?”
Lady: “Let me calculate.”

At this point of time, we wondered if this was just another grand scheme to con us or the hand of corruption at work.

Lady: “RM330”

If I was shocked before at having to pay taxes, I nearly went into seizure when I heard the taxable amount. I was that close to slicing of my penis and use it as barter.

This was turning into a farcical parade with a grand theme of absurdity. We had to pay more for taxes for start and it made it almost as good as having to buy it off the supermarket. I might not be right all the time, but I am never wrong, so correct me when I asked,

“Which part of duty free actually means taxable?!”

I immediately told Muthu that we were going to try to talk our way into a refund, but obviously we didn’t know that the duty free zone was governed by a peculiar set of rules and principle. The primary one being,

‘We do not accept refunds, but we do take bribes’

This was great because all we paid was RM50 for some guy to smuggle the bottles out for us on a scooter. And I don’t know if it was integrity or stupidity, but this guy could have effectively ran away with our bottles and there was nothing we could do with it. I’ll just label that as stupidity, because I don’t know if I should cheer for the ailing integrity of humanity or for the blatant lack of economic sense.

When we finally got to the villa, Ken had lost his mock disposition of masculinity and collapse back onto the mocking hands of homosexuality. I only knew he was homosexual when I got back to the villa and everyone had ended a discussion about his sexual orientation, which apparently ended from a confession of sorts on his end.

By 7pm, we were already knocking back shots. I sorted myself two quick shots of tequila before we left to buy food and by the time we were done with or sodium filled cup noodle meals, there was enough alcohol in Ken to be bent over the bed seductively swinging his head and allowing Muthu to mock butt fuck him.

By 8pm, we were doing choreographed jumps into the water and having vodkas by the poolside. By 9.30pm, I was awfully pruned, my back was hurting from the repetitive flips into the pool but still sober enough to digest the hilarity of a failed attempt at sex in the bathroom.

It was a routine we were familiar with; a quick session under the shower running a gamut of positions, trying not to slip and fighting for breath under a stream of water running down my face. Then Poca took me by the hand to the basin and she propped herself up on it.

Before I was even close enough to reposition myself, the whole basin cracked and broke off the wall. I responded in the only way a human possibly could,

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
Poca: “What the fuck!”

It was funny because we didn’t know if we should fix it or to pretend nothing happened because it was dangling and we were plagued with worry the next person to put pressure on it while brushing their teeth was going to entirely pull the whole basin off the way.

So we decided to be mature about it and deny everything.

The Rave…

Butterfly Goes For Fuel

I’ve never been big on dance events especially not when Above & Beyond is spinning at Zouk and I have to turn up at what was billed as some high octane dance party with huge hype and a seemingly brittle task to deliver the goods.

From the go, the event looked like it was going to collapse from the sheer number of VIPs, which made the normal entry look almost exclusive. The great thing was that the crowd that had formed the massive line at the VIP registration was an impressive collage of beautiful faces.

The big hype over the event that teased he media’s interest was largely the presence of a celebrity DJ, Samantha Ronson. Samantha who you ask? That makes two of us.

P: “Is Samantha Ronson playing yet?”
Me: “Who is that?”
P: “Which stone did you crawl out from? She’s like Lindsay Lohan’s girlfriend!”
Me: [pause for thought] “Nope.. that did not give me the slightest erection. I do not give a fuck who that is.”

I walked over to take a peek at the queue, which looked like it was going stretch all the way into the Singapore Flyer. I was never going to be a part of something that looks like an audition queue for Singapore Idol, so I did what every spoilt Singaporean would do, demand.

Me: “Please tell me I don’t have to queue up like the rest of them.”
C: “Of cos not. How many of you? Do you have a table?”
Me: “Please tell you arranged a table for us…”

And that was just the start of her night with me nagging about everything from the poor service to the badly run bars to the lack of proper service for the VVIPs. If I was a decent human being, I might have felt bad, but consuming alcohol generally equates to throwing civility and considerations out the window.

When we got in, the place was starting to fill up. We found a table in the VVIP area and conveniently sat down. Then 10 minutes later, some girl came along and placed a ‘Reserved’ tag on the table. One of the guys came up to tell me that we were being asked to leave and I thought that was the single most ridiculous request ever.

I had every right to be. I was still feeling lethargic after a long morning, I was missing out on some serious Trance shit at Zouk and I was waiting so long for our drinks, I thought I would only get a sip right before the Apocalypse.

Me: “Excuse me, but my friend here said you want us to leave?”
She: “The table is reserved for someone else, so sorry about it.”
Me: “Then where is my table?”
She: “In the VIP area over at the other room.”
Me: “Is my table still there? Because if we have to walk over there and not get my table, I will be very very pissed. And I’m pissed as it is right now..”’

Just as I’m doing my best to fly the demanding / obnoxious Singaporean flag, C walked by and got another earful from me. It came to a point where she had to – and I quote verbatim -, instruct the hostesses to,

“DROP EVERYTHINGYOU ARE DOING AND GET HIM THE BOTTLES… NOW NOW!”

Reznor and I have known C for years now and she knew fairly well that if I started to audibly manifest my irritation, then there was a concrete validation behind it and quite simply, I don’t think there was anyone in that stretch of the VVIP area that was more important than the whole group of us. I was so pissed, I would have stabbed even Elmo if he appeared infront of me.

Whatever I was doing from sulking to the hostesses and organizers worked like a charm, because suddenly they started facilitating the services towards us and the table filled with so much Russian Standard vodka and Red Bull that I found it almost impossible to stay pissed. I was so excited at the cornucopian fest that I would have belted a duet with Julie Andrews and auctioned my kidney off.

The rest of the night actually turned out pretty decent because my time management chart read something like,

Drinking – 80%
Peeing – 3%
Smoking – 12%
Debating internally between sex or hugging the toilet bowl to sleep – 5%

I also realized that not many people actually give a shit about the rest of the DJ lineups, just as long as they are here for one particular person. Some weird Caucasian chick with a funky blonde spiked hair started a conversation with me at the smoking room.

She: “So you here for Samantha Ronson?”
Me: “I’m here for Tiesto.”
She: “Oh, is he spinning in the next room?”

Of course, I knew that the night was never going to let me off that easily. Not without a little drama or injury. Maybe both.

I don’t know whether it was the alcohol or the surge of taurine and caffeine, but the guys went crazy, chasing each other around spraying Red Bull at one another. And there I was, innocently boundaried from the madness by a conversation with a friend, and next thing I know, I am clutching my eyes in pain.

I had Red Bull directly splashed into my eyes and all I could think of was, ‘first it was semen, now Red Bull’. I don’t know what I’m going to have that is going to hit my eye next, but it better not be a dolphin or a Volkswagon, because my right eye looks like it is a magnet for disaster.

There I was, clutching my eye, trying to rinse it with water and I still actually managed to piss off Poca from this.

Poca: “The girls were all over you!!”
Me: “Com’on, there were like only one of them.”
Poca: “There were like 5 and I hate them touching you!”
Me: “Babe, they are lesbians.”
Poca: “Lesbians also can have threesome with a guy what?!”

I realized then, that when women are unhappy with you. It doesn’t matter even if you have Red Bull in the eye or injured, because everything you say, is still wrong.

Playing Hosts - Pt 2

Following their club antics the previous night, we all became wary of their appetite for alcohol and parties. It was an anthem across the office and narrating what happened at the clubs became synonymous with words like ‘monkeys’, ‘crazy’ and a whole string of expletives that will make Tourette’s sound like a sneeze.

Yes, I must admit that there were pockets of their misdemeanor that tickled me, like climbing the tree outside Zouk but that was because I was watching it from a distance and that gave me impunity from any consequence solely by disassociation. And let’s face it, that tree has been scaled by many white men before them.

When we decided to bring them to House the next night, we already had a systematic plan to mitigate the misbehaving. We would separate them in two cars so that there was less of a chance of them feeding off the madness from each other.

The great thing about House was that there was a vodka promo that kept them busy for awhile, the downside was that they got restless really fast after that and the women weren’t as friendly without alcohol in them.

We left shortly after the bottle dried up and we decided that a place without the frenzy of bass and neon lights might be the best idea, so we took them to China One which still had a decent dance crowd to tickle their dancing shoes a little.

A round of drinks and another bottle later, they ran off into the crowd. Ten minutes later, we heard someone shouting from the dance floor, and then turned to see a man standing on the tables, surrounded by bouncers.

Me: “I think it has started.”

Then half an hour later, one of them came back to the table.

Me: “Why aren’t you partying?”
Him: “Those guys are crazy. They stuck their hands up some girl’s skirt. I’m not going to stand around when shit comes down on them. I’m not going to spend my night at the (police) station.”

I was speechless. I was just gawking, trying to digest every bit of the story and calculating the infinite scenarios from the consequence of letting them introduce such lewd tactics and liberal introductions to a straightjacket society, still embracing the yawns of Asian conservatism, such as Singapore.

When I finally comprehended the severity of the situation and possible carnival explosion leading to a brush with the law, I swear vultures would have circled me because I froze for what seemed like two Christmases.

Then they came back to the table, looking a lot more subdued. I quickly attributed this to the stern warning the securities must have issued. Then I stood corrected and learnt that people like them don’t give a shit about being thrown out of a club. The only thing that upsets them, is not having pussy.

It’s not hard to see why since they were hardly the quixotic gentlemen nor would I consider lifting skirts of strangers the most effective way to get someone into bed with you. If it did, then the world no longer needs chivalry, or pick up lines and perversion is the new black.

It came to a point that it became frustrating for them because they were superstars by their own rights and rejection was something they weren’t familiar with. So what did one of them do when a girl snubbed his attempt to initiate a conversation?

Hands up if you said, “Throw ice at her”, because you are a star just like them!

I watched in panoramic trepidation as the ice made almost like a freeze frame trajectory straight for the girl. And then watched as she shouted in retaliation to being hit and my heart missed a beat when her concerned male friends tended to her.

We were on the edge of a bar fight, prompted by ignorance and fuelled by a fast fleeting ego. I was already close to ten glasses and surrendered my ninja like prowess to hide or run on the fourth, but inebriated enough to shit my pants if they started throwing bottles and glasses over.

You cannot imagine how I had to ruminate the thought of ever taking them out again because they were slated to party at Butter Factory the next day and I might be known as, ‘that guy that brought the men that set Butter Factory on fire’.

So prior to their entry to Butter, I had to sit them down and run through a list of behavioral norms and acceptable introductory standards, like handshakes instead of boob grabbing.

Me: “Guys, we’ve all had a long day. Let’s keep this clean and fun. We don’t want to remember the night in a holding cell.”

They looked at me and I to them, trying to find that glint of acknowledgement and quietly sniggering at the irony of this. Who would have thought I was going to be preaching about alcohol moderation and behaving in clubs.

They: “Okay, whatever. LET’S GET SOME PUSSY!!!!!!”

Playing Host - Pt 1

We all know that alcohol is the paradoxically the greatest social adhesive and primary culprit for social unrest – unless you consider shotgun marriages. It is also used to explain many things like bringing strangers together, lying on the pavements outside clubs, accidental upskirts, sex with animals, UFOs and bar fights.

I know alcohol is a volatile agent that actually causes schizophrenia because I am equally guilty of many escapades that I would normally never do. I’ve seen men turn into complete wildcards and women into closet showgirls, so much so that they only needed a wrap themselves in aluminum foil to qualify as a Transformer.

Very rarely am I sober and tasked to babysit the inebriated ones. Very rarely do I doubt the merits of alcohol and believe that an intemperate flirt with it is a bad idea. Very rarely am I struck with panic pangs that my life would end in a bar fight. And very rarely am I not the one misbehaving.

Over the week, we had to host the riders who were in town for the Red Bull X-Fighters exhibition tour. This is generally a good thing because it is an added reason to party, so whilst everyone else complained about an encroachment into private spaces and time, I secretly rejoiced.

That was until I met them at Zouk, and realized that this was going to be the worse night of my life.

For one, being Europeans and celebrities in their own rights, meant that the tourist mentality of superiority and appetite for madness was on a magnitude beyond the social bindings of Asian norms and etiquette. And whatever handful they were to begin with, the introduction of alcohol into them, made them the single most implosive group I’ve partied with.

After we left Velvet for Zouk’s members area, they were almost impossible to contain. The flurry of bass thumping and Asians in mini-skirts exacerbated the situation gravely. They started hitting on every girl – and I emphasize, EVERY – that they saw on the way .

And this wasn’t even just about making conversations and introductions. They were practically groping everything that was in a skirt. I was convinced that they would have hit one Scottish men in kilts so long as they had enough drinks.

What made matters worse was that the members area was packed with people and it was hard enough to walk, let along attempt to usher four testosterone charged men to our table. Apparently being crowded just meant that they now had more women to grope and hit on. They went crazy, like R Kelly at a kindergarten.

Next thing I know, one of them was throwing ice onto the dance floor another trying to have his hands up every girl’s skirt. One of them went round asking every girl if she was shaven and the last one was making out with a random chick whom I realized was ladyboy.

It got so bad, we had to cut short out stint there because if they stayed there any longer, at least one of them was going to be spending his night in the police station. It was really a matter of putting a sheath to their misdemeanor and there was only one place in Singapore that could swallow their antics like a porn starlet to cum; Orchard Towers.

Along the way we started making fun of Morgan because he kept refusing to believe that the girl he was making out with used to have a penis.

Morgan: “Hey, I put my hand under her skirt and there were no balls. There was a pussy so she is a girl.”
Nick: “That’s because she chopped off her dick!”
Morgan: “Hey, if you put a 250cc on a 150cc. Is it a 150 or a 250? I say it is a 250.”
Me: “If you put a Honda sticker on a Mitsubishi. It is STILL a Mitsubishi.”

If I thought the short escapades at members was a torrid test of patience and teasing for disaster to strike, then I had no idea what I was in for on the car ride to Orchard Towers.

I didn’t realize that.

1. Seat belts are meant to be ignored.
2. It is perfectly ok to stick your body out the window.
3. The space between the driver and front passenger was meant for people to squeeze through.

When we got there it was like watching a re-enactment of what unfolded in Zouk. They hadn’t lost their momentum in their onslaught to get us all killed in a bar fight. One of them was still going round asking the girls if they were clean shaven, another had his hands down the panties of so many girls of different nationality, that his fingers would have smelt like the SEA games.

One of them eventually pissed a ladyboy off –I have no idea what he said, but I know she was pissed because she was yelling across the escalators outside the club. I knew she was pissed because she was yelling,

She: “Your mother sleep with other men. You are a slut.”

This was in your best pseudo high pitched Thai accent. And Nick snapped. From there he begun to rap and dance and it tickled me to no end because all he was saying was just,

“You got no vagina down there!!”

It was hilarious because he was dancing in the middle of the escalator and yelling his crude rap at a ladyboy. She of course knew that it was about her so she did what she did best, and that was looking ugly while staring at him.

I will give it to him because it was the single most hilarious thing I saw all night and I couldn’t stop laughing. The best part was that the other ladyboys who had no idea what he was singing, started dancing to his rap when everything about his rap was mocking them.

Picture this. There were two of them gyrating to the beat of a song with rap lyrics that said.

“You got no vagina!!”

Butterfly Meets Ninjas

Many people think that ninjas are myths, like werewolves, unicorns, and the swine flu virus. You think they only exist in cheesy Hollywood B-flicks or Japanese anime. Maybe sometimes you hear about them on the History channel or you watch men try to replicate their feat on Ninja Warrior.

But I can assure you that those are as fiction as it gets, because those aren’t even close to the truth about ninjas. You might not know this because ninjas are a highly trained and equally secretive breed, but they actually live amongst us.

Yes sure, television propagates nonsense about how ninja’s have superhuman agility and poor fashion sense but they undermine the very element that makes a ninja special. And that is the ability of stealth. If you don’t already know this, then let me reveal to you the greatest urban secret.

NEA officers are actually ninjas. They have to be, because they appear out of nowhere, when you least expect.

I have to hand it to them. As I am typing this, I am reeling a fine for illegally disposing of a cigarette butt. And this was at a dimly lit carpark and I have no idea where they were hiding, but they also obviously have super night vision and an incredibly keen eyesight for tracking offenders. Sometimes I wonder why no one employed these men to track Mas Selamat, because if he ever threw a cigarette butt on the ground, they would have found him; even if it was in the Himalayans.

After I got into my car, one of them came up to tap my window. Thinking he was in need of a parking coupon, I graciously opened my door.

Him: “Sir, I’m from NEA. You just threw your cigarette butt on the floor.”

He was polite and smiling, but this is the one time I hate people to smile at me. People, despite what they teach you about being altruistic or helping people in need, don’t listen to any bit of that fuck crap, because if I had driven off, there was nothing they could have done.

I immediately stuck my head out the door,

Me: “Wah, where were you hiding.”

He ignored me because I believe it is his job to be rude after the first sentence. Then some other guy came along.

Guy2: “Sir, don’t worry this time it is just a fine, the second time you will be charged in court..”
Me: “Okay. But seriously, where were you guys hiding.”

I wasn’t trying to be a smartass, but I was genuinely curious because there was NO ONE in the immediate vicinity of my car.

Guy2: “We are around.”

I don’t know if that was his speech on omniscience but it sucked.

Of course, after I got fined, I stuck around because I wanted to watch them in action. And I was just being sadistic about it because I actually found myself rooting for them when they caught other people throwing their cigs on the ground – 3 to be exact.

And it’s amazing how fast they move, how they conceal themselves amongst the cars and how they can spot offenders from such a distance. The best part is that you’ll never ever see them coming and they’ll engage you with surprise and leave you with a pinch.

Normal human beings? I don’t think so. Ninjas? Most definitely.

The One About My Red Eye

Porn is a foil for reality and not many people realize this. It’s a play on fantasy and subjugates you into believing that what you see is worth practicing or subscribing religiously to.

It feeds you with novelties beyond your regular partake of vanilla sex, largely on boggling positions and stances that look like it was made for gymnasts but tempting enough for you to surrender inhibitions and try it even if you have a lack of dexterity.

The worse of it, is the Bukkake. It may look like it’s empowering to be giving your partner a free facial, but I assure you, this is as hazardous as employing Michael Jackson as your babysitter.

I learnt this the hard way sometime back because porn makes you think that having cum on your face is a delightfully enjoyable process. Well it had to be because all the porn starlets are always grinning even when they have semen dripping down their fake lashes. Believe me, it takes a lot of acting talent to smile with all that shit on the face.

They truly deserve Oscars, especially the ones that are being poked by 2 inches of meat and are moaning as if they are straddling a horse.

Sometime ago I learnt that seamen in the eyes, is not funny.

There she was pulling me off because fatigue gets the best of us and sometimes lying back and enjoying the moment is a privilege people tend to forget is a given right in the bedroom etiquettes. Generally, the practice would be a tap to let her know when I’m blowing my load, so that a quick cap with the mouth – or tissue if you wish to deny your partner of protein – ensures that there won’t be a need for immediate housekeeping of the bed sheets.

Sometimes, even a simple drill as such can go wrong because of complacency and blatant disregards for cues. And this one went wrong.

As I tapped her, I laid my head back in trust that she would play the part of the load catcher. She had been a stereo of moans, good enough to actually have a recording contract if there was a commercial demand for it. I just didn’t know that I would end up contributing to the noise.

All I knew was that she had gone into a low soothing moan and I thought this was because she was going to mouth cap me. And next thing I know, I saw a trajectory of squirt like it was an air raid and I immediately joined in for the orchestra.

Me: “AAARRRRGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

I started screaming and I really mean screaming because I was clutching my eye and rolling off the bed. For a moment she stopped, thinking that was my orgasmic vocal amplification, because I was panting and growling from the pain.

She: “Are you okay.”
Me: “NO!! I HAVE SEMEN IN MY EYE!!”
She: “Are you sure?”

I immediately pulled my hand off my eye and I believed the cheeks must have been glistening with enough cum because she went from dumbfounded to laughing. I was not amused. For one, it hurt. Not that it was unbearable, but there was a certain degree of dis-comfortness and I had to stagger to the washroom to run my eye under the tap.

And that was when I found new respect for porn stars.

The Club Of The Beautiful

Sometimes I’m guilty of not being a patriot. It’s not that I don’t love my country, but I’ve never really pitched about Singapore with the same fervor and glee that I engage my conversations about the nightlife of other countries.

I’ve preached endlessly on the marvels of a Singaporean passport in Bangkok and how it accelerates getting someone naked into your bed and how Taiwan is flooded with pretty faces, which makes clubbing an absolute distraction. And all I would have said about Singapore is that the water is safe for consumption and you need to worry about getting shot in the streets.

I should and I will compile a comprehensive guide to partying in the sunny – and I mean bloody humid – island we call home. For now, I will also admit that we do actually have quite an impressive stable of beautiful people and you actually only need to be at one place to enjoy the view; Butter Factory.

I was just exclaiming how impressed I was at the general caliber of party goers there are in Butter Factory couple weeks back and it came to a point where I was asked to put it in quantifiable terms, so I said,

Me: “Just imagine Room 18 in Taiwan, but one head shorter.”

Now, if you’ve been to the clubs in Taiwan, you’ll know how insanely good looking the girls are over there. And by that I don’t mean your normal pockets of gorgeous people cleverly isolated at the prime visibility areas, but actual sizeable groups of beautiful people at every turn of the eye.

I swear, when I was there the last time round with LB, I was in such awe, I was drinking so much less because I was gawking half the time. The only problem with Room 18 – crème de la crème of Taiwan -, was that the girls were largely models and on heels and I could have auditioned for the role of a hobbit.

The great thing about Butter, or this being Singapore, is that with pretty faces and killer cleavages – hardly to be honest – comes a lack of height. I secretly rejoice that women here aren’t generally tall.

We’re at the all the clubs a lot because of the nature of our work, so my word is credible enough. There really isn’t another place in Singapore at the moment that houses that many good looking people, while serving alcohol, not even the perennial big wig that is Zouk.

Yes, I know the queues are insanely long and I’ve heard stories of 1 hour queues even, but those are for the un-privileged in a capitalist world. And it’s good because Whales do not have that much of an endurance to stand that long without rupturing a vein at the ankle, and so they won’t turn up there.

Apparently being a reader of mine also has its perks because I got two of you in and all they said was, “Butterfly” and they offered to buy me a drink. Okay, maybe I was swayed largely by the prospects of alcohol, but that’s what you call quid pro quo.

Reznor no longer shares this perception as me because his penis is being chained for now, but generally every other of my friend who has been there concurs to this. There was one night I was so impressed with the crowd, I told them.

Me: “This is good. There are at least 8 people in the immediate vicinity that I would want to date and marry.”

Everyone thought this was funny, except the girl that was with me.

She: “Then you don’t need me tonight.”
Me: “How about a hand job first?”

She was not amused. Women are hard to please these days.