The Teaser

Welcome to Sin City, as LB loves to put it.

Not a plane delay, thunderous down pour that trickled to a drizzle nor the attempted cock blocking of one girl, could preclude the eventual outcome of the night. The concoction was simple. One part determination and resolute cause. One part Alcohol. One part Phuket culture.

Their names were Lek and Lu. We cavorted under the sheets. We were all awkward. And we just had a night we are going to have alot of problems topping.

"Welcome to Sin City", LB said. "What can possibly go wrong?"

Butterfly is a Horrible Person

There are several events in life that are functionally equipped to measure the maturity of a man and his discretion to moderate the carnal pleasantries that are presented to him. Wine and cheese parties are one such test. No one gets drunk at these parties, except me.

I’m never one to salute the abnegation of alcohol, but I do believe in drinking responsibly. The only problem is, when it comes to wine parties, I’m like Michael Jackson in a kindergarten. I can keep up appearances, but I cannot keep my hands off them (the wine, that is).

Call it a chronic regression and submission to the Singaporean syndrome – Every thing free must be exploited.

The other problem with these (as Huixx calls them) chi chi wine and cheese parties that have Tatler plastered all over it, is that I already had a panoramic prognosis on the evening,

1. I will have the youngest (and probably most used,) dick in the room.
2. No lady in the room will know who Gwen Stefani is.

Yet, on the contrary, I was happy to be wrong about my early perception of the event, although I’d have expected the napkins to be printed with some ‘Don’t Drink and Drive’ propaganda, given that this IS a drinking event. Well, I guess people are really more responsible with age, which is why there isn’t any cleavage and everyone wears a bra.

I was wrong because there were actually ‘young’ ladies at the place. Not the nubile nymphs you’d drop your pants for, but young enough for me to want to see them naked. I can’t really fill a checklist for complains, not when there were at least 30 different labels of wine to tease my tongue and a buffet that spared no expenses.

By 9.30pm, I was already 6 glasses above the legal limit to drive back. This might not seem impressive, but let me break it down for your comprehension. During wine appreciation, a full serving is an implausible occurrence that will shatter all standing decrees of wine etiquette. You get them in quarter servings, which will fill your sip, sufficient for the mandatory swirl and gargle that will position you somewhere beyond novice, but far from quenching your thirst.

So, getting 6 full glasses would be having to extensively (and shamelessly but tactfully) sample one wine after another. My favourite line (recycled many times over, you can trust me on that) is,

“Hmm, this one doesn’t have much body. Can I try that one? Oh.. and maybe that one too..”

It came to a point where I didn’t even know what I was taking about and I was throwing up things like ‘this one doesn’t have bite’ or ‘this one needs to age’. And I don’t even know wine to begin with. I know the simple rules of white and red. We drink white when we need to get high fast and we drink red only when we are in dark coloured clothes. ‘Stains’ is a horrible word.

I’m no oenophile and my only desire to have wine, is that it gets me drunk faster than beer. It’s a really simple decision to make. Wine is healthy, beer makes you fat. Fat people don’t deserve to be fucked. Punched yes, but sex is too vulgar a word for them. Sophisticated people drink wine and I want to fuck them. Bingo, life cannot possibly hit me with a more perspicuous cause.

By the time Reznor came to pick me for Zouk, he was already eyeing me with suspicion. He absolutely hates me being drunk because and I quote,

“I don’t want to get killed because of you.”

It’s also almost impossible for me to hide any tier of inebriation because they know me too well. It usually starts when I say things like,

“Shut the fuck up now and you can blow me in the toilet.”

I met TheOne and Maven and their reservoir of drinks, then repaid their magnanimity by traumatizing their female friends. Blame it on the intemperate indulgence of Long Island Tea (I'm guessing that’s what it was) or the procrastination in penning down the nights events the following day, but my memory is in pockets with fuller holes than a vagabond.

I’ll re-count,

I got introduced to some of TheOne’s friends. 3 girls and one of them was a punching bag just waiting to have me throw insults at her. I did the cordial handshake. I am still a gentleman afterall, once you peeled off the 18 layers of assholism.

Me: “Hi you are?”
Girl: “XXXX”

It was some Chinese name. I don’t know, maybe Xiao Long Nu or Yang Guo. Your guess is as good as mine.

Me: “I won’t remember your name, I’ll be honest.”
She: “It’s XXXX”
Me: “Nope, I won’t remember. I’ll just call you L”

Then I patted one of them on the head.

Girl2: “Why did you pat my head?!”
Me: “I only pat two things. The head and the boobs.”
Girl2: “I don’t have boobs” [she clutched her chest]
Me: “Yah, that’s why I’m patting the head.”

But if Friday night was an enlightening path for me as a comic sideshow, albeit the bevy of vulgarities, sarcasm and derogatory prefixes I subjected the undeserving to, then Saturday was the yardstick of mayhem.

It’s always amusing when I have to depend on people’s stories to reconstruct the night for me and I wasn’t even pissed drunk. I was still sober enough to shuffle and sashay out the club.

Well apparently, I kicked a Ladyboy, intentionally. I almost felt bad about it. I just wished I did it sober enough to have relished the full 5 seconds of her screaming at me and chasing me. Maybe if I punched her, she might have flashed some silicone at me. Different folks, different strokes, might have worked.

Dek said I yelled at some asses who were blocking my way down the steps. I vaguely remembered that and I believe I did that in the most cogent way possible,

Me: “Will you just move the fuck off!”

Worked like a charm. They might be running off to find an ashtray to throw at you, but it gets them out of the way. Remember, a reaction is always better than a consequence.

In full defense of my deviation from the mores of appropriated behaviour, I only have stupid people to blame. Without them, I am happy. Alcohol is always the convenient excuse, but there are only selected times when we can use it. Like, knocking a girl up, explaining why you were making out with your partner’s best friend, setting the car on fire, fucking Whales or the gardener, kicking the neighbour’s son, etc. If you use it, make it count.

Without stupid people, I would be the nice boy you want me to be. I’ll even subscribe to your moralist straight-jacket decorum and hurl words like ‘harlot’ and ‘wanton whore’ at any one wearing 4 inch heels and mini-skirts. I’d even agree with you that kissing in a club is blasphemous and that it leads to pregnancy.

I’ll also excuse myself because I had a week (3 days if I really want to be shamelessly advertising) till my birthday and the celebrations and impunity for social backlashes had already started. I won’t be around for my birthday, so I will save you beer money, for now.

LB and I are celebrating it overseas with a bed full of debauchery, induced prodigality and promised fornication. Okay, I’m glamourising the whole escape, but I assure you this is purely a catharsis. Singapore is getting too constipated for my liking.

I’m a horrible person, but I still expect you to buy me a present. No, seriously, I do.

Butterfly goes Cable Skiing

There’s a lesson to be learnt from committing your weekends even before you know what life has installed for you. Especially when you are me, where clubbing religiously every weekend is a sacrilegious affair I’ve surrendered myself to.

The cable ski trip to Batam with Huixx that was conceived over Yoga the previous week was an inked agreement we had over one of those juvenile discourses that ended with ‘steady’ and ‘on you’. Next thing I know, we have a house party scheduled just the night before I was supposed to get pissed and fall off the wake board.

Like all myopic boys, who’s understanding for consequence is limited and hindered by hedonism and fueled by chicks and alcohol, we decided that partying through the night and going to the ferry terminal straight was a great idea. It's somewhere up along the great conceptions of all time, like when Saddam gassed the Kurds and was voted Asshole of the Decade.

By the time the party trickled to a gender polarization of girls chatting in the toilet and the guys lying contorted on the bed, I knew waking up for the ferry was best left as an imaginary ideal.

Fatigue and the aftermath of whiskey had already sedated me from the sausage fest this had degenerated to. Seriously, all we needed were beers and we would have qualified for Oktoberfest. Jake Gyllenhaal would have been proud.

I don’t know if it was the promise to Huixx or the thought of forfeiting the $80 which drove bullets of responsibility in us to rise from slumber, but I remembered LB trying to call off the whole thing in a conversation that went like this,

LB: “Huixx.. can we not go?”
[Pause]
LB: “Okay! Wake up! Wake up!”

We rushed, took a cab, instructed the cabbie to speed down to Harbour Front in 15mins and when we got there, we had enough time from waiting for Huixx and the others, to plan a heist on Fort Knox.

I took a survey on AIDS awareness in exchange for free condoms. Below are some abstracts of the questionnaire and what I said,

“Can you tell an AIDS carrier just by looking at them?”
Me: “Yes, they are fat.”

“Do you know how AIDS can be transmitted?”
Me: “Saliva.”

“Do you think there is a need for AIDS awareness?”
Me: “AIDS is a make believe myth, like Werewolves and Dengue fever.”

I swear the survey girl thought I was an idiot for a second, but I eventually ended up with enough condoms to make sure I don’t have a kid for the next 2 months. In Butterfly monetary translation, I just saved enough money to buy myself more drinks. My mum must be so proud of me.

Huixx finally came with Leo and Felix, and were all also displaying similar symptoms of a heavy night. I am traveling out of Singapore with a bunch of alcoholics who believe as much as I do that Saturday’s mornings are meant for curing Friday’s hangover with more beer. We are idiots, but I love us.

When we finally got there and I saw how huge the place was, I realized that I had almost zero interest in cable skiing and I came for the sole purpose of drinking. Yet, even that was slowly crumbling as the hangovers started to pound itself into my consciousness. I swear that if my temporal veins throbbed any more than it did, it would have looked like my eyebrows were break dancing.

We lazed a lot. Slouching by the table, watching as the novices fell so repeatedly, that I thought we were watching re-runs of Groundhog Day. Cable skiing isn’t easy I’d credit them that much, but falling and trying it over again really reminded me of a saying.

“Winners never quit and quitters never win. But those that don’t win and don’t quite are idiots.”

This was almost the perfect Saturday story. Sitting in the shade, drinking beer so early I almost felt guilty and laughing at people falling into the water. The only thing that would have provided the perfect closure was a wet T-Shirt contest.

When I finally did try, my perseverance lasted 5 tries.

1st try, I got up, lost focus and fell. Some guy comes over to give me pointers and tells me I’m a natural. Of cos’ I am, did you really thing I was simply just watching the other idiots fall into the water?

2nd try. I got up, fell, swallowed sea-water and had a small cut on my ankle. I hate cable skiing already.

3rd try. Fell. My groin hurts, but so does my pride. My priority now shifts to making sure my pants don't fall off.

4th try. I don’t remember shit, only that I eventually fell. My new goal was now to look glamourous while coming out off the water.

5th try. I fell again after some distance and I definitely shouted vulgarities. I am a horrible person.

LB on the other hand, is relentless in his onslaught for conquering the sport. I only remembered one candid instance where he couldn’t maneuver the board in time and he flew off the ramp partially. I thought it was totally hilarious and but one of the coolest thing he did in a long time.

Me: “Fuck! That was damn cool!!”
Huixx: “I don’t think he meant to do that babe..”
Me: “Ohh…”

One of the guys was constantly trying to get Leo to do a full monty for a round in return for a free board. He eventually pitched it to some young chick only that she needed to do it topless. I secretly did a cheer and thank God for having me there. She eventally punctured the idea. I hate her. The dream is crushed and there is no longer a purpose to stay in Batam.

The other thing that made cable skiing a great spectator sport was the part when the girls took out their life jackets. As Huixx and Leo constantly reminded, “Always adjust before removing.”

It’s like watching candid camera, only live and being above 18yrs old at the same time. Only this time, the code word for the day was ‘Peek-a-boo”.

The only activity we’re looking forward to now is the Speed dating in September. Well of cos, this week is ‘Celebrate Butterfly’s Birthday’ week. And of cos, the dynamite fishing trip with LB in Phuket.

Life.Is.Great

The House Party Pt 2

When we got there, everything that was painted in promised debauchery was eroding. The attendance list had been tweaked to include more cocks than the ‘this will be a kick ass party’ prescription of 3.

I’m not entirely against having more guys added to the equation, but since this was at the expense of having lesser skirts show up, I gave Cat the mandatory frown. This changed shortly when one of the girls showed up.

She was heavily made up, decently pretty and had a name that I knew I was never going to remember through the night unless I had them wear name tags with huge 38 sized fonts
on their chest.

The only contention we had with having extra sets of dicks around was that as much as women can be potential cock-blockers, men who haven’t been properly acquainted with our rules of engagement are as good as transvestites with strap-ons. They might sometimes be good to have around, but we don’t need them.

We got up to find 3 others already there. When the girls cleared the room to get cups and other party props, I decided to break the ice with other two guys. They were young, seemed like nice folks but I knew they weren’t going to light up the party or make any substantial contribution or impact to it other than taking up space and fucking the guys chances with the other girls.

Cat came back up to tell me we needed ice and mixers and that since we were supposed to have picked some up on the way here and didn’t, the common principles of responsibility states that we have to go get it. I don’t subscribe to this bullshit.

Me: “Just tell your friend to pick it up when he is coming over.”
Cat: “My friend isn’t coming over.”
Me: “Then just tell him to drop it off here and he can go back.”

I started typing to random people over her active MSN windows several variations of distress calls like,

“We need ice. Send some over.” And “Can you go buy ice and bring it over here, now.”

LB finally coaxed me into going across the street to the kiosk to get some. I saw this as a good time break game and recoup for a new tactical planning. Cat was already tipsy with a couple shots and valium and the whole drug fest wasn’t panning out as previously imagined.

Me: “Get rid of the two dicks in that room and we will fucking guarantee you a fucking wild party.”

Once out, LB was less forgiving on the whole situation than I was, but we’ve been in much shittier situations than this and we always milked it for whatever it was worth. The goal now was simple, get ice and mixers and light the party up.

When we finally got back, with the skirt attendance increased and all the drinks pre-mixed into a plastic dispenser, we started on the de rigueur of all house party, the games.

There is one game that we always start off the parties with to get everyone substantially tanked, intoxicated enough to lose inhibitions but sober enough for active participation. And I call it, ‘The Drinking Game’, but Cat calls it, “Circle of Death”. Yes, even for drinking we try to make everything sound cool.

The two extra cocks are dormant all night and one of them was engaging the games almost passively. We don’t really care either way since LB, WhiteBoy and I are usually domineering and vocal enough to over-shadow most men, or boys for this instance.

LB and I properly introduced how the game was played with two additional rules, a ‘punishment’(it’s drinking, I can only see good in it) to drink if anyone spoke in English or said the word ‘drink’.

By the time we were almost through with one deck of cards, everyone had probably laughed enough to exercise their facial muscles to put botox out of commission for the next 12 yrs. Then it went a little crazier.

In between the ritual that is photo taking, one of the girls, commented about how much she loved LB’s T-shirt and we decided to do a three way clothes swap. She would get LB’s top, LB would take mine and I took the best bargain of all, her top.

It was some sleeveless black blouse, which everyone in room broke out into laughter after I had it on. Next I knew, they were taking turns trying to stuff crushed paper into my chest for an accentuated cleavage. Cat was aggressively applying make-up on me and all I needed was a Bogetta purse and some red stilettos and I would have qualifies for a 2 feet walkway at Changi Village.

I don’t really remember the full carnage of photography I did, but I do remember a lot of crazy shots of me fucking cookie monster, LB mock spanking me and I remembered someone giving me a yellow bra, which I donned as a headgear.

We then started some serious karaoke session, which was absolutely hilarious cos no one else was singing. One of the girls was crying after getting off a phone call and sobbing about relationship issues and I was laughing my ass off singing to Bon Jovi’s ‘Never Say Goodbye’.

US: “Never say goodbye~ never say goodbye~ee aye..”
Girl: “I cant believe she did that… *sob sob*”
Me: “HAHAHAHA… ~holding on we gotta try~ holding on to never say…~”
LB: “Dude shut the fuck up!”
Me: “never say~~goood~~byeeee”

I was well intoxicated and everything was a great idea. Even laughing at the plight of the poor girl. If I had any more to drink, I’d have suggested an orgy and demanded everyone who wasn’t keen on it to fuck off.

We had the old school spin the bottle game, which was really just an excuse to kiss each other. WhiteBoy had already kissed make-up girl and I was pretty sure he’d have scored substantially if he wasn’t cockblocked by some other dickhead or her friend that turned up. Or in his words,

WhiteBoy: “We were hitting it off so much better than Saddam and Osama”

Yet this was only the beginning of crazier things to come..

The hook up story.

I knew at some point I was going to get laid. This wasn’t too hard to deduce since Cat dragged me into the toilet for a quick make out. LB and WhiteBoy were already lazing off on the bed so I wasn’t going to waste an erection. Besides, I wasn’t sober enough to think of any consequence and I wasn’t going to pass off sex when it’s given to me.

We stole away to the next bedroom and Cat quickly locked the door behind before we wrestled on the bed. The girl was high and she was asking or rather requesting the funniest shit I’ve heard all night.

Cat: “Why didn’t you fuck me in there?”
Me: “In front of everyone?”
Cat: “Yes, I want you to fuck me in-front of everyone.”
Me: “Errr… no..”
Cat: “Why not?!”

I might have thrown a frown but I was also close to laughing my ass off if we weren’t unceremoniously interrupted with loud knocking on the door.

Cat: “SHIT! It’s my mother!”
Me: “YOUR WHAT?!”

KNOCK!! KNOCK!!

Cat: “I’m in the toilet!”

Cat to me: “Shit. I think I was making too much noise.”

She scrambled off the bed to dash into the attached bathroom. This is great. Now what was I supposed to do? To say that I was in panic would be a gross understatement. Accidentally setting your neighbour’s trashcan on fire would be panic. Getting caught fucking an angry mum’s daughter, now this was catastrophic.

Random images of having a shotgun to my head and having to mow their lawn every morning raced in. I was half deciding between hiding in the closet or flushing myself down the toilet. Then a stroke of brilliance hit me.

I quickly cleared the bed, threw her bra under the bedside cabinet and pretended to be fast asleep in bed. Cat got out the toilet to open the door and I barely even moved or responded to anything she was saying. All I had was a theory. A drunk man sleeping cannot possibly be fucking. And I was going to stick to this, till the end.

When I finally rejoined the rest back in the room, Cat was randomly throwing out vulgar words like, “Shit, my mum caught me fucking.”, and I knew I was about to have the party ruined for everyone by getting us all kicked out. So I did the only responsible thing.

Me: “What fucking? I didn’t fuck anyone.”

I was going to stick to my theory for the remainder of the night and no one was going to change it.

I passed out on the bed shortly after with WhiteBoy, LB and one other cockblocker who was trying to stop WhiteBoy from hooking up with the make-up girl. I woke up because he jumped out of bed and the guys told me I was lying on his groin.

We left the place 7.30 in the morning with WhiteBoy still in bed and refusing to move. I carried one of the girls from the other room and had her sleep on the same bed as him and LB, Cat and I left to catch a ferry.

I’m a horrible person. You all know that. But it should never stop you from dating me.

The House Party Pt 1

When you have a crazy weekend lined up which includes a through the night house party with strangers and a cable ski trip to Batam at 8am the next morning, you’d expect a degree of discretion to take helm and understand that juxtaposing them is about as good an idea as having R. Kelly babysit your kids. Not us.

The whole decision to throw a house party came on a whim and built on two simple premises, which funded many great parties before, Alcohol and Girls. It was a lazy excuse to get sinfully inebriated with a collage of alcohol from whiskey to vodka and all this within a controlled environment where Beemer could watch me grow from amiable to the vodka-peeing, trash-talking asshole I’ve been well capable of on several occasions.

The Prelude.

When I pitched the idea of a house party to LB, he digested it with about the same amount of interest he had when Hong Kong returned to China. That was on Tuesday. By the time Wednesday rolled in and Cat had given me a rough number sketch of the attendants in skirts, I was painting a different picture to LB.

Me: “6 girls and 3 guys.”
LB: “So who are the 3 guys?”
Me: “We are the 3 guys!”
LE: “ARE YOU SERIOUS?! I thought this was going to be some house party with strangers and we were going to crash it.”
Me: “Nope, it’s just us.”

By mid-day, Cat was already ranting about popping before the party with her other girl friends and I was the middle messenger boy working out the intricate party details between her and my guys.

LB: “THEY ARE POPPING?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THERE ARE GOING TO BE D**GS AND GIRLS AT THE PARTY?!”

Me: “Ya.. so?”

LB: “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU STUPID?! DID YOU NOT THINK THIS WAS IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO SHARE WITH ME?”

Me: “I figured the important thing was the alcohol.”

LB: “THERE ARE 3 GUYS AND 6 GIRLS AND THEY ARE POPPING.. HOW GREAT CAN THIS GET.”

LB was sold. There was nothing that could pry him away on Friday night, not even for the fact that in less than 8 hours, we had to be on the ferry to Batam. Friday night was now painted in the image of tribal decadence. Carnal pleasantries, hard bass music, buffet of alcohol and no room for the moralist dogma.

It didn’t matter that I had never seen Cat’s friends, or the fact that parties with absolute strangers will always be greeted with a punch of awkwardness. There were too many key words being thrown at us to be sensible enough to reject a night like this. Now, it was all about selling this to WhiteBoy, the last piece of our unholy trinity, who was pulling out despite this being his idea.

Me: “I have 6 girls, 3 guys and plenty of alcohol. That’s a lot of girls that need attention. I don’t know how you do it, but just fucking fix it and be there.”
WhiteBoy: “I don’t know la, I’ll try figure something.”
Me: “Fuck you. Do not think, just get it done. Oh.. and the girls are.. *murmurs* popping..”
WhiteBoy: “WHAT?! I’ll be there.”

By Friday, I was no longer mediating this party with Cat directly. Whiteboy and LB were abreast with every intricacy that I was relegated to getting hand-me down instructions from them.

LB: “Beemer says to go buy mixers on our way over.”

I only had one interest the whole of Friday that I even forgave LB for hooking us up with dinner with some chick that he’s NEVER met but was constantly telling me in the car jam over to Far East on how cute this chick was.

It was a dinner date with two girls and one of the girl’s 8 year old sister. I’m sure a 65yr old pedophilic would have jumped the gun on this one, but not when I had absolutely no interest in any of the two and I was entertaining myself with teaching valuable lessons to the 8 year old.

Me: “Do you know why alcohol is great for you? You just need about 6 glasses for everyone to start looking good. You really don’t need cosmetics or surgery.”

LB eventually hooked us up with another date before the party with one of his friend who also happened to be a reader of this blog. This was a meeting I was much looking forward to after Eve gave me brief introduction to her on Thursdays over MSN and her (and LB’s) appraisal of how hot she was.

The other thing I loved about this was that I had the impunity to be rude without incurring her wrath. I could be brutally honest and she’d be smart enough to realize that I don’t mean harm and that I’m an asshole.

The moment we stepped out to the street, I gave her a glance, she returned one and LB started cracking up in the middle of the road.

LB: “HAHAHA this girl must be thinking.. ‘hmm not tall enough for me’ and this guy must be saying ‘wah.. too short for me’.”

We laughed it all off over the height issues and I closed with a dose of honesty.

Me: “Anyway, I wasn’t going to comment on your height. I was looking at your boobs.”
LB: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA”

I don’t think I’ve paid any girl as much compliments as I did with her for the last couple months. I told her standing outside 7-11,

Me: “I’ve got a huge problem with attention, it kills most girls who go out with me. But you, you get 100% of my attention when you are talking to me.”
She: “And where would you be paying attention to?”
Me: “95% with the boobs.”

I now understand why holding a conversation with a girl’s breast is so much easier. I’m generally very forthcoming about my short-comings in conversational skills, which is why I confess them to cleavages.

It was 11pm.

Whiteboy was already getting impatient and LB and I still had our bags and passports for tomorrow to pack. We were all waiting for Cat but suddenly, everything looked like it was going to collapse.

LB: “So where’s the party?”
Me: “Cat’s place.”
LB: “Her parents are away?”
Me: “Nope.”
LB: “WHAT THE FUCK?! THEN THEY ARE POPPING AT HER PLACE WITH HER PARENTS AROUND?!”
Me: “Ya I guess so. Anyway I think it’s just her and another girl that is doing.”
LB: “WHAT?! THE OTHER GIRLS AREN’T?! YOU ARE FUCKING GIVING ME ONE BAD NEWS AFTER ANOTHER!”

Butterfly does Yoga

There was a time I always believed Yoga was a sorry excuse for people to sit around and do breathing exercises while checking out other people's asses. I saw it as a women’s domain while real men ran, did weights and checked out other guy’s biceps.

When Huixx pitched the idea of joining her for yoga classes yesterday, LB and me jumped at the idea. For one, yoga classes always guaranteed a satiable multitude of visual stimulants. Women in tights, men in spandex, instructors with great asses. My list would really run down the line and I’ll have to stop somewhere at licking your own crotch.

There was really nothing not to love about attending yoga with Huixx and we were positively certain that the session was going to tickle us crazy. We had it all planned. We’d attend the class, laugh our ass off at people sticking their heads between their legs and drool at the hotties. Life is great when you have a purpose.

Huixx: “First laugh is free, but I don’t want you guys making me look bad.”

We got there only for Huixx to escalate our anticipation by telling us that her REALLY hot friend Marge was taking the class with us. I must have been a great boy all week, cos everything was panning out to become the greatest yoga introductory ever. God loves me.

The instructor, as luck would have it, was this hot lady with one of the best ass I’ve seen all week. It could be the tights or the hypnotising way her hips swayed, but women at 30 seldom looked this good. I suddenly forgave LB for snatching my mat next to Marge. With the instructor at spit distance from me, I might probably have the best seat in the house yet. Life is wonderful again. I love yoga and I love being me.

Everyone started with the mandatory stretching. LB had a good seat and was smiling widely. The instructor, Jac started having us move into a position where our ass was sticking out and we were motioning as if we were slow fucking the floor. Her ass was 4 feet from me and I had the biggest grin in the room.

The coolest thing about yoga was that every pose had a name. It's usually in Indian and they sound really cool especially coming from Jac at a point where I was heavily panting and she was throwing out words that sounded like Kamasutra's siblings.

Jac arched her body forward and slowly moved her chest towards her knees while mumbling some gibberish about what the stance was called in yoga, which in my mild distraction sounded like an Indian side dish to dip in curry. I was focused only on one thing and the code word for the night was clear..

Camel.Toes.

I was half giggling, half winking at Huixx and LB until everything went from stretching novice to Marilyn Manson impossible. The moment we started on the warm up, I was almost certain my limbs were going to collapse to me. I have the flexibility of a 93yr old man with spinal injury if you really must know. If my toes itched and I wasn’t allowed to bend to scratch them, I would have them amputated. It’s that bad.

My legs started trembling, I could hardly breathe and I was partially concerned about accidentally exposing myself from the precarious positions Jac was coaxing us into.

Jac: “Now stretch your right hand out and grab your toes”

I stretched.. If I really pushed myself, I might make it to the heels..

Jac: “If you can’t touch the toes, you can grab your ankles instead..”

The ankles were looking like a distant ambition that was quickly crumbling to fatigue build up, genetic disability, past contempt for stretching exercises and endless beer sessions. I grabbed the closest thing to the floor I could muster, the knees.

Next I knew, I was perspiring like an Eskimo in summer. Yoga was no longer ticklish like I remembered it to be. I was grabbing my hands behind my back from under my legs, curling my knees to the chest and if this kept up, I might have be able to blow myself after the evening was over.

Me: “Huixx, we can’t laugh, but we’re allowed to scream yea?”

I was having a lot of problems keeping up with the posture, let alone regulate my breathing and pose decorously. And it came to a point where LB had almost entirely given up on trying and I was deliberately faulting the stances just so she would come arrest the degradation I was pulling her art of yoga into.

The biggest payoff to this was her spreading her legs and standing over me while she lifted my body up gently. I swear, this was going to be one reason why I will NEVER want to be entirely perfect doing yoga.

The finale climaxed at some breathing exercise, which had us lying on our backs under dimmed lights, cool breeze from the air-conditioning that was up again and LB slept through the whole ordeal. Everyone else was back up stretching our abs, expect LB who had entirely blended into the floor. All he needed was a mink coat and he could qualify as a rug.

Huixx: “So how was the lesson?”
Me: “It’s like falling down a stairs and having your legs wrapped over your head for an hour till the ambulance comes.”

If you think yoga is for wussies, go strap on some spandex and prepare to smell your own ass. Now, I only need to look forward to Speed Dating.

Butterfly's Colleagues

My work place is blessed with the envy of parents of spastic kids. If I actually counted the number of colleagues that have come and gone over my tenure at the office, I’d have actually believed my company was part of a charitable organization that provided Spastics with the normalcy of having a job in society.

I love the colleagues I have now, it’s the ones that aren’t around that really made me wonder if stupidity was an actual course that was available at the neighbourhood community centers.

True stories people, pay attention.

Couple months back, I got lazy and decided to off load some of my work to a new girl at the office. She was young and brimming with an eagerness that I knew was going to burn out the moment she realizes working is half as fun as chatting on MSN.

I figured the simplest task to give anyone, was for them to send emails for you. It’s emailing. Even my dad who has an Internet vocabulary limited to “Singapore Pools” can send an email without having to call a Starhub hotline for assistance.

Look, there are several things which are unspoken pre-requisites of being acknowledged as a teenager and sending an email is one of it, along with buying bubble tea, surfing for porn and having a hand phone that is more expensive than your dad’s.

So I told her to send an email and she did, only problem was that she didn’t keep anyone in copy even after I specifically instructed her to have me in copy.

Me: “Nel, you have to always keep me in copy, or whoever gives you the job..”
She: “I didn’t know, I’m so sorry…”
Me: “Just go add me back in copy.”

Done. Work solved, email sent and a lesson learnt. Or so I presumed.

Then she came running back to me with a notebook in hand, pen in the other and frantically biting off the cap of her pen. This was amazing, we were taking notes on how to send an email.

She: “Okay, so tell me again, who do I need to keep in copy again?”
Me: “Whoever gives you the job.. they’ll need to follow up.”
She: “Okay got it.”

She scurried off.

Then came back…

She: “How about myself? Do I need to always keep myself in copy?”

If there was any singular sentence that could absolutely stump me on computers, this was it. I didn’t know if she was joking or if Mircosoft Outlook 2000 was giving me a quiz, but I found it absolutely hard to digest that anyone sober enough to be asking such a question was well capable of tying her shoe laces or take an MRT to work everyday without once getting hit by it.

Me: “Are you fucking with me?”

True story.

Meet Jason..

Jason was perhaps the single most entertaining colleague I EVER had. There was no one we bitched more about to anyone else than him and this guy was born to be gossiped at. In proper introduction, Jason was the kind of guy you want your daughters to skip prom for just because he showed up at your doorstep.

He had a complexion so bad, it made the moon look good. I swear, if you shot a paper bullet at his face, it’d look like Chang-Er flying to the moon at a distance. And if he had a glass over his head and wore green, he’d have qualified to be an alien in Mars Attack.

Two things about him absolutely cracked me up, other than the fact that he could (and proved) cough blood on cue (disturbingly true) and that he constantly tried to hint that his body was covered in tattoo from his gangsta’ years, except for the fact that the only thing he had inked on him was idiocy.

The Bible debate

Jason was the kind that still believed diabolical verses were still cool and that being verbally anti-Christ was what every other trendy 26 year old was into. And he also believed that Lucifer’s surname was ‘Burgen’.

Me: “Lucifer does not have a surname..”
Him: “Yes he does, they all have. Even Jesus.”
Me: “Jesus does not have a surname…”
Him: “Of cos he does, it’s Christ, Jesus Christ!”

I don’t know which Sunday school he’s been attending, but I’m pretty sure they drink detergent for breakfast.

The girlfriend story..

As with all low esteemed crack head with a point to prove to the world, Jason always loved to emphasize his ‘girlfriend’. It was like a pronouncing of a projected image built by 50 Friendster pictures, which none of them included him, and stories of their very boring dates which never once included key words like, “sex” or “pregnancy”.

When I first saw her picture, I was actually impressed by him. The girl was decently hot, the kind that I would give up one episode of Entourage just to fuck. But as I scrolled religiously through her pictures, the whole burgeoning appreciation for him as a person started fading.

I’m no detective, but surely being a girl’s boyfriend entitles you to one picture on Friendster? Especially when she spared half a dozen of it with other guys with an arm full of intimacy.

Then one day out totally out of context, I asked him for his phone and scrolled through the gallery. It was like pulling out her portfolio. The girl could have claimed the phone hers and you’d still believe it. And finally, after a gigabyte of her pictures, was one that was captioned, “Me & Wen”.

Only problem was, the picture was two entirely separate pictures of them, conjoined by the greatest model career device ever, Adobe Photoshop.

The worst part about this whole debacle was that he was ABSOLUTELY delusional about it. He started throwing up stories about fucking married women and how the girlfriend and him broke up and being a school swimmer who competed against girls because and I quote,

“In inter-school competition the guys and girls all swim together.”

The last straw was when he posted a picture of my friend on his wallpaper and he spun this amazing story about them being neighbours. Naturally I allowed the entire fiasco to run a full week of viewership before correcting him that the girl was not called ‘Agnes”.

He got fired shortly after because he was missing work too often and I was actually depressed that I didn’t have anyone else to laugh at for the next month. I was wrong. He gave the biggest ‘I got fired’ present ever. The biggest bullshit, cock sucking story ever..

He started circulating AROUND the office that he tendered his resignation. This guy was a fucking Einstein, going round telling everyone IN THE office, when we already knew management fired his ass.

I finally believed that having a single digit IQ was actually possible.

How to get over a breakup

If you’ve been attentive enough to my preachings on ‘How to execute a proper break-up’, then you would have in your wake of destruction, left no room for regrets or threads of ex’s who still cling on to hope.

You should then proceed for a celebratory post break-up party, which includes, one part vodka, one part debauchery and three parts hedonism. Damnation can wait on this. If you’re going to burn in hell, what better way get through it than to re-toxicate and saturate your liver (and soul) with enough alcohol to start a campfire with your pee.

Now, but what if you took the burning end of the breakup?

Is there a hotline you can call? No, but if you are a guy, a quick flip in the Yellow Pages might work. *whispers*, look up under, ‘social escorts’. Which I will translate for you as ‘over-priced pussy’.

Suicide is too fast and time takes too long heal. Thankfully you have me to get you through. Between initial depression and eventual putting a bullet to your head, I’m sure you can find time to squeeze them in…

1. Alcohol

It’s the cause of all problems but if you have enough of it, it also solves everything.

Practically speaking. You drink, you get drunk, you pass out. If you had enough alcohol, you might subscribe to words like “comatose” or “black-out”. Either way, you’re going to wake up 3 days later and you can give yourself a pat on the back for passing three days without getting emotionally upset.

2. Friends

Well, friends are useful tools to make use of in the day. Sometimes you might have to really work for sympathy but they always give in to emotional blackmail at some point where their conscience can no longer allow them to sip latte in peace.

But, there’s only so much they can occupy your mind with. When you get home alone at night, with no one to turn to and antecedent memories start replaying themselves, all you need is, a dildo or an inflatable doll and porn, lots of it.

3. Flirt

The best way to get a person off your consciousness, is to replace them with another person of the same sex. In regular dating jargon, we call this a ‘re-bound’. This happens when you are miserable and you feel like destroying someone else's life. The rules of having or being on a rebound is to exploit the other person for everything it’s worth.

Firstly, you need to know clubbing antics, which I've dutifuly explained in my marketing thesis. The rules are so simple, even limb amputee’s can tie their shoe laces after this.

a. If you are flashing cleavages, you are entitled to one free drink. Men are visual creatures. The lower your neckline, the lower our IQ and once you’ve knocked back about ten glasses, you don’t really need cleavages anymore.

b. Always flirt with the important people at a club, namely the bartender or the cashier. During one-for-one offers, there tends to be an exodus from the dance floor to bar. Flirting with the bartender gives you priority queuing and if you’re really good, a free drink. Call it cheating your way in life but you’re really just simply meliorating your chance. It’s like carrying a 6yr old boy with you if you want to get backstage passes to Michael Jackson’s dressing room.

Now what good would this all do to you? Flirting empowers us by re-creating the dynamics of power relations and get something out of it. By flirting, you are actually putting control back in your life and control is precisely what people lack or rather lose when they are in a breakup, along with dignity, self-esteem and common sense.

Sure, flirting puts us in a precarious position of the public eye, since society is largely myopic to cock teasing, BUT it’s always better to be blue-balling some dickhead than crying your eyes out on the bedroom floor. Crying is good, but it always looks better when someone else is doing it.

4. Don’t get upset, get even

Revenge is like a Guatemalan whore with huge silicon tits and syphilis. They might look like a great idea to fuck, but it only makes you feel worse. There are more ways to get back at a person, intelligently.

Look, if your girlfriend cheated on you, fucking some whore is not going to set it right and neither will gang-banging Bangladeshi workers be a really neat way to extract revenge. Fucking her best-friend would be a really good idea but you really shouldn’t be doing that, but it would really mess them up. *insert cheeky grin here*

Well if you throw sex out the equation and setting their car on fire, the best way to actually get even with a person is to get on with your life and live it better. People don’t crawl back to idiots who spend their time mopping over some happy memory that is now over. A happy memory is you taking a picture with Mickey Mouse and gang at Disneyland, and then getting a blowjob by Goofy at the back alley. Wake up.

Simple equation,

Crying = Make up running = Ugly

As much as I hate to admit it, strength in character is a very attractive trait, it’s just somewhere below “nice boobs” and “tight ass”.

There is a correlation to the stronger you come out of depression and the faster they want you back. Nothing fucks them up mentally more than to see you unaffected by them, maybe except fucking their best friend.

5. Holiday

Your excuses say it’s a time to relax, sort out your thoughts and re-discover yourself. This is travel agent propaganda boosted and sustained by picture perfect postcards. Bullshit.

Holiday’s are for you to go out and get laid. Every time I’m out of the country at places with cheap booze, I get all excited, much like Steve Chia at a maid agency. And you realize that you don’t really have time to think about emotional issues because the bars look like they are giving away one chick for every beer you buy.

I don’t mean to pitch about Phuket or Bangkok randomly, but hooking up there is like fishing with dynamites. It’s so easy, you’d almost feel bad for trying.

6. Kick Ass

Nothing beats venting your frustrations than beating them up. Remember, the key to this is to not let up and kick them even when they are down. Rule of the thumb, throwing a punch at someone on the floor is a lot easier than trying to punch at eye level.

Do not let vulgar thoughts like “but I still love them” get to you. If someone ditches you it only means two things.

a. They are fucked up people. Which really justifies the ass kicking you are giving them. Aim below the belt, always clench you fist, lock your wrist and always punch with your master hand.

b. You are fucked up. Which makes it forgiving for beating them up. Jab their eyes if you really must, now is not the time to be changing people’s perception of you.

I’m only educing the facts but enshrine these words of value. You can apologise if you don’t feel better after an ass kicking workout, but it’ll only make you look weak.

7. Adopt a kid

I’m serious. Two days with a hyperactive kid and you’d be glad you’re single.