Monday, June 29, 2009

Butterfly Hates Virus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Butterfly Goes For Lady Gaga

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Me:That is Parkinson’s disease!”

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

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

One of the MCs remarked,

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, June 08, 2009

Freedom In Malacca - Pt 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ken: “Can you pass me the Pringles?”

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, June 06, 2009

Freedom In Malacca - Pt 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?!”

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

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

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

His response to that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “Yep, I think that was it.”

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Freedom in Malacca - Pt 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady: “RM330

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

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

Which part of duty free actually means taxable?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poca: “What the fuck!”

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

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

The Rave…