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.


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