The Phuket Return Pt 6 - The Last Night

Something actually happened on the last night in Phuket last September, which I don't remember why I didn't write about. Here it is,

Following the huge airport debacle with LB, which I believe most of you would have read by now, in which we actually missed the flight by a full 24hrs because LB's infant attempt to be responsible was met with a disastrous setback. He had booked our return flight on Saturday instead of Sunday and we ended up missing the flight.

However, like all seasoned travellers and torch-bearers of optimism, we bounced back from it with nothing more than a hole in the pocket. It was Phuket, the city of vice and we were blessed with an additional night to toast debauchery and get laid.

Immediately after we re-checked in at the hotel, much to the amusement of the hotel staff who were still confused to see us again, we threw our bags and headed straight for the only place we knew that could erase this tragedy. The equation was simple, music + booze = happy Butterfly.

Our steps grew with haste and before I knew it, we were breaking out in skips to the nearest money changer. We had entirely exhausted our reserve of Thai Baht and now depended solely upon our stash of Singapore dollars, and this being Thailand, was more than sufficient to perhaps adopt an elephant.

We headed straight to Banana. It was the nostalgic scene of bodies mashed on the dance floor, the occassional trance tracks and the outstripping female to male ratio. There was only one thing left to do and that was to replicate the foursome fuck fest of the first night.

There was no time for mingling or small talk. The game plan was simple. I was not going to be wasting time standing by the bar, gulping down beer and hoping to be picked up. No. LB had disseminated an enchiridion of 'to do' and I was expected to assimilate myself obediently into it.

For a town that lacked respect for time and where everyday is a weekend, the club was rather lacking in the eligibility pool on a Sunday night. Most of the women who were there were either already hooked onto the Caucasian boys, or looked like they deserved a punch.

We finally settled next to two local women. They were neither good looking or had any merit ascribed to them other than being alone. Which was good, because everyone else looked like they were going to get married in the morning.

LB: "These two can?"
Me: "Let's drink more."

Two drinks down, they are still not looking better, so we decided to talk less and drink faster.

LB: "Are you sure you can do this?"
Me: "Let's go!"

Another round of drinks.

LB: "Are you sure you want to do this? We don't have to do this you know."
Me: "Let's go!!!"
LB: "Are you sure?"
Me: "LET'S FUCKING GET THIS OVER WITH!"

When I start drinking, everything is a good idea.

LB: "Wait wait... I need to drink some more."

You have to remember that LB almost never drinks voluntarily and for this, he had a perfectly good reason to. For one, the two girls weren't even remotely attactive. One was thin, both were tanned (which I believe is the politically correct word for dark-skin) and they looked like they were working hard towards being a domestic helper. All they needed was a broom and we had ourselves a maid agency.

LB started making small talk with them and I believe the intrusive introductory line was,

"Are you girls working?"

You have to remember that this was Phuket, not Bangkok. The vast majority of local women found in the club are usually working women (which I again believe to be the politically correct term for prostitutes). Sure, there are the ones who legitimately are here for holiday or have day jobs selling umbrellas or slippers, but on a Sunday night, those are few and far between.

Girl: "No, we are on holiday."

LB gives the all clear sign and despite having a bit to drink, I approach cautiously. You see, unlike normal nights, where we hunt the best the place has to offer, what we have now is basically a push selling. It's like forced consumption because there really isn't anyone else to pick. If my Chang beer bottle came with a skirt and a free condom, I would have fuck it instead.

We eventually left the club with them to another club, which had alot more variety, but the only ones who were actively hitting on me were ladyboys. I don't remember why we didn't toggle with chance or tried our luck with the other girls, but we left for home with them in toll almost as soon as we got there.

The great thing was that we made our intentions to have a foursome clear to them and they responded with enough interest to entirely blind me from picking anyone else up. Remember, I was already well intoxicated and focused on the thought of being boob slapped by two girls. I cannot think logically or question the conservatism of society or even wonder why would any two random girls be so opened to the idea of a foursome with two complete strangers.

There were signs littered throughout which beared warnings of another debacle that was going to ensue in the bedroom. But I didn't care.

Sign #1 :

We took a cab ride back to their home. Yes, their HOME. If you hadn't noticed the slight inconsistency here, then let me remind you again that they said they were here on HOLIDAY.

Perhaps it's common for Thai folks to buy a house everytime they go on a holiday, but generally this would have triggered warning signals. I was however, too absorbed in alcohol and fantasy and LB probably doesn't think well with an erection either, so we ignored it completely.

Sign #2 :

Instead of fucking at their place, they insisted on doing it at ours and brought their clothes over. This was actually a good idea because their place stank, like the aftermath of a blanket bukkake orgy.

When we finally got to our place, LB got abit more reserved and suggested that I took a shower with my girl first, while he formulated some other grand master plan of perhaps on how to get them to cover their faces during sex.

And so I plunged, into a bath, which I would rather had not taken but a blowjob was a sure way to coax me into it. When I got out, LB was still fully clothed in bed and his chick ran into the toilet because she wanted to take a dump.

LB: [in Mandarin] "I think something is wrong."
Me: "Like what? Are they men? Mine isn't."
LB: "I think need to pay..."
Me: "WHAT?!"

LB immediately turned his focus to my girl.

LB: "Need to pay?"
Girl: "No.."
LB: "Are you sure don't need to pay?"
Girl: "No.."
LB: "So need to pay anot?!"
Girl: "I don't know, you ask my friend."

At that very juncture, like an ill fated timing, his girl came right out.

LB: "I ask you. Need to pay?"
ShitGirl: "Yes, of cos.."

I don't know what the current world record for long jump is, but I broke it. I immediately leapt onto the bed from where I stood and tucked my head beneath the pillow, while belting out my disapproval in the new Grammy song of the year, called,

Me: "GET OUT!! GET OUT!! I'M NOT PAYING!! I'M NOT PAYING!!"

This was the catchiest song of the evening, because LB started singing along to it and the girls started to come in for the bridge with,

Girls: "2000 Baht! 2000 Baht!"

It was a symphony of chaos. Pandemonia at it's peak. Occasionally LB would come in for the verse with,

"Are you crazy?! We are not paying!"

Then we'll slip back into synchoronized chorus of, "Get out! Get Out!".

At this point, they had entirely stopped on the price and was shouting profanities in Thai to us. This was a good thing, because we didn't understand a fuck they were saying or neither was I interested to hear their grievances. I just took it that they were shouting their apologies to us or that it was their culture to be saying goodbye, by yelling at us. And maybe they wave using their middle finger too.

ShitGirl: "Okay okay. 700 Baht one person."
Me: "Are you deaf? I said I don't want to pay."
ShitGirl: "Okay, 500 Baht."

In case you are not familiar with the currency exchange, SGD1 = 22 Baht. So a fouresome would have set us back under $25 and this is the kind of money you spend just to pay to get into the clubs and pray you get lucky in Singapore. If my economics lesson taught me anything, it was that this was deal you should seal in an instant. What did we do?

We yelled at them to leave.

My girl started shouting at me again, then suddenly stormed into the bathroom and emerged holding a toothbrush, while continuing her barrage of yelling, which now sounded like an annoying horse-racing commentary in a foreign language.

LB: "Dude, is that your toothbrush?"
Me: "..I think so.."
LB: "She is stealing your toothbrush?"

We both lay there motionless as they stood there yelling at us with my toothbrush. Then it hit me. Was she taking that as payment for blowing me? Is she going to take the television too? Where is my wallet? Can I wrestle her back for it? When are they going to leave? Did they just say 'Fuck'?

Then it all ended. They stormed right out and as with all dramatic finishing, slammed the door in their wake. And there was peace once again.

We: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

We both broke out in uncontrollable laughter at the whole debacle. And once the spasms stopped and I was well capable of walking again, I quickly ran into the bathroom.

Me: "Dude! My toothbrush is still here. She didn't take it! She didn't take it! HAHAHA!"

I don't think I have been any happier to see my toothbrush. It's funny how the aftermath of a faceoff with adversity allows us to find true happiness in even the simplest of things.

No One Takes Butterfly Seriously

Sometimes, I believe in karma.

Me: "Babe, you should take me more seriously sometimes."
She: "Haa, clean up your act first."
Me: "Less alcohol and porn. Noted."
She: "Go sleep, darling."

Then I wake up to see a message streaked across the board.

"Dude, this post is exactly why I don't take you seriously.."

And I just wanted to be happy.

Men And Colours

In case you don't already know, the colour blind (red-green) deficiency is an occurance only available in men. This is because that disability is found only in the Y chromosome, which creates the penis, while the two X chromosomes have other disabilities like incessant nagging, crying and chocolate cravings.

Colour blind, is however NOT a deficiency nor is it a handicap. In fact, there is nothing wrong with being colour blind, except being a road hazard or a liability at jungle warfare, but these are trivialities which we can accept since we are already tolerant of obesity. And that I still wonder why.

Being colour blind is actually in tangent to the male dominant trait, because guys love to simplify matters, and for the record, no, I am not colour blind. Men primarily have very limited vocabulary with colours. We know the basic colours and occassionally we throw in more bombastic words like, 'light blue' or if we are very well read, 'baby blue'.

'Baby blue' is just about the most fanciful colour in our vocabulary, while still remaining in the realm of being a man. The moment you start throwing out words like 'midnight' or 'obsidian black', you know you are gay.

You see, being male means we don't need to be entirely objective. We only need to see things as it is because it saves time. Women see things a lot more convulated than men, almost as if they have a kaleidescopic view of the world. Here is an example of how men and women differ.

Giving directions,

Women: "My car is parked between the lavender Nissan and the fuchsia Honda."
Men: "Huh.."

Men: "My car is parked between the blue S15 and the pink S2000."
Women: "Huh.."

This is why men and women argue all the time. Women and men see things very differently. Women see colours like, maroon and aquamarine when men get confused between 'brown or red' and 'blue or green'. Women also see things like, a problem with having the toilet seat up and violence in wrestling, while men don't see anything wrong with it.

Just the other day, Reznor was complaining about feeling lost because his car was at the workshop for re-spraying and that he is basically whinny because he doesn't know how to take the public transport and still recovering from post-epileptic trauma that taxi meters no longer jump at 10cents.

Me: "So what colour did you re-spray it?"
Reznor: "Pearl white."
Me: "Why did you spray it white again?"
Reznor: "It's not white, it's PEARL WHITE!"
Me: "That's still white."

I don't know why, but he went hysterical on me. I also didn't know when he traded in his penis and started picking up all these feministic terms, which were constructed to confuse men.

Reznor: "Do you know the difference between white and pearl white?"

Obviously I didn't because I am a normal straight man, and like all other normal men, prefer to keep our colour charts simple.

Me: "What are you talking about? White is white. Real men say things like white, black, blue. Women say things like 'pearl white'."

Reznor: "Pearl White is not white. There is a fucking difference to it. Faith, can you please educate this ignorant fucker."
Faith: "Blah blah blah..."

I didn't want to argue much with Reznor, because I knew then and there, he had already given up his manhood and was probably already gay. To prove my point, he even roped in Faith who is a female to validate his point. Obviously, I don't understand gay gibberish nor feministic preaching, so I ignored them, not before making my final stand.

Me: "Are you gay? Cos only gay people say such things."

I understand why women need to differentiate the various shades of a particular colour and ascribe cool words to it like 'Crimson Red', 'Scarlet Red' and 'Red rose syrup'. That's because they are puppets of fashion, have too much money and believe there is a need to have nail polish in 4 shades of the same colour, just as long as the name is different.

They however fail to understand that men don't realise any differences in all that investment. We only see colours in one shade,

'IDoNotCare'.

Do you really think we are going to notice a difference if you dropped to a lighter shade of red for your nail polish? Do you really think we see a difference between dark blue and midnight blue? If you haven't already realised, men don't pay attention to nail polish or what earring you are wearing.

We only notice things of paramount importance, like cleavage, ass and occassionally if we really have the time, patience and concentration, your jeans tag, just so we know your waist.

Is there really a need to complicate matters? Do you really think the police give a shit if you tell them, 'a pearl white car' as opposed to just simply 'a white car'.

You: "A pearl white car just sped from the crime scene."

The police interprets as, 'Gay eye witness saw a white car fleeing from the scene. Probably shat himself. Let's check if the Village People are coming for a reunion concert, we can give him tickets to commend his assistance.'

Or,

You: "White car sped from the crime scene."

Police interprets as, 'Very insightful account. This is going to help solve the case. This guy has the makings of a natural detective.'

Colours are only important to men for very carnal reasons. Like, skin colour for racial statistical accounting and hair colour to determine IQ and colours of a person's nipples. These are the very few times that where there is actually a huge difference between dark brown and light brown.

You can disagree with me, but you are either wrong or gay.

We Are Just A Statistic

When my college lecturer said that mathematics was a key in solving the mysteries of the world, I thought he was an idiot, haven't been out much and had yet to discover the pleasures of porn. For one, the key to the universe lay in that 750ml bottle of demonic urine known as, Absinthe.

Years later, and countless nights spent hugging my toilet bowl to sleep and waking up next to strangers, it's becoming morbidly lucent that perhaps the world is constructed on mathematical eccentrics.

Call it juvenile fetishes, egotistical bragging rights, casual fornications, survival doctrines to pro-create or simply self validation, we are all just a statistic.

And that we are. Who we have dated, the ones we wished we never did or the ones we wished we would meet again. Who we've slept with, where we did it, was someone else holding the camera? Did we sleep with her sister? Have we done that ethnicity? Should we count pregnant ladies as 2?

At the very erosion of moral demeanour is our carnal instincts to thrive and yearn upon novelties, the very parameters of the unexplored. Why do men travel to distant lands? For conquest, for adventure and maybe Columbus got tired of White women and decided he wanted chocolate for breakfast instead. Naturally, you can't undermine the fact that it looks impressive on the resume.

It's all about the statistics, which brings about conversational avenues to the coffee table. The more impressive your repertoire of 'done it', the more you get to interupt the conversations at mid-sentences with your, "yah lor, yah lor!".

In retrospect to my epoch of being the one you affectionately know as, Butterfly, I've made brash contact with sufficient individuals through my endevours with mad partying and pillaging of alcohol, to brutally admit,

You are just a statistic.

1, is the actual number of women whom I have acknowledged as my girlfriend. And by that I mean doing things that real couples do, like arguing, throwing things at one another, fighting for the remote control and having dinner with the folks.

5, is the number of years that above mentioned relationship lasted. Bet that impressed you.

2, is the number of Japanese women I've had in my life. I believe this is too small a figure to sample the entire nation, but if that was a representative, then all Japanese women have big bust and can give a blowjob so good, you'll never want any other nationalities around your general groin area ever again.

9, is the greatest number of years in age difference between me and the youngest girl I've hooked up with.

14, is the greatest number of years in age difference between the oldest woman and I, that I got deceived and conned into bed with. It was absolutely erection killing and I was pissed about the whole issue for 2 whole days. The story here.

6, is the number of girls whom I have hooked up with solely through this blog. Of which, one used me as a tool for revenge on her boyfriend. This girl requested to fuck me primarily just so to get back at her boyfriend whom she BELIEVED to be cheating on her. Amazing what people do these days. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

8, is the number of girls who were cheating on their boyfriends with me. Naturally, this figure could be exponentially higher since I generally do not query about their relationship status. Of which this 8, 4 of which I only discovered were attached after sex.

Interestingly, 6 of the above 8 mentioned were happily in love with their boyfriends. I distinctly remembered how they would tell me how wonderful their boyfriends were, and how in love they were and then 4 hours later, fucking me like conscience was a detachable mechanism. Amazing.

902, is the number of kilometres a person travelled to hook up with me. She was from Jakarta, we met in Bali and she came here on holiday or more romantically in her words, "to fuck you". Story here.

3, was the most number of women I succesively dated (and subsequently ended up in bed, or the backseat of the car with), cramped into a 24 hour period. I am truly a horrible person. I have yet to write about this, but should get down to this soon.

3, is also the number of women I've hooked up with and unwittingly discovered they were mothers. To this day, when people shout 'muthafucker', I invariably turn to look, just in case it's one of the kids.

853,126, was the number of times I yawned on the 'most boring date ever'. I swear, if this girl was water soluble, she could qualify as a sleeping pill. I have never been out with anyone with such a pretty face, but had the personality of valium. The dating deities must truly love me.

172, is the height in centimeters of the tallest women I've slept with.

22, in inches, is the smallest waist measurement of any female I've hooked up with.

34D, is the largest boob size of a female I've hooked up with and bothered to ask about her measurements.

50, is the amount someone paid to me in dollars for 1 hour of my time. This girl was a moron who actually believed me when I said I worked as a gigolo and had a going rate of $50 per hour. If you are stupid, I will exploit you.

3,500, was the amount I spent to chase a dream in Australia. I came back and realised love is a fairytale and should only be kept to children's story books, until they are old enough to know the gluttony of a corporeal fuck fest, exhilarations of one night stands and syphilis.

27, was the age I wanted to get married. What an idiot I was.

23, was the age I first started playing the Butterfly 'Miss Month' game. The first game ended in a week because she wanted to get serious and started saying horrible words like, 'love', 'commitment' and 'I can't take this anymore', to me. I did the only righteous thing possible and ignored her phone calls after that.

4, is the number of air-stewardesses I've dated, which is I believe, the most populous bracket of professions in my checklist. I am excluding models because every other girl is a model.

17 minutes, is the shortest amount of time I spent on a blind date before I salvaged my pride by running off. It was a toss between leading a frog-like girl on, or being raped by her gay friend. Worst experience ever.

15, is the age of the youngest girl who ever tried to ask me out on a date. I was 25 then and had no interest in adopting a daughter. I told her to sit outside the boy's secondary schools instead.

7, is the queue number one particular individual wanted to be for the year and achieved it through part abstinence and part fated timing.

20 is the amount some dumbass bitch discounted to from $100, as her fee to spend the night with me. This was an unwritten story (I unintentionally forgot) in our last Phuket trip, which LB and I have been laughing about. Hilarious story (to me), which I shall not disclose the ending until I write about it.. soon.

54, is the weight of the heaviest woman I've ever slept with. In pious practise of bedroom safety, we restricted all sex positions to strictly missionary.

I really should stop.

Inevitably, everyone eventually becomes a statistical figure of someone else. So does that mean we are significant digits amongst the stars? Or does it mean we are nothing but numerical imprints in the trails of someone's memories? No, but perhaps under all that kaleidescopic juxtaposition of statistics, it actually paints our lives.

How did you live your life? Cos mine was great.

How To Be An Asshole

There are tragic facts in this world, which seemingly defies the normalcy of society but yet contributes abstrusely to the functionality of it. Like the celebration of gay pride, women beating men at pool, having to pay for porn and how nice guys always finish last in the pussy hunt.

I was about to say 'women love assholes', but I realised how wrong that came out, although I don't deny a decimal fraction of seasoned women might protest vehemently to this, I believe the socially accepted phrase is, 'women love the bad boys'.

It's true, bad boys are desirable. Just ask Richard Simmons or the Pope, or maybe any Catholic priest if it’s a young boy and they might swear (or sweat) to this. It's as if they chemically combust the air around them and release some sex charged hormones that just make the girls lose all sense of logic. So what actually makes them so appealing that you believe cheating on your partner only counts when you've done it twice?

I don't know. And I really don't give a fuck.

The intelligent man doesn't occupy himself with the sociological clockworks on what makes an 'Asshole' appeal to the ladies. The intelligent man becomes the 'Asshole'. Why deconstruct the theories, when you can construct a new future? Why explore the dynamics, when you can exploit the situation?

Just in case I lost you on the subject matter at hand, here's the correct definition.

ass-hole [noun] :

1. A mean or contemptible person.
2. Sleeps with more women than the average man
3. Often useful for re-bounds or to spite ex-boyfriends.
4. Women love them

I tried to submit this to Webster, but like all the ten or so other entries, I have yet to receive a reply from them.

Here's the guide on how to become an 'Asshole'.

1. Crying

Many people associate making a girl cry as something only a bad ass would do. This is however, a misconception, much like how Vampires are fiction or how Santa Claus isn't Asian or how Mas Selamat had escaped (when in fact, he was inspired by Clive Owen in 'Inside Man' and currently still hiding behind the toilet bowl).

You see, people cry when they are happy too. I know this for sure because there was once I forgot my girlfriend's birthday and decided to surprise her two days later with a $10 Isetan voucher. She had tears in her eyes and right there, I knew I did the right thing and not go for the Taka vouchers instead.

There is only one thing to certify you as a bad ass, and that is to have them bleeding from their nose. You see, 'Assholes' let actions speak for them. You want to tell a person you are pissed with them? You punch them. Need to break up? Punch them.

Violence may not solve everything, but a bloody nose will make them get the point that you mean business. I'm also pretty certain that puts across the point that you are an asshole.

2. Conversations

‘Assholes’ are cool people with disdain for talking and hence, limit themselves to monosyllabic words like, “yes”, “no”, “fuck” and maybe sometimes if they really want to impress the other party, “okay”. And to seal the deal, the very impressive, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”. Makes.Them.Girls.Wet.

Here is an example of how to use them in your everyday conversation.

Girl: “Are you okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
Asshole: “Yes.”
Girl: “Is there something bothering you?”
AH: “No.”
Girl: “Anything you would like to do?”
AH: “Fuck.”
Girl: “Fuck? Now?”
AH: “Okay.”
Girl: “You are creepy..”
AH: “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!!!”

3. When To Ignore

It’s common knowledge that too much attention given to a particular individual would result in a that particular individual being spoilt. When a baby cries because it wants to be carried and you give in them, they are going to exploit this weakness in you and have you cradle them to sleep for the next 3 years.

The right thing to do, is to ignore them. Sure, they may be crying because they need food, but if you ignore them for 3 days and they survive the ordeal, you know you have a kid who is going to grow up to be a Spartan warrior. Your kid is now well capable of spearing your neighbour’s gay Havard Law grad and use his collarbone as an ashtray. Now, that’s parental pride.

Now, the same theory applies for the girlfriends. When they kick up a big fuss, you know it’s nothing serious, because when women really have things bothering them, they always say ‘nothing’ when you ask. When they start yelling at you, always ignore them, because there really only needs to be one person yelling and it might as well be them.

Ignoring them is the best way to piss an agitated person to the brink of insanity. Nothing drives them crazier than this and sometimes they get so worked up, I secretly suspect they are simultaneously horny because they keep panting. Eventually, they will exhaust themselves or if you are really lucky, damage their vocal chords, and they will shut up. All these, and you didn’t even have to engage in an argument.

When it comes to ignoring, it’s all about timing. Here are some suggestions on when to ignore,

1. Your girlfriend’s phone call, while you are fucking her sister.
2. Your sister knocking on the door, while fucking her boyfriend
3. Anyone’s request to pass the television remote control
4. An ambulance tailgating you, while flickering their headlights.

4. Being honest

One important imbued trait of being an ‘Asshole’, is the impunity to be honest without consequence ever chasing up to you. For one, you never have to consider anyone’s feelings. If you call anyone a ‘whale’, I’m sure that was perfectly justifiable and that person deserved that humiliation. I’ve said this before and I will re-iterate, looks is subjective but weight isn’t.

Honesty is a virtue in society, along with ‘respect’, ‘civic minded’ and spitting at fat people. The trick is to never proxy your words and just let your mouth project the first thought that comes to mind. Pure honesty is often the best form of humour or disaster, which is why Reznor and Niner generally don’t like me to talk when I’m drunk.

Remember, being brutally honest is a charm itself.

5. Sucker Punching

This is an important skill to possess. Sucker punching might seem like an unethical cheap shot, but thankfully, ethics are just an imaginary concept used to hold back humanity’s adventurous manifestations, just like, ‘marriage’ and ‘commitments’. We ignore them.

Sucker punching is great for punctuating a sentence. It’s like a physical manifestation of ‘period’ or simply, a ‘full-stop’. We do this with the master hand in a quick stealth-like jab to the nose or throat. This is important when we do not want or need a person’s opinion or reply.

6. Carrying of bags

‘Assholes’ do not need to carry bags or for that matter subject himself to caddy for their partner’s shopping spree. It’s a standard rule, ‘you buy it, you jolly well carry it’. If they ever dispute this with you, please refer to the ‘Sucker punch’ section above.

‘Assholes’ are also entitled to walk ahead, just so that there is a subtle disassociation and you will come out of this looking like,

1. You are walking ahead to pave a safe path of passage for her/him.
2. You are single and available.

You don’t need to carry rubbish and you might get hit on. Win-win situation if you ask me.

7. Read between the lines

‘Assholes’ also have the uncanny ability to read minds and know what the other party really wants. This is an ascribed gift that most ‘Assholes’ are born with, although this can be achieved through training. Insiders from Hollywood told me that the Matt Parkman character was created around the genetic template of ‘Assholes’.

When people say ‘no’, do they really mean ‘no’ or they trying to say, ‘try harder’? Where mere mortals falter at this, ‘Assholes’ thrive. For ‘Assholes’, there is never a ‘no’ and ‘stop’ is a vulgar four-letter word along the league of ‘love’. Everything is a ‘yes’ only unless we have no interest or we get an unwelcome knee to the groin.

If you try to kiss someone and she says 'no', it’s not that she doesn’t like you or that you are repulsive. It just means that you haven’t put in enough effort or the chloroform hasn’t kicked in yet. Everything is a ‘yes’, when there is enough alcohol, drugs or a Magnum to the temple.

8. Say it, don’t ask

It is paramount to remember that ‘Assholes’ never ask. They tell, not ask. Only children ask for permission, like when they have to pee. ‘Assholes’ are bad asses who will pee on the floor, have the boy sitting next to them lick it up and then shoot paper bullets at the teacher, just because they have nothing to do while someone is cleaning up their pee puddle. School girls go crazy for them and that is the reason why school girls scream so much.

If you ever want to do something, declare and proceed. For example, if you really want to kiss a person.

AH: “I am going to kiss you.”

At this juncture, only two things can happen. She allows you, to which you should proceed along immediately with a mandatory cupping of the right boob to convey your gratitude for her casualness. Or she says ‘no’, to which this follows,

AH: “I wasn’t asking you. I was telling you.”

This works all the time. Next thing you know, you are driving home with her hands in your pants. If all else fails, a half bottle of chloroform should do the trick.

Everyone Should Learn English

You know what the world needs? Not Captain Planet, I won't be around to witness the exhaustion of natural resources and you have Toyota to blame for that. Not democracy, cos sometimes it's good to have people decide what is best for us. What the world needs, is to fucking learn English.

And I mean EVERYONE. I don't care if you are some farmer up in Tibet or a Guatamalean whore, everyone should speak English. And when I get elected as World President, I'm going to make it mandatory that everyone is at least proficient enough to use huge words like 'syphilis' and 'necrophilia' interchangeably with 'love'. For anyone that fails a proficiency test, they will be shipped to far away lands to be with mythical creatures like the Eskimos.

The reason why wars exist is simply because not everyone is speaking English, and we all know how fraustrating it is when someone is blabbering off in their own native tongue. Some dude is speaking his own language and half way round the world we have no fuck of an idea what he is saying and we think,

"Is he talking about my mother?"

And next thing you know, someone else is saying,

"Let's go kick his ass anyway, and maybe we'll just tell everyone he said he was going to blow up the world with his imaginary nuclear warheads."

Now hypothetically, wouldn't this be the cure if everyone spoke a common language? This isn't even a didatic discourse or some quixotic supposition. This is the solution. You can disagree, but you are wrong.

I had to make a long distance call to my agents in Jakarta this afternoon and I never forsaw this as the greatest afternoon challenge ever. I mean, this was a standard call and everything should be textbook easy.

Me: "Hi, can I speak to Yuly please?"
Girl: "Diri?"
Me: "No, Yuly."
Girl: "Diri?"
Me: "Huh? What? No, Yuly."

Then she went off rambling in Bahasa, which sounded like 'Blah blah blah' and translated to, 'I don't fucking understand rubbish'.

Me: "What? Can...I...speak...to...Yu...ly."

I was speaking exactly as how I am typing. Slow, clear diction and as if my jaws would fall off if I spoke any faster.

Girl: "Diri? Blah blah blah"
Me: "I... don't... speak... Ba..ha..sa"
Girl: "Blah blah blah"

Like what the fuck are you saying? Am I suppose to press 1 for English? She transfered the call and no one picked up after that. So being the ever linguistic enthusiast that I imagine myself to be, I immediately checked with my Javanese colleague.

Me: "What is 'Diri'? Is she trying to ask me who I am?"
Colleague: "What language is that?"
Me: "I don't know. Bahasa? Or maybe I called Tanzania?"
Colleague: "No such word."

People have got to stop making up their own languages and learn English instead. I swear, soon wars are going to take place in libraries over who has sovereignty over some made up language.

Of late, I've also come to value the intrinsic merits of a proper conversation. Two years ago, I was only interested in foreign women because I had no idea what they were saying and thus we would talk less and fuck more. I also believed that language was never a barrier, so long as the girl had great character, like 'hot ass', 'huge tits' and 'pretty face'.

Even when I was in Taiwan, I didn't entirely understand what they were saying to me, but the girls there were so hot, I didn't mind if I had to carry an entire Chinese dictionary out with me everytime I were to be on a date.

The problem is that lately, I am suffering mild symptoms of maturity, which is the inability to be superficial. Even as hot as a person is, the inability to converse with me proficiently would eventually take it's toll and I would come to a point where I would turn briefly to the option, 'ignore'. And I only converse in one language, English.

What is wrong with me? Since when is a hot ass not enough? I'm rejecting people based on conversational proficiency and chemistry? I am turning into a moron.

Governments around the world need to sit up and acknowledge the greatest social revolution the world has ever seen. Hollywoodification, or the proflieration of Hollywood into our culture and lifestyle. How can anyone be so cruel to deny another individual of enjoying HBO without the proxy of subtitles? Sure, you get the gist, but never the essence of story and that's why we call it lost in translation.

Hong Kong is another place that needs to get it's educational system right. The British colonized the place for like a million years and the only thing they managed to pick up was 'Okay' and Burberry. Did anyone even stop to think if they learnt English, they would have a better chance of going over to London and hook up with the English chicks?

I was in Hong Kong years back and at their famed night life district, Lam Kwai Fong, looking around for some chic place to have drinks and chill. We finally decided on one, which had one of those monosyllabic names like, 'Flash' or 'Static', either way it translated to 'stupid'.

The waitress greeted us in PERFECT English,

Waitress: "Hi, Welcome. Table for.."

I gestured for four. She led the way, then started to make small conversation with me.

Waitress: "So where you guys from? America? Germany? France? India?"

It puzzled me. Do I even look remotely like an American? Do I even look like I can assemble cars? Do I even look like I drink red wine and love men? Do I even look like I have a drinking problem?

The thing was, this girl said it with such a pristine American twang, I was entirely forgiving on the question of our nationality and decided I would continue the conversation sincerely.

Me: "Where's the toilet?"

She shot me a blank look, then replied me in what I hoped to believe was her best TVB impersonation,

She: "Ngor mm sek tang. Lei gong mat yeh?" (I don't understand. What did you say?)

Butterfly.was.speechless

Everyone needs to learn English. If you can't spell 'giraffe', go enroll yourself back in Kindergarten. If you think 'Hippopotamus' is a Greek philosopher, then it's time to sit in with your kid during his English tuition. There is no shame in learning English.

Not speaking English is like having an extra thumb grow out from your ear. You might think it's ok because you can grow your hair long and cover it, but one day cancer is going to strike you and you are going to lose your hair from chemotherapy, and you are going to wish you didn't have that thumb on your ear.

Make the world a happier place. Learn English, cos I swear when I become President, I am going to make you write a 30,000 word essay and it's going to be titled, 'Why did you not listen to me.'

Bird Gives Butterfly An Epiphany

They say God works in mysterious way. It's funny how fate dishes out warnings or signs to us in cryptic messages, where we need various mediums to dechiper them. I mean it's 2008, Singtel no longer has monopoly and Fidel Castro might soon have his own T-Shirt prints, so why can't God just tell us things through SMS?

Well, it certainly beats sitting around wondering if that burning bush is a sign to leave your country, or having your girlfriend cheat on you as a precursor to say stupid things like, 'good things are coming my way', or maybe a get hit with cancer and wonder if you are going to die. If God wasn't so busy, he would just send us all an SMS, like,

"Cheat in the exam. P.S, the boy to your right has some pretty good answers." or, "You are not going to strike TOTO, use that money to buy alcohol instead."

Why the need to second guess, when an SMS outright meliorates our comprehension of the matter. Save the mystery for the Secret 7 and Nancy Drew, I hate second guessing.

Some bird crashed right into my windscreen the other night and I got such a fright, I thought I might go into cardiac arrest. I swear, if I wasn't so taken aback by the whole thud and subsequent flutter of it, I would have yelped or if my vocals allowed me, belted out a shriek that would have qualified me to join the gay community.

The good part of it was that I wasn't driving, but it worried me because I didn't know if the bird was injured or stupid. I was parked at the carpark and the bird actually flew right into my windscreen. I always thought birds had built in sonar with a brain that would at the very least tell them not to fly into things. I could be wrong, which is very rare.

Immediately after it crashed, it started fluttering it's wings and I thought it would just fly off to maybe crash into the Mercedes next to me, but no. It just sat there. This bothered me to some extent because now, I didn't know if it was legitimately injured, or lazy like 90 percent of the human population.

I knew I had to do something. Maybe I could get out the car and check on my windscreen and maybe poke it with a stick while I'm out? Maybe I should call SPCA? Maybe I should just drive off and hope inertia gets rid of it? I know what I did, I turned on my windscreen wiper. That, was a HUGE mistake.

Instead of scaring it off, it made everything worse. The wipers came on, it fluttered. The wipers dragged across my windscreen, feathers flew and next thing I knew, my wiper was dragging the damn bird across my windscreen. I don't know if it's wings got wedged between the rubbers, but everything went on so fast, I panicked and started squirting the windscreen water at it.

It was 8 seconds of the most chaotic battle between nature and Honda. I didn't know what I was doing but I just left the wipers going and the damn bird eventually got pissed at me and flew off. In that whole debacle I think I scared it so much, it actually shat on my windscreen because even after it flew off, there was this coagulated murky patch that the water diluted and the wipers had swept to side. Fuck it.

Honda 1 Nature 0.

Then it hit me, like a Sunday morning erection. Was this a sign? Was God trying to tell me something? Just a week back, some dumbass sparrow actually flew right into me as I was walking to the, get this, Multi-storey carpark. A sparrow, blindsiding me at a sheltered carpark. Wow, this was truly a sign.

I didn't actually think much of that. Largely because it took me by surprise and I looked like an idiot, half shocked and half ducking AFTER it hit me (amazing reflexes I have. I might qualify to be a superhero). I looked exactly like some spastic school kid trying to do the Macarena.

2 birds in a week. Surely this had to be sign. And to make things worse, the birds were actually getting progressively larger. I have to figure this out fast because if I don't arrest this now, I'm going to be walking down the street one day, and an ostrich is going to hit me out of nowhere.

Is God telling me to work at Jurong Bird Park?