Butterfly goes Cleopatra

If you’ve never heard or been into Cleopatra KTV, it’s either because you are below 40 or you don’t have a disposable income of 10k a day.

If there was a dumber way to waste money than paying school fees, it has to be found here. This is the enclave of society’s upper echelon of wealth disparity with VERY little brains. It’s the niche market for money grubbing PRC women (who will eventually end up in body bags on TNP front page).

As soon as I get there, I realize I am the youngest male in the place and possibly the youngest ever to step in. Even the décor is older than me. The place is a cross between a chill out lounge splashed with cheesy A-go-go influence and a disco era relic conservation project.

Here’s what people there do.

1. Drink.

Cos this is life’s greatest pleasure and purpose. We all need to die one day, might as well be from liver failure or from a bar fight.

2. ‘Hang Flowers’

What basically happens in this shit-hole is a singer will come on stage to massacre a song. The dumb but rich patrons will cheer at anything in a dress, even one particular girl who had such huge nostrils, she only needed more pointed ears to qualify as a pig. Support is commodified into three items.

Flower - $50
Sash- $100 to $1,000
Tiara - $1,000 to $30,000

Dumb and drunk old men will purchase these items for the singer as a significant symbol to highlight that with age, comes stupidity. And with wealth, comes greater stupidity.

For every $500 trophy a girl is handed, whistles go off and you think you’re standing in the middle of a Bangkok traffic congestion police facilitation.

For every $1000, confetti rains from the ceiling and you have a new Miss Universe being crowned.

The only problem is…

These girls ain’t very pretty. Some of them would have been stoned if I was Prime Minister. There were about 4 of them who were pretty, had decent figures, just that the whole 70’s evening gown get up didn’t sit too well with me.

Whistles go off and a staff presents this singer with a tiara. I immediately turn to TheGodfather.

Me: “Who the fuck would pay $1000 for this pig? Bacons don’t cost that much..”

TheGodfather points to his friend, BaldingEagle.

TheGodfather: “Wait till you see him drunk..”

Soon as she ends and before the next girl even sings two lines, red and white confettis start bursting from the ceiling. I almost took out my Singapore flag to wave. Then I see the Tiara slotted on the crown of her head. I turn to the girl seated with me.

Me: “How much is that?”
Girl214: “$10,000”
Me: “$10,000?! FOR LOOKING LIKE THAT?!”

She thought I was being rude, but I knew the person who bought that HAD to be blind. I don’t blame him. Myopia is the number one family and financial wrecker in this place. From where he was seated, he would have paid for a Whale.

This 10k girl wasn’t the least bit attractive, save for her huge tits and porcelain complexion. If I had 10k to blow on PRCs, it’ll have the words ‘orgy’, ‘suite’, ‘more orgy’ and ‘a pet panda’.

The thing with this alopecic population is that the economics of marginal returns is lost in them. I’d be perfectly honest with you. If I paid $10k for anything with tits, I’d expect really great sex from it. Lots of it. If you’re gonna be paying anything in that region, you’d have to expect her going down on you as soon as your package wakes up and before it sleeps.

Yet even for great sex, $10k is a Devil’s price tag. The marginal returns for great sex should be somewhere along the lines of Free. So, what do you call men who pay thousands for the girl to sit and chat with them all night?

Gays.

By the time it came to the first interlude, TheGodfather and his motley crew had spent enough
to buy a Yamaha R1 and the table diagonally infront of me was well into Honda Jazz region.

3. Talk

The female manager of the girls starts chatting me up. Naturally, since I’m the ONLY who isn’t gay, stupid and still functionally capable of lust. Whether she was flirting with me with a down blouse preview or if it was perchance to innocence and carelessness for that right nipple to pop up in sight, is up for debate.

She tells me she’s 27, but girls lie about their age, just as men lie about everlasting love. Barely 5 minutes into our conversation, she’s asking me for my number on a pedomorphic excuse that started from

“If here fun I can call you to come..”. To, “maybe we can go party together next time.”

1.30am: BaldingEagle is drunk and randomly buying $500 sashes for the singers.
1.45am: I ask one of the girls if her gown is a family heirloom. She didn’t seem too keen to answer me.
2.00am: UncleMustacho orders food. Nothing beats eating duck while watching people with two left feet dance the Cha-Cha.
2.12am: Girl206 does a hip gyrate. This makes Beyonce frown over in New York.
2.16am: Too bored with the lack of any semblance of debauchery, I start spouting rubbish to the lady manager.

Me: “For that amount of money being spent, it’s surprising I haven’t seen tits yet.”