How To Lose Your Partner in 10 Ways - Pt 1

Life has always been a tedious trial of formulas. Sometimes we get the right equations and we solve life’s greatest mysteries like, happy ever after’s, cure for cancer, reading maps and finding the G-Spot. Thankfully, for anything we can’t solve there is always, cheating, regrets and suicide.

I’ve never believed there was a set of pre-designed blueprint that mapped a successful relationship for everyone. What it was, was a farcical pronunciation of obvious facts that didn’t meliorate the chances of a successful relationship more than it served to preserve one.

It was always about, ‘paying attention’, ‘don’t cheat’, ‘don’t fuck her sister’ and ‘always use a condom’. Sometimes there were also the less interesting points about, ‘good communication’ and ‘maintaining the spark’, that was so obvious, even Ike Turner could have written a book about this.

So instead of another Oprah moment of regurgitating the same shit in different words, let me start on the guide of 10 activities that WILL cause you to lose a partner.

This list can potentially go on for so long, it will make the bible look like a comma, so I’m going to exclude the common ways of losing a partner like accidentally mixing cynide in their coffee, getting syphilis or giving birth to an elf.

1. Salsa

Not many people know this, but Salsa is the dance created by polygamous monks in the 3rd century. It was created to fuel lust and break couples up. If you actually re-arrange the letters, it actually spells ‘Salsa’, which means, ‘Worst Fucking Dance Ever Invented’ in really ancient English.

I know many of you are gasping in horror at this revelation, largely because you are fan of this. I also know for a fact that there is actually a large community for Salsa, which has a popularity somewhere between prawn fishing and sex in the car.

In due credit, I think it’s a cool dance to watch only if the girl hot – and if it isn’t your girlfriend dancing with someone else. It has about the same excitement quotient as watching the our grand-parents in a marathon.

Thing is, Salsa is only cool if both couples are active in the sport – and I call it a sport because I’ve seen people perspire while doing it. It’s the very sensual nature of the dance, which requires so much initmacy that it will never be digested by petty individuals who are not in the scene.

It’s this sheer need for intimacy between partners that has faltered many relationships in it’s illustrious history. It’s a known fact that Salsa has broken up more couples than the Holocaust. And I know this for a fact because I know of many people who have changed partners because of Salsa.

Yes, there are the times when it’s all about the insecure partner, who isn’t in the initiated circle and whose emotions are riled by myopic jealousy and suspicions, and it degenerates into a cataclysmic self-prophesizing. But can you blame them?

Now, everything would be fine if both the couple were to be a part of this carnal circus, so long as there is a mutual undersatnding and trust that any other dance partner has to be uglier. Let’s face it, if someone is touching your partner’s ass, you’d better be touching their’s back.

Salsa is like an orgy, but with tight clothes and songs you would find on a Speedy Gonzales soundtrack. There isn’t a specific partner that you have to dance with and this is one of the select social activites where having a variety of partners isn’t a stigma. This is one of the few times you can actually change partners without worrying about gonorrhea.

So if you are a non Salsa dancer, and at the club because your partner is, I can imagine the joy and intrinsic entertainment value it would be to sit there purposelessly, watching your partner in the arms of another. I just hope you have some awesome games on your iPhone, you’ll need it.

8 years ago, I was in a relationship with a Salsa dancer and it sucked. Not only did she make me go with her to all her dance gatherings, I had to sit through 2 hours of amateurish crap without a drop of alcohol and any hot girl in sight. I would have had more fun watching midgets chop firewood.

If you are looking to keep your relationship alive, pick some other dance activities, like line-dancing or hip-hop; dances that will make you look cool in a community centre or club.

If you ARE looking to end one subtly without the need of slowly increasing your daily cynide dosage for them, then signing up for Salsa is just one click away. You can google it or check out, http://www.worst-fucking-dance-ever-invented.com/.

2. Anything

The worse word to use in a relationship, is ‘Anything’. I believe it is the single most irritating word ever invented since, ‘Nothing’. The only thing more irritating than ‘anything’, is ‘aNyThiNg’.

It isn’t so much that we need to censure indecisiveness, because it can be predicated upon as casualness and in my world, being easy going is a worthy salute. Yet, so often, ‘anything’ is the verbal reflex of our reluctance to think.

90% of ‘Anything’ is never anything, which is statistically equivalent to the amount of times men forget their anniversary dates. The only thing that beats this statistic is when women say ‘nothing’, because it’s NEVER nothing.

Do you know how irritating it is when people say ‘anything’ and they follow that up with a barrage of objections? It pisses me off so badly that mentally I scream ‘Fuck you!’ so loudly, even God hears me.

‘Anything’ is the least constructive word to a relationship, edging out ‘Okay’ which is a close second. ‘Anything’ should only be used by people who mean what they say, just like when Steve Ch*a says ‘fuck you’ to his maid or when O.J says ‘I’ll kill you’.

It’s like a diseased word that starts you on a path of nonchalance that exacerbates into a routined life where we don’t wish to plan or think constructively. Then soon, that will be the only responses we are willing to muster for our partners and when that happens, it’s only a matter of time before they stab you with a plastic knife.

And eight more to go..

The Genting Rave Story Pt 3

There isn’t much to complain about KL city. There are mega malls at almost every corner that will make VivoCity feel like a convenience store. The nightlife is preponderantly more vibrant and there is this precarious juxtaposition of suspicious back-lanes and rustic hawker affairs painted into their ultra urban backdrop.

The only thing that I couldn’t digest was the state at which they so daringly front their Fast Food Chains, because it is a blasphemous abuse of the fast food manifesto; quick service.

We popped in to A&W for a hotdog and what we got was 20mins of waiting. It’s a fucking hotdog and we had to wait as if they were preparing a full 9 course Chinese dinner. Lance Armstrong would have cycled round France twice.

The ride up to Genting was a brisk hour or so but getting out to a cold breeze was every bit as welcoming as a garland, Hawaiian bikini dancers and fruit punch. Just pulling out a jacket and shivering beneath was a therapeutic ease from any discomfort we had from sitting in the cab.

There was only one thing that needed our immediate attention and that was securing our transport back on Sunday. RotiPrata got back from the bus terminal shortly without a trace of emotion on his face.

He: “No more buses available for Sunday.”

If there was a prize for predicting things correctly, I would have shouted, “I FUCKING KNEW IT!” at the top of my lungs and then flung myself downhill. I was going to do anything to get back, even if it meant hiring janitors to sleigh me down in a push cart.

Everything was collapsing faster than Tetris on speed. The taxi drivers were quoting us RM1000 for four people when we had five. It seemed that complacency was going to cost us dearly, but at least we finally settled on a MPV for RM900.

Now surely there was nothing that was going to stop this from blowing into an insane Saturday night. There was the weather that was just beckoning us to change residency, there was ample entertainment to occupy us till the event and there were the VIP tickets to the outdoor rave.

Then five hours later, there was the first hiccup to the night.

LB: “There are no VIP passes, but we can buy the tickets at RM38.”

Well, it didn’t really matter to me because there really isn’t any preferential VIP treatment at outdoor raves to begin with, and the event doesn’t even have alcohol available. Then, half an hour later.

LB: “I heard the event is full already, but let’s go and check it out anyway.”

Well, that only shows that the event truly is successful and worth our time in journey. We’ve travelled almost 7 hours for this, now surely we weren’t about to leave everything to doubt.

And since there wasn’t going to be alcohol in sight for the next 4 hours, we headed to a bar with a Pinoy live band – so you can be sure there was good vocals, and a clean stage floor. I got a jug of beer and Poca had a lethal cocktail that had her jumping around shortly after. I like to think of it as fuel for the party.

When we got there, we realized that the tickets for the event had all been sold out. And mind you, this was a 10 minute uphill hike from our hotel lobby to the event venue. It might be cold, but lactic acid builds up all the same.

The only way we were going to get in, was to buy black-market tickets that were going at RM150 each. This was at 12.30am and the event was ending at 3am. A torrential flood of deliberations waged on between us.

What if the tickets are fake? What if the event ends earlier than scheduled? Is it illegal to buy tickets off them? Why didn’t we come earlier? And what the fuck happened to our VIP passes!

It was 1.30 am and suddenly ticket prices were at RM175 each. Apparently in Genting, this is how they roll.

Me: “What fuck of a logic is this? Aren’t tickets supposed to be getting cheaper?!”

Then Poca realized that she had left her ID back at the hotel, so we both headed back to get it while LB, RotiPrata and Faith stayed on to assess the situation. When we got back, the guys had secured 5 tickets at RM166 each. In cost perspective, this was a full 70min massage and a bowl of noodles.

5 minutes into the event, LB receives an SMS from Jo.

“I have VIP passes now, are you guys still interested to come?”

You have to be shitting me. We went through all of that from having VIP passes, to not having, to being disallowed in to negotiating on fake tickets to buying tickets at exorbitant rates and now, only now, she has tickets?!

Is it just me or is timing always this cruel to everyone else? Or is this some test from a higher being that is designed to test my resolution in partying?

The great thing was that Paul Oakenfold was actually awesome – for all 15mins that we got to enjoy. Then they brought out some other gay fuck DJ that was probably as good if I was deaf and on a bottle of Prozac.

Everything else was as how we anticipated it to be; hordes of people in sunglasses to hide everything but their intentions and free smoking that was demarcated only by considerate public etiquette.

The event was decent in general. It wasn’t the goosebumps inducing toxin that Tiesto was capable of, or the hard bass concoction that most rave parties in Malaysia offered. Sure, there were the Marlboro girls that would have shamed our local equivalents, but any party without alcohol is like putting a eunuch in an orgy.

But of course, no else seemed to give a fuck about it because this is a rave and nobody needs alcohol when you have other substances with way cooler names than vodka or whiskey.

We left shortly before it ended and marked our presence by doing the Visa dance at the entrance in plain view of everyone who probably thought we were morons. Fuck them, with that much chemicals in them, they are not going to remember shit anyway.

Our cab driver back was actually pretty cool. He was brutally honest, spoke with a funny accent and was dreadfully sarcastic at times. He spent about half an hour explaining to us why he could not make a detour to the Tuas link checkpoint to check if Faith’s bag was still lying around waiting for her. Something about permits.

Then 4 hours later, that all faded into a Kodak moment of panic when he accidentally made a wrong turn into customs without an available u-turn. It was priceless. He was in such a panic, you would have thought that he was going to be thrown into prison, get ass raped by midgets in the courtyard and get fed with rat poison.

Cab: “Oh no.. oh no. I cannot come here. I cannot pass customs.”

Now surely he isn’t some federal convict, because just an hour ago, he said that he was a millionaire – as with what some cab drivers here like to tell me. And this is Malaysia, you can get out of a speeding offense faster than a Bangladeshi laying a brick. Making a wrong turn into customs is probably as much a crime as not wearing a bra to church.

In any case, we weren’t going to wait around for him to wrangle his way out of it. We got off, paid the guy, pissed a line of commuters for cutting the bus queue and finally made our way back to Singapore.

This all went pretty well by our standards. Well at least I made it back on Sunday.

The Genting Rave Story Pt2

After we finally convinced Faith that travelling 4 hours back to customs was as good an idea as playing hopscotch on a mine field, we found ourselves with one more remedy to chase.

There were now two immediate tasks to solve when we got to the hotel. We still needed to secure our return transport from Genting and now we had to somehow find a way to locate Faith’s bag at the customs, which was as good a chance as growing marijuana at the botanic gardens.

Her growing anxiousness and fervid optimism was fast blooming into a red herring to my own skepticism of finding a way back from Genting. Predictably, it both fell faster than a stripper's skirt when we finally arrived at the hotel.

Not only was it not possible to contact the Malaysian customs, but there also weren’t any bus services that we could arrange to get us back from Genting. It was now a gamble - we had to try our luck there.

But that was a worry that would be left till later. We had one night in KL and I wasn’t about to surrender it to petty doubts and trivial concerns. There was cheap food at rat-rampant hawkers and a pre-arranged guestlist at Zouk that awaited our consumptive destruction.

And that was exactly what happened.

Jo, who was LB’s contact in KL, came down to pick us up in a very predictable Proton. She was also the one who had arranged for our VIP passes to the SpeedZone event in Genting and truth be it, probably the one pivotal pull in LB’s decision to travel.

When we got to Zouk, the familiarity that so often greeted us was now replaced by a façade that bore likeness but encompassed a world of difference. There was the crowd that was dressed like anything without heels was a crime. Then there was the music that was entirely perplexing to hear top 40’s at Velvet, when I’ve been so cultured to expect House.

It was not as if Zouk KL was plastered with gorgeous partygoers like I’ve been told, but there was an air of difference, almost as if there was a crowd of maturity that was calling out to be acknowledged.

There was a bottle of cognac and a round of tequila to bribe my time for staying on till the drinks depleted, because I was constantly bitching about the essential need for Trance in all party nights.

When we finally went over, I went from the only one sulking, to the only one dancing. LB suddenly shafted a bottle of Belvedere at me. I glanced over at the table in front of us.

Me: “Did you just steal their bottle?”

He giggled like a schoolgirl witnessing her first erection.

LB: “Just shut up and drink.”

I titled myself away from the view of the table and took a gulp from the bottle, then slipped the bottle over to RotiPrata, who started dancing with the bottle in plain view of the table. Everyone needs a friend like him to get caught.

We then moved over to the tables by the side, which pretty much herald the end of sobriety. One moment we were civilized patrons toasting champagne, slurring well wishes of schemes of grandeur like world peace and a ‘great 2010’. The next, LB started latching on the low grilled ceilings.

LB: “I ALSO CAN DO CHIN UPS!!”

Apparently, RotiPrata had pretended that he was doing chin ups with the ceiling grills and so in that shallow pocket of alcohol reservoir LB has, everything seemed like a great idea. He clung on to it.

Before we realized anything, the ceiling grills gave way and collapsed onto the table; two panels to be precise; one on LB’s head and the other on the table. I glanced around quickly to assess the situation. The floor staffs and security were rushing over. It was barely 2pm, I will not end my night this way.

Me: “Pretend you are injured. Exaggerate it!”

This was the only logical solution. I was hoping to twist the story as if the grills had collapsed on our innocent conversations, but the way the grills had bent under LB’s colossal weight made us as guilty as calories on a Big Mac.

And were they furious at us. They tried fixing it back, but it wouldn’t stay on. They tried bending it back, but it wouldn’t shape up. They tried threatening LB, but he was too busy feigning injury.

Then they left and we got back to laughing. Never mind that we had in the last 5 minutes become the focal point of observation, because chagrin is always lost in the presence of alcohol. LB got right back to yelling toasts at me.

LB: “DRINK!! WHY CAN’T DRINK AH?!”

I don’t know how to explain why this is hilarious and ironic on so many profound levels because obnoxious cheers and provocation was in the past, primarily my domain and LB was always the face of sobriety to sheath my misdemeanor.

Me: “Fuck you. I need to pee.”

Then he trailed closely behind me, grabbing on to my arm as we made our way to the toilet.

LB: “Dude, I’m fucked.. I’m fucking drunk…”

I hardly had time to snigger at him when completely unexpectedly, he waded into a proclamation that was lingering with the stench of inebriation.

LB: “I found my true love!”

I’ve heard this approximately as many times as you’ll hear Lady Gaga on the radio, so I generally do not pay much attention to it. But at this point, anything and everything is a valid reason to clink our champagnes glasses together for celebratory pleasantries.

When we got back to the table, RotiPrata was pretty much passed out on the sofa. So I did what any friend would do, I started taking pictures of him in ridiculous positions. Some random guy on the next table came up to me.

Guy: “Is he your friend?”
Me: “Yep, but these pictures are for an anti-binge drinking campaign. It’s called, ‘if you get drunk, you are going to be made fun of’.”

By then, Poca and Faith had already retired their glasses, Jo had already spewed by the table, LB was occupied with getting her to the washroom and I was left to tend to RotiPrata’s sprawled ass with another of our KL counterpart, RO.

There was just nothing we could do to get him up from the sofa. If we tapped him, he would brush us off. If we dragged him by the arm, he would struggle to lie back down. But all it took was for a woman to reach over to tap him for him to spring into life, while extending his hand towards hers.

The security guy started shining his light at our direction.

Security: “I think you guys need to leave now.”

This was amazing, I actually still had a lot of mileage left to party, but we were actually asked to leave the club. And I always imagined that when that day came, I would be too drunk off my wits to even remember.

When we got out, RotiPrata started to sober up and it was just left to LB who was trying to make a close on Jo. Faith, RotiPrata, Poca and I jumped into the cab and left LB to his work his charm, or what’s left of it.

RotiPrata: “Uncle, I will pay you RM10 extra if you will run that guy and girl down.”

The Genting Rave Story Pt 1

When we decided to spend the weekend in Malaysia, it was motivated entirely on the idea of cheap food, decent shopping and a tempting lure of the bright lights of Kuala Lumpur’s hottest nightspots.

Then almost as if fate intervened to turn the mundane into a resolute purpose of losing our conscience to alcohol and trance music, LB called the next day to inform us that we were going to head up to Genting for Speedzone’s rave party, complete with VIP tickets.

There was hardly a need for second considerations or to allow any hesitations to plague the planning. After all, everything seemed to have been planned and taken care of up to the very doorstep of Genting. This is going to be the greatest weekend this year.

Then 2 days before the trip, LB called to inform me that the hotels in Genting were fully booked and proposed an alternative solution of partying through the night and camping out at the casino or hotel lobby before hopping on to the earliest bus out.

Now, I obviously had no issues with this because it’s not like we’ve not had a hotel to sleep in before, but there was one minor problem that I needed to address and stress to the guys.

“I need to come back by Sunday. I have my reservist in-camp training on Monday. I repeat, I HAVE to be back on Sunday.”

So RotiPrata was tasked to book our transport because LB was weighed with enough responsibilities of having to arrange our lodging in KL. Then Faith jumped on to the bandwagon and decided that she would help arrange for our transport back from Genting.

When Poca heard that we didn’t have a room because the rooms were full, she decided to check it online and realize not only were there rooms, they probably had enough to house half of Bangladesh.

Now we had a room, but we still didn’t have a confirmed means of transport back and it seemed like I was the only one truly concerned about it.

RotiPrata: “Very easy to get a bus one. For every one bus you see that is full on the internet, there are 3 more empty buses there.”

I don’t know where he plucks up his data from because he always has these remarkable statistics that are never accurate that I wonder why he isn’t working for the global census collection agency.

Me: “If I don’t make it back by Sunday, I am dead. Do you understand? You can start booking a ticket to the detention barracks.”

RP: “Relax la, everything will be fine.”

Me: “I am travelling with LB, I cannot relax. Do you not know what happens when we travel together? Anything and everything that can fuck up, will.”

It’s not that I’m a perennial pessimist but if you’ve gone through so many travel escapades that are highlighted with transportation fuck ups like I have, you’ll also give reality a call. Apparently that pretty much turned into a self fulfilling prophecy.

I can’t complain about the journey up because the coach ride was infinitely more comfortable than being on a economy class plane, minus the service from cleavage-baring air stewardesses.

There was ample leg room, a personal monitor with decent in-cabin entertainment, just that some of the movies looked like they were suspiciously ripped from a video camera. Oh, and that my right directional pad was spoilt so I effectively ruled out playing video games.

When we finally got to KL 5 hours later, our travel curse came stinging so promptly, I thought the trip was going to end even before it started. We got off the bus and started unloading the bags.

Faith: “My bag is missing!”

We stood there frozen. I quickly glanced around to see if anyone was fleeing in the opposite direction lugging a huge bag. Then it hit us, could the bag be stolen? But surely not even the brazen crime rates here would entitle us to see a snatch thief right under our noses.

Could they have misplaced it? Could someone have taken the wrong bag, which would have required an immense amount of stupidity? Could she have left them at customs? COULD SHE HAVE LEFT THEM AT CUSTOMS?

We started a forum of recollections, placing our last memory of her before we boarded the bus. There was the last cigarette break after customs. We left the bags at a corner. And, we don’t remember her carrying the bag. All we needed was a camera pointing at us, and this would have been the pilot episode of CSI: Kuala Lumpur.

And amidst the panic and her wild intention to take a cab back to the check point 4 hours away, I turned to RotiPrata.

Me: “I told you something is going to fuck up. I wonder what's next?”