The Luminous Friday

Sometimes in life, we get inspired by the most unlikely of things, like dildos, poverty, silicon boobs and anorexia. On Friday, it was a 50% discount on the front of Zara and a reject rack of t-shirts.

There, hung 3 of the brightest most luminous t-shirts that would have made even John Wayne look queer. It came in three colours, bright queer orange, luminous gay yellow and striking homo green. You would have believed me if I told you the clothes were inspired by sorbet flavours.

It was Friday, we were looking to do something crazy and this was our solution. We would grab 5 of these, hit the clubs, and get people to autograph our t-shirts. And besides, we would be so easy to spot, you would have seen me at St James all the way from Bukit Panjang.

When I got to the club with LB, I was coming off two heavy sessions of beer and cognac. RotiPrata, Nana and HY were already there with a line of Red Bull and Vodka. Then it all went downhill.

We got smashed so quickly I don’t even remember the actual sequence of events that led up to a wager between LB and me about him getting some girl to allow him to squeeze her tits and me punching his balls if he failed.

LB: “Can I touch your breast? I don’t want to get punch in the balls by him”

Girl: “NOOOO!”

LB: “How about I just poke?”

In honesty, there really wasn’t anyone there that night except for the whole group of about 14 of us, which was pretty much everyone in the club, save for a couple of stranglers at the corner who were in part peripheral friends. It was in fact so empty, our shadows would have been bored.

Then the champagne made it’s introduction upon our lips and ignited a new desire for St James – which really was in part a plea from HY.

Next I know, we are staggering out the club, fumbling down the stairs and I started lying restlessly on the stone chair outside the place in a pose that would have made Ji Gong proud.

Then with a marker in hand, egged by boredom and enough alcohol in my pee to start a Toyota Prius, I started doodling on the chair. Right until the security guard came along.

He: “Excuse me sir, no lying down here.”

He was sturdy with no expression on his face. The same kind of sadness and disdain for life I would have if I was a security guard. I quickly lifted my back up as best I could.

He: “Did you write on the chair?”

Me: “NOOOO!”

I replied with the only instinctive lie I could muster and all this while, he was staring down at me and there I was sitting, with my marker still uncapped in hand, trying to lie my way out of it.

He: “You know this is vandalising?”

Me: “Dounch worry, I help you clean.”

So I started licking my fingers and rubbed it valiantly against the ink mark, at best smudging it.

He: “The ink mark is still there.”

Me: “But I ran out of saliva…”

To say he was livid was to say the least. There he was bearing down on me for blatant misconduct and there I was, visibly drunk, and licking away on his stone chair.

He: “I can call police you know!”

Me: “Dounch need to call, I continue rubbing for you.”

So I continued greasing my fingers with saliva and wiping them all over the ink trace on the chair. He gave up, still furious but beyond wits end because the other guys were laughing and they were quite possibly mre drunk than I was and also because I ended up talking to the stone dog that was lying next to the chair.

Me: “Ah Wang!! Dounch sleep! Dounch Sleep!”

The cab came and I had to coax an inebriated LB into the cab with HY and his two newfound female friends whom he had only minutes ago, tried to persuade them to allow him to cop a feel.

I scrambled up to drag the rest of them out. I was gaining sobriety by the seconds and not entirely pleased with that it wasn’t even because I was dancing it off. When I got up, it was as if God had heard my prayer, because the champagnes kept coming and I was pretty sure it would suffice the journey to St James.

When we finally did leave, RotiPrata shafted a huge roll of toilet paper into our cab and I was striking up banter with the driver.

Cab: “Why you carrying so much toilet paper?”

Me: “It’s toilet paper to yew, but this is money to me. I sell toilet paper. Uncle, if I wind down your window and start selling toilet paper to the other cars okay anot?”

This was by far the coolest cab driver because most cab drivers usually ignore us when we are drunk, but not only was this guy playing along with my crap, he was actually sporting enough to commit to a karaoke session with me.

When we got there, RotiPrata was spewing all over the sidewalk and if I wasn’t so fixated on getting to dance, or perhaps with a lot less alcohol, I might have showed more empathy or compassion – maybe a pat on the back, instead of just laughing.

By the time we joined the others, there was already another full bottle of vodka, LB had broken a pool cue and it was just as boring as the last place. So what does LB do to spice up the night? He starts tearing our T-shirts.

First it was D2’s, then when my guard was down, he ripped it all the way to my navel. It was like watching Hulk Hogan 20 years back – with smaller biceps and bigger belly.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK!!”

LB: “HAHAHAHA!!”

I grabbed a full glass of Red Bull by the table and began chasing him round the place.

Me: “You muthafucker! Your shirt is gone!”

LB: “Please please! My shirt very expensive. My shirt very expensive!”

So we traded. I took his shirt and he had to content with my t-shirt which by then would have qualified as a safety vest. All he needed was a helmet, some boots and he could have passed off as a construction worker.

Me: “You fucker. If you so much as bite me again. I will burn your fucking shirt!”

30 minutes later, we were in no state to party. I didn’t want to spend my night singing at Mono, LB didn’t have clothes and RotiPrata had on his ‘I’m too fucked. Get me home’ look. So we got into a cab. Or at least LB and I did, and RotiPrata forced his way in.

Me: “Why the fuck are you in the cab with us?”

RotiPrata: “Together lah..”

And mind you, it isn’t like we stay near each other, or that he was going the same way as us. And it wasn’t like he has to pay for cabs and that’s why we are sharing, so it entirely puzzled me why he even wanted to get in with us.

This turned out to the cab driver’s worst ride of the day.

LB: “My wallet! I drop my wallet!”

He frantically searches the chair.

LB: “Uncle! I lost my wallet! Can you help me find?”

Cab: “Mister, how to help you find?! You know I am driving right?!”

RotiPrata had to practically calm the driver down because it looked as if he was going to throw LB out the cab in the middle of the expressway. And it got worse shortly after because we were all arguing on who was going to get to drop off first.

RotiPrata: “Why can’t you drop me off first?!”

Me: “That’s because you don’t even fucking stay near us!”

RotiPrata: “Okay, then uncle, can you stop me at the overhead bridge infront?”

Cab: “Mister, this is the expressway, I can’t just pull over and stop you!”

RotiPrata: “Why? Why? But it’s just up ahead.”

Me: “It’s the fucking CTE!! How the fuck is he going to just stop in the middle of the road when there is no road shoulder there?!”

When we got to the traffic junction after exiting, RotiPrata immediately stormed out of the cab, showed us the middle finger and decided that he was going to walk home instead.

Not only was this absurdly hilarious to me, but the fact that he was going to walk home with a torn luminous t-shirt and a broken watch amused me to no end.

Then 5 minutes later, he called.

RP: “Where the fuck are you?”

Me: “Reaching home.”

RP: “Muthafucking cheebye the both of you!”

Then next day, LB called.

LB: “What happened last night? RotiPrata said you kicked him out the cab.”

Me: “I didn’t kick him out dude, he jumped out the cab. Did he manage to catch a cab?”

LB: “He walked all the way home, with his tattered shirt.”

Then he sent LB this SMS. “You broke my watch, tore my shirt and made me walk all the way home. I don’t know how you are going to make it up to me.”

Us: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

That Speed Date With A Twist

I’ve always been a fan of speed dating because it epitomizes everything about relationships and life. You’re constantly moving, you meet multiple people, you’ll probably lie and everyone is bound to a time limit.

When I was told that there was going to be a speed date with a twist at The Butter Factory, I saw this as brilliant mid-week anecdote to dust off some ring rust from all the docile nights I’ve diligently controlled myself.

Not that I was expecting this to be an antecedent affair that was going to climax into anything more than mere handshakes, or maybe the boys were hoping for some happy ending to this, but I made very clear on what our objectives for the night were; trash talking and lying – lots of it.

If there was any college course on this, I would have been inducted into the educational ranks as a professor. So I spent the afternoon running through some simple introductory and conversational cues with them.

Me: “I believe for a relationship to succeed, there needs to be trust, commitment and anal sex.”

Me: “Do you believe in God? How about ass rims?”

Me: “I think people need to see beyond the superficial and get to know people more personally. On a scale of one to ten, how good is your blowjob?”

The plan for us was simple. To go there, get drunk and be a total asshole. The guys came up with some lines of their own and for a brief moment, I saw how brightly they shone – maybe it was the afternoon sun-, and knew tonight was going to be something really special.

When we got there, we did 4 quick rounds of Absolut Mandarin shots with Red Bull for courage and to ease things into gear. Then a quick brief followed over cigarettes and I soon assumed the role of inventor of speed pourers, Poca’s family created tongs, Nana was the heir of a family rock glass fortune, HY sold ice buckets and D2 peddles tables.

Back at our table, I greeted the first two girls that came over then introduced them – wrongly by name, how silly of me – to the rest of them. Then I stuffed two flutes of champagne to them.

Me: “Have a drink. And I think it’s only appropriate that you know that I’m a child sex offender.”

Her face cringed like it was soaked in salt water since Christmas and silence. I had one less friend for the night.

The guys tried their hands with a group of girls who were killing all erections with their dancing on the dance floor.

D2: “Are you girls from Ngee Ann Poly?”
Girl: “We are from RJC.”
RotiPrata: “So are you the type that thinks you’re smarter than everyone else?”
Girl: “Yes.”

I shook my head in disappointment. Maybe the boys are new at this. Maybe there isn’t enough champagne or vodka in them yet, but this isn’t the way to talk to women –not for this night at least.

I waved for that same girl to come over,

Me: “I just need you to know that we are former sex offenders.”
Girl: “From where?”
Me: “Go away.”

Then there was that one Whale that walked by holding a beer.

Me: “Stay away from carbohydrates!”
She: “FUCK YOU!” [middle finger]

Then there was the one with the mole on her arm.

Me: “I LOVE YOUR TATTOO!!”

She turned to me, smiled then came over.

She: “But I don‘t have a tattoo.”
Me: “Don’t lie! You have the whole world on your arm!”

I pointed to the roundish mole on the arm.

Me: “It’s like looking at us from NASA’s point.”
She: “It’s not a tattoo, it’s a birthmark.”

Okay, so is this what they call it these days? A birthmark?

I was having a ball of a time because I was lying through my teeth about inventing speed pourers and being a writer for a pornographic magazine and the girls stopped believing things that were coming out of me.

Then at the end, one of them came up to me and said,

“I don’t think any of my friends want to talk to you anymore.”

Butterfly Goes For Time-Sharing

“Hello sir, I’m calling to inform you that you have been selected as one of our lucky winners. We would like you to come down and collect your free prize of…”

Oh, we’ve heard those. Free massages, facials, shopping vouchers and skin care products, all because some new company is doing an awareness drive or some time-share company needs cash.

Well, I never seem to hear about new Chinese massage palours opening up and offering free blowjob services. They really should, but I’ll let you know if I do hear anything.

I don’t know what it was that kept me from muttering “no thanks”, because I was actually in the midst of reading some article on the net. Maybe it was his funky Indian accent and complete nervousness which amused me when he had trouble pronouncing my name – and I have a one syllable Christian name, how fucking hard is that.

Or maybe it was the part when he said,

“You can collect your prize of a 3 day 2 night free accommodation and a pair of air tickets to Phuket.”

That was when I threw all contempt for him aside. I’ve gone for free trials for lesser rewards. I’ve been to free massages three times – thank you True Spa, you never learnt not to call me again – and I came out with it, without even needing to sit through their whole sales pitch - I'm not sure if I wrote how I did it before.

I’ve been to free facials and time-shares that offered me some online vouchers and free watches, things which I don’t even use, let alone need. And yet, these were at times when time was a luxury I had and rejecting sales pitches was a skill I honed to such perfection that you’d probably not be even to sell me air even if my life depended on it.

And now, this was finally something that was of value to me. Memories of Phuket came flooding right back, of the parties, the bike rides and the missing flight. The dingy bars with coyotes gyrating on poles, the overpriced seafood, the not too pretty beaches. I wasn’t too sure if Poca would share my enthusiasm but she’s never one to say no to a holiday.

So I caved, knowing very well that I was setting myself up for some very aggressive hard selling – probably at gunpoint if they had a choice.

Me: “So how long do I need to sit in for to get the free gifts?”

When I told the guys and Poca about it, everyone was skeptical. Who wouldn’t? I was going to get a FREE pair of air ticket to Phuket with accommodation, and all I needed was to turn up and say ‘No’ to whatever they had to sell me.

So I dutifully turned up, albeit slightly late for my appointment and the place was everything I had expected. A small office unit with a reception area that would have made a Polyclinic looked like the Ritz and rooms that suspiciously looked like they were made for interrogations.

I knew I had to survive 70mins at least before I could qualify for the gifts so the immediate game plan was for ‘delay tactics’. I was pulling out all the punches, from gritty small talk to delayed responses, right down to scrutinizing everything that he was asking.

He: “So, how many holidays have you been on last year.”
Me: “When you say holidays, do you mean business or pleasure?”
He: “Erm.. pleasure?”
Me: “Would you include Johor Bahru as a holiday?”

He: “So would it be safe to say that since you travel a lot, that you like to go on holidays?”
Me: “When you say like, on a scale of 1 to 10, is that a 6 or a 7?”
He: *stares wide eyed* *silence* “Sorry? I don’t get you.”
Me: “1 being ‘okay’ and 10 being ‘love’, when you say ‘like’ what kind of scale are you talking about?”
He: “Erm, I don’t know. Just like as in you enjoy.”

He: “If time and money were not an issue, what would be your top 3 destination choices?”
Me: “Cities or countries?”
He: “Anything. Up to you.”
Me: “There’s a difference because there is more than one city I want to visit in the United States.”
He: “Okay, cities..”

I don’t know if he knew I was actually messing with him or if he thought I was some moron, but his patience with me was clearly decaying with ever question.

He: “Have you been to these kind of sales presentations before?”
Me: “Yep. They tried to sell me things I had no use of.”
He: “What did they try to sell you?”
Me: “Holiday packages and memberships.”

This one was the longest silence I made him go through. I don’t know if he was considering biting his own tongue or to stab me in the throat with his magic marker. Or maybe he was having a heart attack. If you didn’t already know, this was exactly what he was going to be selling me.

He: “Would you be interested if I showed you how you can save money and get better quality travel at the same time?”
Me: “Your telemarketing guy managed to get me down here with just the word “Free”, I’m keen to see if you can beat him.”

He: “How much on average do you spend on your trips?”
Me: “Including alcohol and shopping expenditure?”
He: “For air fare and lodging.”
Me: “It’s hard to say. The last time I was in Taiwan, I paid $7 a night. Are you going tell me you can beat that?”

It was so fun messing with him because he was definitely new at this and was nowhere as eloquent as most con-men should be. At some point I think he was afraid of asking me questions because for everything he asked, I would have a barrage of trivialities for him to respond to.

That said, I wasn’t being entirely an asshole because I was listening to whatever he had to say and I had legitimate concerns that he and his manager could not handle. So it went from them trying to convince me why I should buy, to me convincing them that the package they were selling was very flawed.

Every sentence for the last half hour I was there either started with, “This doesn’t make sense” or “I don’t agree with you”. Largely, because it boiled down to some calculations about their membership resale and that I was actually going to make a $6,000 profit if I sold it back to them.

This was getting ridiculous for me because firstly, they were giving a free holiday to Phuket and now they are telling me that I was going to make $6,000 from them. It was like Christmas came again or I maybe was on some hidden camera show. It just got better and better to a point that perhaps if I just stayed longer, the cleaning lady would give out free handjobs.

It took me one calculator and a very slow explanation to show the guy how ridiculous the whole plan seemed, because it was just so good to be true, it was like buying a mouse on discount and getting a free laptop to go with it, and if that wasn’t good enough, you find out Bill Gates is your father.

I didn’t give a shit anyway, so I left with a discontented handshake from them, a gift voucher from some optical shop, a booking slip for my holiday and a huge grin on my face. If dexterity allowed or if I was more diligent with Yoga classes, I would have patted my back.

I don’t know when these time-share companies will learn never to call me again, but if there’s a free holiday up for grabs, my number’s still the same.

Goodbye 2009, Hello 2010

Despite my lack of posts, 2009 was actually a pretty eventful year and largely in a good way. For starts, I think I’ve had more sober nights this year than any year over the last 5 years.

My propensity for getting stabbed by a barstool and thrown out the bar has dipped to about the same level as the likelihood of Stevie Wonder peeping in an examination. Yes, I’ve been saintly - well, relatively at least.

So as I would traditionally, here is 2009 in a highlight reel – but in words of course.

1. Poca

If you’ve been an avid reader, then you’d know that this was the year I settled into a committed relationship. Not my month long commitment, but an actual relationship where I am willing to do things beyond my normal comprehension like, sharing the remote control, cooking dinner and admitting the word, ‘love’.

This is as big a change in life for me as it would be for Mariah Carey if she had to rap for the rest of her life, or if Angelina Jolie was told that she could not adopt any more kids because they ran out of Third World kids for her.

But there’s always a price for happiness and I found mine.

2. Macau with LB

This turned out to be our last travel misadventure of the year. If you’ve read my travelogues, you would know that I have a very storied history with LB when it comes to travelling fuck ups.

We’ve missed the plane, been on countless times late for flights, had our coach rammed through a checkpoint and this time the flight actually didn’t come and we got stuck in the cold for 6 fucking hours - during which time Korea would have united and blue-ray turned obsolete.

It had all the makings of a typical trip; problems with flights, disaster hook ups that ended with me being kicked out the house, silly escapades fuelled by boredom and a lot of alcohol that ended with us taking a taxi trip round Macau to sight-see all brothels – and use their toilets and piss them off no less.

It was also the first time I actually had shark’s fins and steam Soon Hock for breakfast. The trip cost me so much, I almost had to sell my organs.

3. Japan

This was a great trip with Poca that unfortunately will always be remembered for one incident and that was the $430 cab ride. Yes, that will go down as the single most expensive cab ride of my life and it didn’t even come with a handjob.

I also realized that the girls there in general do not look as good as they do in porn but thankfully short skirts are still very much the order of the day.

And Japanese pole dancers are so good they make every other pole dancer look like they are in epileptic seizure holding the pole as a walking stick. They are so awesome that their awesomeness rubs off on the pole and you can auction it in for a Bentley.

4. Twins

My sister gave birth to twins this year. It’s funny how people always tend to ask if there’s a history of twins in the family lineage and they get puzzled when there isn’t. Hey shitheads, it’s got to start somewhere right, how do you think the first twins in history came about? A photocopy from God?

So it basically means that it’s double the presents, or half the cost?

5. Embarrassing Club Moment

You know how it is when you misread a body gesture and react inappropriately to it? No? I do. Some time back, I was chatting with this girl at the club. I remembered a lot of flirting and a lot more vodka.

There were the subtle social cues like the running her hands down my arms and the patting my chest between every joke or remark I made, that if it was translated to sound, would be like the unhooking of her bra or unzipping of pants.

It was the very same vibe that I knew I had charmed her enough to still have her number even if I told her I was a teratophile and that I still wet my bed every morning.

Then for some reason she inched forward and with vodka, somehow my reflex action was to launch forward to kiss her.

Worst.Reaction.Ever

She: “What the fuck?”

Needless to say, she wasn’t anticipating that and it took her almost entirely by surprise. And I kid you not, those were her immediate words exactly.

6. Worst Drunk Moment

I’ve hardly had much of these this year, but there was one night we were out partying so hard, I spent almost the entire night puking.; right outside the cab, outside my porch, right to the toilet – were I fell asleep

I was puking so much that if it was chunkier, it would have passed off as congee and you could have fed all of Somalia with it.

7. Best Party

There were good ones alright, but not even Armin or Freedom in Malacca was anywhere as awesome as the Red Bull Sub Zero Underground party. Imagine partying in a sub zero environment with insane Trance and an endless flow of free alcohol.

It was rocking so hard, it would have gotten a Priest up on the tables to dance, and you wouldn’t even need a naked young boy to bait him.

8. Worst Parties

There were a couple of incredibly bad ones that came with so much promise but delivered an impact much like Justin Timberlake would in politics, like UnderWorld and Gatecrasher. They sucked so badly they would have killed Ronald McDonald’s smile.

The turnout was horrible for starts and it looked like there were more people at a Mango sale than at the party. What do you call dancing at an empty venue?

A waste of time.

9. First Publication

2009 was the first time I had a post under my Butterfly moniker published and you can read it in Rhythm Magazine – The Butter Factory’s bi-monthly mag. I have a regular page running and it is a ‘Survival Guide’ of sorts.

If you don’t have access to the magazine, then you have to make some serious considerations on what you have been reading and what you can do to make sure you get your hands on a copy. Or alternatively, you can read about the magazine article in my Facebook Groups.

And because it’s 2009, I’ve kept it to 9 highlights – I’m also equally guilty of being lazy of thinking.

So 2010, and I’ve got a whole list of positive things I want to do, which includes trying to clock a decent 6 hour sleep and to giggle instead of laughing at the Paralympics.

Oh, and I will write more.