Friday's Fight Night

I don't think people wake up on Friday's and think to themselves, "Hmm, today seems like a good day to get into a fight. Maybe I'll get lucky and have my ears sliced off."

Last Friday, was the first time since nearly a year that I actually got out with Reznor for a night that included copious amounts of alcohol and music good enough to make me want to stand up and burn calories.

Everything was how any normal night would have been, except that a year on, I've learnt to curb my enthusiasm for binge drinking and marginalize my quixotic verbal rampages and taunts. I've also learnt that it is inappropriate to kiss strangers.

I can't say I knew that something eventful was waiting to ambush us, but a mise en scene that was moving panoramically from Butter Factory to a gigolo bar and then to Living Room, was telling that perhaps the night wasn't going to be so usual after all.

When we alighted from the cab at Marriott's at about 4.30am, we saw this chubby Malay guy sprinting past us like he had the last golden ticket to Charlie's Chocolate Factory, either that or there was a buffet line down the road.

Then we got to the queue and the guys were all smoking outside. Something big had obviously just gone down because people were still talking about it like it was the freshest paedophile scandal.

Me: "What the fuck happened?"
HY: "Dude, there was this big fight. Like 15 Chinese and 15 Malays. They were just fighting outside here a minute ago!"

D2: "There were like 10 of them only..."
HY: "It's damn traumatizing! I can't take this..I need to go home."

HY was clearly inebriated because I didn't know if he was excited about the whole incident or that it was just the vodka and Red Bull kicking in.

HY: "Dude, they had like parangs that were THIS long."

He gesticulated, sizing the blades to a point that it looked more like samurai swords.

D2: "Those were poles la."
HY: "They were parangs!! I'm fucking traumatized."

Then one of the guys walked by us. I didn't see him, but apparently, he was covered in blood. His ear was dangling. He had a slash on the back of his neck amongst numerous other deep cut on this back. He was so beat up, he would have made the beating Rocky took look like rashes.

HY: "I'm fucking traumatized. I'm going home. I'm too fucking traumatized by this. I've never seen anything like this before."

RotiPrata: "Relax la, let's go in and drink."
HY: "Dude! The guy's ear was fucking dangling off his face!"

So we went in and our table was down to the last half bottle, which I didn't really care because I had quite a bit of cognac churning within me that introducing vodka didn't sound too prudent a choice.

Then came the spark. There was this Caucasian guy who came with my friend, who was there before we came and he was being a total dick. Apparently, he had some issues with Reznor pouring from the bottle and it finally blew out of proportions.

Well, when it comes to Reznor, it doesn't take much really.

So he snatched the bottle from Reznor and Reznor flew into a rage, just short of climbing over the tables with his shoe at hand. Then I snatched it back from him and he stared right at me.

He: "Did your friend pay for the bottle?"
Me: "This is my bottle."
He: "Did you pay for the bottle?"
Me: "Yes, it says so on the bottle."
He: "Whatever.."

Reznor was all worked up by then and RotiPrata was all ready to jump into the fray. All that was keeping them from jumping the drunk guy, was a thin defensive line of women.

Then he pulled me over.

He: "Where is my bottle?"
Me: "How would I know. When I got here, there was only one bottle. And it's mine."
He: "So what does your friend what now?"
Me: "Just go home."

I was pissed because the set was just breaking into Trance and Tiesto was teasing in the background. And instead of burning calories doing productive work like dancing, we were using it to break up a fight - that was probably never going to top the one that just happened half an hour ago.

So we left. The mood lost somewhere after the first "Fuck You" was verbalized and the fatigue from my sporadic attempts to dance settling in.

Then the guy tried to apologize, which Reznor for some reason saw it as an act of aggression and we had to hold him off like he was a pitbull charging for a rabbit. Immediately, my instincts kicked in.

I love my life too much to be ambushed by a gang of knife wielding lunatics. Maybe he was buying time. Maybe he's got a gun. Am I fucking paranoid? Is this the cognac talking? Is it legal to carry a hand grenade? What if his posse is just round the corner. Is there a cab nearby I can dive into?

Me: "Let's go. I don't want to sit around and get stabbed."

The First Accident

Do you ever wake up in the morning and know immediately that the day ahead is going to be life-changing? And it doesn’t count if you’re going for a sex change or chemotherapy.

I’ve always believed that life is a succession of unpredictability, opportunity and domestic violence if you’re really unlucky. Or maybe it’s just a canvas of premeditated sequences by God and it is being permeated through time and consequence.

I’ve been driving for 11 years – well, minus the 1 odd year that I wasn’t allowed to – and that’s a lot of mileage and more time on the road collectively than people would have spent at McDonald’s for two life times.

And it’s been a good accident free record to boast if you really get me started, because I think I am generally an awesome driver. If Batman ever needed a chauffeur for his Bat-Mobil, it would have been me.

Then Friday came and changed everything. And the worst part of it was, that I wasn’t even driving to begin with.

This was how it all transpired from my perspective, because there is always only one point of view to anything, and that is my point of view.

There I was, sitting in the car, dutifully tearing up my parking coupons because the vigilance and diligence of these attendants these days is just nothing short of amazing. Their work-rate will put the most industrious sheep dog to shame.

Next thing I know, I feel – or hear, either of which don’t really matter at this point in time – something hit the side of my car. I look up to see a horrific sight of a Mercedes grazing the front right corner of my car.

I can’t say I was livid about the whole 2 second of reality and stupidity of the other person that was unfolding before me, because my initial reflex was of disbelief and followed shortly by a string of expletives that imploded within my train of thought.

I immediately honked at him, got out the car and then made a call to Roti Prata.

Me: “Grab a pen and paper for me. I’m at the back of the office. Some fucker just hit my car.”

The driver then got out looking terribly remorseful, but it was a guy so there wasn’t cleavage, good looks or short skirts in his favour that could have potentially mitigated the whole situation.

He: “So sorry, I was trying to give way to the bus.”

So he was trying to be a good road Samaritan and he sacrificed my car instead? Oh my, where is Sharity Elephant to give him his road courtesy award at a time like this?

Me: “Just give me your particulars..”

This is my first accident, but I won’t say I’m a total novice when it comes to procedures because I have been in enough accidents with LB to know what needs to done and how to go about doing it.

So I copied down his particulars and made him sign a written statement about hitting me. I gave him my contact so that he could arrange for my car to be patched up and took his. Then I left, but not without murmuring a hex under my breath first just because it’s cool to be a wizard these days.

When I got in, I announced the breaking of my accident virginity and then convinced everyone that buying my license plate number for the weekend 4D draw was the best financial investment since buying Citibank shares.

Then I decided to call him. Yes, I didn’t verify his number on the spot. No one is perfect, except for Megan Fox.

Me: “Is this Ithnin?”
Guy: “Wrong number.” [hangs up my call]

In panic, I immediately ran to the back to see if his car was still around. It wasn’t, but I’m sure you saw this coming.

Me: “Muthafucking chee bye! I’m calling the cops!”

So I dialed 999 for the first time, something I wished I never had to do in my life.

Cop: “Hi sir, how can I help you?”
Me: “I would like to report a hit and run.”

Cop: “Was anyone injured?”
Me: “No, but my car is damaged.”

Then, I was asked to narrate the whole incident over again.

Me: “Some muthafucker, hit me on the side of my car and fucking gave me a fake contact number…”

Cop: “Sir, I will have to ask you to mind your language.”
Me: “…. Sorry.”

This was the hardest story I had to tell because here I was, fuming mad for being given a wrong number, or maybe he was pretending to another person, and I couldn’t use profanities as an expression for my wrath. It was like making R Kelly sit at a playground with Viagra and a leash.

Cop: “So sir, why did you report this as a hit and run?”

Me: “Because the fuc.., the man hit me and he ran away. Well, technically he didn’t but, he did give me a fake contact.”

Cop: “Sir, just for your info, this is not a hit and run. I will continue to file a report for you, but I suggest you make an insurance claim instead.”

I called the insurance company and they told me to send the car in to the workshop and to come in to make the report at the same time. So I drove all the way down to Sin Min, still pissed with the whole morning and wondering if legally, I can have him shot by a firing squad for this.

Once there, I recounted my story all over again for the umpteenth time to the guy and he told me drive my car over for him to assess the damage. And I did, but when I stepped out of it, he looked at me seemingly perplexed by it.

CarGuy: “Just like that only?”

He asked, pointing to the damage and humiliating my car had gone through.

Me: “Yup. Is there a problem?”

CarGuy: “Yes, big problem. You can’t claim for damages under $1000. You really need to try and settle it with the guy instead.”

Me: “I made a police report anyway.”

CarGuy: “Why did you make a report?”

Why would I not? If someone stole a cookie from you, the least you could do is to run after them with a shotgun.

Well apparently, the police doesn’t really give a shit about petty traffic accidents that can be resolved between the parties involved. Or neither will they bother to even direct any resources to helping you because deploying speed cameras and road blocks are much better revenue generators.

Then in the midst of me checking what should I do at the moment, I received a call from a rather familiar number. Then I heard his voice, the same monotonous tone that will bore the shit out of Newater, but it lit up my day like fireworks on a desert night.

Me: “Why did you give me a wrong number?”

He: “No no, this is my number. I didn’t give you wrong number.”

Me: “I am staring at the contact number you wrote for me. It says, you gave me the wrong number.”

He: “Okay sorry. I will send you the address to send your car to. I hope we can settle it quickly.”

Best thing I heard all day. If my pants weren’t so tight, I might have had an erection.

The MSN Spam

Is MSN messenger going bonkers, or has everyone turned into commercial spam bots?

My MSN is inundated with requests from strange emails that look suspiciously like they were created by porn actresses, pedophiles and axe murderers. And to top it all, suddenly half my friends are promoting health stimulants.

Is this the herald of the end of the world? Has the cyber world been corrupted by a virus that threatens to end all form of social communication? Am I forced to block every new friend add request? Without MSN, is there still life?

Just the other day, I decided to reply to a stranger with an email address that immediately told me that it was some spam gimmick, because it was made up of a string of unintelligible alphabets and number, either that or the owner was drunk when she created it.

My decision to reply was fuelled by boredom from just sitting through a lunch that didn’t interest me. I can’t say I was curious but I was wondering how their replies to me would be like if I didn’t give them anticipated replies.

It all started out with a ‘Hi” as with all generic conversations, but I was going to drag the conversation into an utter social oblivion that whoever was behind it, was going to delete me immediately.

It: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi”
It: “Remind me again, which social networking site did I message you from?”

This gave it all away, because Facebook is pretty much the only social networking site I bother logging in to.

Me: “www.i-am-a-slut.com”
It: "I’m 21/F, you are a guy right?”
Me: “I am bisexual, I like fried chicken and animals.”
It: “Nice. Hey listen, I am going to login to a chat-room, do you have webcam and a high speed internet connection?”

Was this asshole even paying attention to what I was saying? Or was it just so fixated on selling me an idea that it has completely ignored my replies. I was convinced that this was either a spam bot or an insurance agent.

Me: “Stop wasting your time with webcams. If you are going to strip then come over to my place and do it. The address is Sesame Street, the corner right after Elmo’s.”

It: “I’ll give you the site to view me, but you have to promise that it’s only for you to watch.”

Me: “Watch you naked? No thanks. I’d rather watch you suck Garfield’s dick.”

It: “I have other friends if you are interested. The website is…”

I was really amazed that I was so tickled by the whole thing. I was actually enjoying myself talk trash to a computer. I am growing up to be a geek. If I don’t mitigate the situation soon, I might be jerking off to World of Warcraft in a couple of years.

I thought this was hilarious, so I told Poca about what I did over lunch.

Poca: “Are you a moron? By replying you are validating your email account!”

Oh so that’s how it works.

Faking The Stag Night

Have you wondered how profitable a night out at the clubs can get? It takes a lie, a lot of guts – or alcohol -, friends, minus your shirt and inhibitions and you have yourself an avenue for spare change.

Last Friday, inspired by the routine Hen’s night of peddling dares and services, we decided to doth dignity, honesty and all things orthodox for an attempt to make financial sense of a Stag night. Even if it was a fake one.

Couple months back, we were at Zouk and there was this group of ladies celebrating a Hen’s night and they were selling hugs and kisses for $2. Not quite as lucrative as your carpark blowjobs, but these were women who looked like they’ve been through worse times in World War II.

So, based on the sole motion of sympathy dollars that people give to you just because it’s the last night of singlehood and not because they truly give a shit about your hugs, we decided to milk generosity for all it’s worth.

The plan was simple. We were going to pretend that it was Nana’s Stag night and sell lap dances or any non explicit favours for a price. So we armed ourselves with a blackboard baring our purpose, hid conscience in our pockets and headed for the clubs.

When we got to the first club, we realized two things; people lack a sense of humour and the people there are so cheap, they would have made Scrouge look like Warren Buffet. The only thing cheaper was a box of air.

One girl offered us $2 to take a photo with two transsexuals. Another gave us $2 because we kept hounding them. And in that space of half an hour, the lady crushing empty cans would have made more than us.

Me: “This place sucks. We should go to a gay club. You need the pink dollar in times like these.”

And it made perfect sense. Where else would people pay to see men bar top dance? Where else can we be topless and still have people cheer on our cellulite? Where else would people be sporting enough to encourage decadence?

It was a toss up between a prison and a gay club. But between communal male showers with sodomy and alcohol with potentially decent music, the choice was clear enough for even Ray Charles to see.

As soon as we got in, we started parading our blacklkboard proudly, without decorum or shame, but a brash flaunt of willingness to partake in debauchery. After all, we had it declared boldly in words.

“Favours for sale. Ask for free quote.”

Then pandemonium erupted. Poca was aggressively selling off our bartop services, kisses – with men included -, but largely just the need for us to remove our shirts.

It soon became clear that this was the place of champions. $2 notes became obsolete, and $10 became the order of the day with one guy even throwing in $50. All I needed was a cleavage and a cool dance routine to qualify as a stripper.

Is this what it feels like to get paid to take off my clothes? This is the easiest cash I’ve earned since lying about being a tuition teacher. I love it. I have lost all sympathy for strippers because I bet they love it too.

There was no room for conscience to call out to us, not when there was money to be made and drinks to be skulled. Maybe we shouldn't have lied about the stag night, or charity. Maybe this is breaching the lines of morality, but I was only going to address and acknowledge this before we hit $20.

But Butterfly, did you say charity? But isn’t that in part blasphemous to taint the great name of charity? If NKF and Ren Chi can do it, we can do it better. I’ve always said I was an asshole, did you really expect better of me?

It’s not like people truly give a shit if the money was going to some shoeless kid in Ethiopia, because poverty is going to make him run to school everyday and that’s going to win him an Olympic medal someday, unless he steps on a landmine.

People are paying us because they know we are cheap and they want us to take off our shirts and watch us make a fool of ourselves in the club. And we are smart enough to exploit that.

Obviously, there were also other straight men in the club who wanted Poca to participate in the bet. I know they were straight because any man who will pay to see female tits is either straight, drunk or a complete moron.

By the time we left there, we were $162 richer and half a liver poorer. If I had diligently sat through finance classes in University, I would say this was a great bargain.

Now, what mischief should we have this Friday..