Thursday, October 28, 2010

We Got The Intern In Trouble

In every successful company, there are pillars that hold the oppression of stress and that gravity of lethargy, and make working that much more bearable, much like getting a tattoo after you've passed out from alcohol poisoning.

I'm talking about things like MSN, the pantry and quality toilet paper. And then you have that one person who you have no idea what they are doing, but you know that they'll always be available for you, even if it's to tie your shoelace.

The intern.

I must admit that I haven't actually had the best impressions of interns in general. I came from a company with an intern that asked me, and I repeat this in verbatim, when I told her that she needed to keep me copied in emails.

"Do I also need to copy myself in the emails?"

It was then that I realised that companies actually hire interns not because corporate sitting makes us lazy, or that exploitation of cheap labour is a dominant ascribed trait in humanity, but they were hired to keep me entertained.

The intern that we have however, convinced me that intelligence existed even within minimal wages. He was a quick learner, took alot of initiatives, dilligent and beyond it all, young and hungry to be a part of our prozac world of intoxicated revelry - as most men who have just conquered puberty would be.

The first time he came out to party with us turned into a tragic affair. It was amusing for me because I have no regards for consequence when it comes to laughing at drunks, but someone had to initate him into the cold world of hangovers and amnesia, and it might as well be me - only that my responsibility stops when they pass out.

The whole thing of even suggesting that he head out with us for a night was like sending Bambi into a butcher's store for an errand. And to entrust the education of a boy who is barely even legal to lock lips with vodka, to a group of guys with a history of drunken misdeneanour - that includes bartop dancing, vandalism and public urination - is just irresponsible, like giving a bag of sugar to a diabetic for Christmas.

It started off cordially with sips in between banter. I don't remember when we started to binge or if we even did because the time where he was still capable of holding a conversation to the time he passed out went by so quickly, it would make a pre-ejaculation feel like a National Day Parade.

Next thing we know, the floor staff had to come to us for help because he had apparently passed out in the toilet cubicle. If I thought this was hilarious, I obviously didn't prepare for what was to come.

When RotiPrata and I got to the toilet, we realised that although he was too drunk to communicate or walk, he still had the decency to keep the door latched. The boy prides his privacy, I'll give him that, even if it posed a lot of incovenience for us just having to climb in to unlatch the door.

There he was, seated on the toilet bowl with his pants down around his ankle and a puddle of vomitus next to his feet that looked like a giant chicken and parsley patty. I yelled,

"Now that's what I call multi-tasking!"

Instead of helping him to his feet immediately, I decided to capture this moment that would make Kodak proud. This is the kind of picture that will make people famous, or cause them to jump on the train tracks. I started laughing to much, I had difficulty just peeing into the urinal.

Conscience is a word lost to me when I drink, so are other vulgar words like, 'responsibility' and 'concern'. I know this for a fact because the only thing I was repeatedly chanting to him when we carried him out and into the cab was,

"I'm wearing a very expensive shirt. Do not fucking puke on me."

You would think that he'll learn to stay away from us after waking with a vomit laced breath and throbbing headaches that you'll think a sperm whale was physically fucking your head. But no. Because youth is filled with stupidity and a penchant for self abuse. Because music and alcohol is a powerful addictive that have left many with lost livers and disqualified driving licenses. Because, just because we love the things that are bad for us.

Well as I've learnt, too much of a bad thing is actually bad, like smoking, carbohydrates, breast implants and anal sex. On Monday, I realised that our late nights and tempestuous wagers against sobriety had played a catalytic role in his dismissal.

He had apparently missed an event because he was partying into the wee hours with us. I obviously don't see the severity of it but horrible adult sounding words like 'breaching of trust' and 'trust is lost' kept coming out and it felt like it was when I was 7 and my mum was yelling at me for cutting her chilli plant.

I hope he doesn't jump the tracks.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Midnight Rugby

The only thing harder than binge drinking on a Thursday night, is following that up with playing touch rugby on the beach. And all this while, DJ Yukun is spinning and your subconscious is dictating you to dance instead.

Touch rugby is for pussies you say? 9 years ago I would have applauded your wise judgement, but in the years of furious drinking and disdain for exercise that I have chronicled, coaxing my legs to run is like convincing the world that Obama should be the next Pope.

Everything last night was just drawing me to call off the agreement to participate in the friendly tournament. There was the buffet line of baby back ribs, mac and cheese and a whole lot of other food that would be appreciated by obese kids. And there was the open bar of Red Bull with Chivas.

Me: “I’m going to pace the perimeter of the field and mark a spot where I am going to be throwing up. Stay clear of it. I’ll be burying that with sand, just because I am a considerate beach user.”

Organiser: “That is gross.”

Me: “I have about 5 glasses of Red Bull and Chivas in me now, and I probably had a tomato. If anything comes out of me tonight, you probably have a tomato plant on the beach by Christmas.”

I wasn’t actually sure if I was going to be playing. I figured it was just a request in jest and that they would ultimately pull our team out because we would have been too drunk to play or that there would have been other enthusiasts in the crowd that would have been spurred on to play on the impulse of alcohol.

Then the exhibition match commenced and suddenly, playing in the tournament looked a lot more hazardous than I thought.

Poca: “Are you sure you know what you are getting yourself into?”
Me: “It’s touch rugby, what can go wrong?”
Poca: “It doesn’t look like touch rugby to me….”

And she was right. Nothing that was panning out before me looked remotely like what I had envisaged touch rugby to be; which would have included a lot of giggling, like homosexual 7 year olds playing catching for the first time, while running with their water bottles.

There were tackles, shoving, pushing and if I was nearer, I could swear that spitting and hurling vulgarities were tactical leverages as well. I did not travel all the way to Sentosa to get my ass beat down like Rocky Balboa and having my face planted into the sand is not what my ideal Thursday looks like.

Organiser: “Don’t worry, this is just an exhibition rugby match. This isn’t touch rugby.”

Me: “I need to drink more.”

When they finally made the announcement for the participating friendly teams to enter the field for a briefing of rules and practice session, I was sure this was the worse decision made since the bombing of Pearl Harbour.

Coach: “In touch rugby, you just need to tap you opponent. One girl in the previous match threw her cap and it counted.”

Me: “So does spitting count?”

Coach: "Let's not do that for now. I'm pretty sure it's not allowed."

Two practice rounds for normal passing and variation passing later, I was certain that drinking is infinitely more enjoyable than touch rugby. The other team that was practicing on the field with us was taking it so serious I started wondering if the winner was going to get a national squad berth, or a handjob.

When we started the match against the other team, it was clear that the level of enthusiasm for the game was between a eunuch at an orgy and a whale at the buffet line. Neither Lin or LB looked like they would commit to more than a jog and the other team looked like they were ready to run to Johor just for a touchdown.

Me: “Hey guys, let’s keep it slow and easy. I am two steps away from a cardiac arrest. Running should be banned.”

They pretty much ignored me.

To say they were taking it serious was an understatement, like calling Hitler a compassionate leader. They were running fervidly round the field and aggressively tapping us, I was convinced that somewhere down the line, they would start throwing in flying kicks, headbutts and bodyslams.

I don’t know if you can call that passion because this was a fucking friendly and there isn’t even a cause behind it, like world peace or free shoes for polio kids. I know there is a competitive streak in men, but it’s a Thursday and there is an open bar and buffet waiting, how serious can you possibly be?

We lost the match to a single touch down from this skeletal frame guy that looked more like he would enjoy a shot of heroin to running.

15 minutes later.

Organiser: “Are you guys ready? Your next match is in 5 mins.”

Is this God giving us a chance at redemption? To save what lethargic dignity we had left? Do we even have another 10 minutes of strength left in our legs? Or has it been eroded by years of binge drinking? And to think I was just about to start drinking again.

When we got on to the pitch, we realized that we were up against an all-female team. Only that they played in semi-professional rugby league and that they had more lungs in a single person than we had as a collective team. We decide that it is okay to throw cheap shots at them –eye gorges included -, people will understand.

Me: “Don’t you have a team of handicap old folks we can play against instead?”

Girl: “Err.. no leh.”

10 minutes later, we lost that game as well. I don’t know about them, but I gave up running by the second half. I figured that since we were going to lose anyway, the least I could do, is to do it with clean clothes and my perspiration in check.

Poca: “This is embarrassing, you lost to girls.”

I didn’t think so. They were diving all over the sand. I don’t know of any girl who would dive on sand. I secretly begin to suspect that this was a team of girls that have been grain fed with testosterone for years. If my feet weren’t so itchy, I might have felt my ego bruise. I turned to the event planners.

Me: “You need to plan more challenging things next year instead, like chess or Monopoly. This is just too tedious and unproductive.”

The only consolation was the tie in the last match because the other team sucked just as much as we did. There was enough suck in that game to deprive all hookers around the world of giving a blowjob for a day.

Monday, October 11, 2010

It's My Birthday, I'd Puke If I Want To

Contrary to the fervid birthday celebrations that I've had over the years with merciless onslaughts on all things alcoholic and stunts that questions the very matter of my maturity, I'm actually never big about celebrations when it comes to mine. Who needs one day to celebrate when I can have the impunity to do it everyday.

Every year we stryggle to topple the one before and it's not easy when you've had eventful ones like the pub crawl or the Phuket fiasco that left LB and I stranded on the island. And it's always been about that kaleidescopic marriage of a spectrum of liquor that if you cut us up and put a cash register next to my kidney, we would qualify as a bar.

The one this year was like how any other intemperant night would have unfolded. It was always casual, with subtle implications that it would end with an alcoholic induced amnesia, or a lot of personal time making out with the toilet bowl, or kerb for the lesser humans.

It started with a casual bottle of Belvedere and a teasing bottle of champagne. We already knew that there was going to be ass-kicking Trance that was going to tear up the speakers and infect the dance floors, so it was a half of the equation solved. All we needed to do, was to bring the alcohol up to that Utopian plane that would coax even deaf nuns to dance.

By the time we had finished up the first bottle, the place was starting to pack up. I begin to tap my feet periodically along to the beat of the music. It will be at least 5 more glasses before I will think dancing on the table is a good idea and 10 more to set it on fire.

LB arrived shortly after and introduced a bottle of jager and tequila to the mix. I am secretly delighted at the sight of it. I start dancing so that I will not come in my pants from all the excitment of having a myriad of alcohol on the table. This will be like racial harmony day - if I manage to keep all that alcohol in the stomach through the night.

Somewhere along the line, we lost all inhibitions on conventional mixes. No longer was champagne enough on it's own. This was a birthday, and there was no space for sophistication. No more was jagerbombs toxic enough. This was our birthday, college consumption norms just won't suffice.

Shan: "What are you doing? Why are you pouring vodka into the champagne?"

Me: "Let me introduce you to Liquid Cocaine. One part champagne, one part vodka and one part Red Bull. This is great stuff for amnesia.

And it wasn't just the champagne we were abusing. Jagerbombs, while adequate if this was a party for 7 year olds complete with clowns and balloons, had lost it's respect amongst a company who have seen the better part of their twenties. For this night, it was going to be laced with a generous helping of tequila.

Then came a bottle of whiskey and suddenly, dumping every available alcohol on the table into a glass seemed like the best birthday cake idea I had all year, I could even have straws for candles - and they say clubs don't make condusive environments to grow old in. I proved them wrong.

By the time I had gobbled down half a glass of what would be tequila + vodka + champagne + jager + tequila + Red Bull - tasted almost as if the Devil had taken a piss into my cup, - I realised that the only place I should be, is next to the toilet bowl.

I needed to pee. Real bad.

I started making a beeline for the toilet, half praying that there would not be a queue or I would have to consider peeing into the basin as an option. As I stood over the urinal in the private cubicle, I realised that urinals are challenging to puke into, especially when one is still urinating.

I was not to be defeated. I was going to challenge and debunk the myth about men not being good at multi-tasking. I was going to pee and vomit and the same time, into the urinal. If I was more sober, I would have done all that while singing a song and sending a text message. But for now, the immediate goal is to not spray any of it on to myself.

I've overcome many difficult obstacles in life, like forcing myself to stay awake while driving, maintaining an erection for unattractive women and Chinese listening comprehension tests, but this ranked right up there.

Do you know how hard is it to even stand straight while peeing when you are drunk and now, I had to maintain a steady stream while lowering my head to puke and doing it skillfully enough so that I don't end up puking on my member.

"Aaarrrrrrggghhhh.. urrrggghhhh."

A minute later, I came out of it successful with the pride and self recognition as the one of the best mae pukers to have emerged from humanity. Unfortunately, I also discovered that standing urinals weren't built to be puked in, because the vomitus don't seem to be able to be flushed down. I apparently choked it.

I know this for a fact because the guy that went in after me said,

Guy: "What the fuck?!"

Me: "Yeah, it's nasty. Some fucker made a huge mess."

When we finally left the place, everyone that I knew who were dumb enough to have had taken the tequila was wasted. I know this for a fact because LB, Roti Prata and I were bending over the sink together.

LB: "I need to puke.."

Me: "I'll puke with you!"

LB: "Ugghhh.. ugghh.. Urrrrrhhhhhh."

Me: "Holy mother of crap! Are you okay? You look like you are foaming at your mouth!"

LB: "Urrrggghhhh"


We never learn. Or perhaps we never want to because youth is filled with stupidity and maybe, just maybe if we keep making a fool of ourselves, and abusing our bodies enough. Then we too, will never grow old.

As we get older each year, we cling on to time in an inadvertant need to reflect on life. We need to do this, should have done that, would have loved to have done that. It's an endless justifiication of life. But this year, I had my dream of publishing a book realized, thanks to Poca.

Read. I.Have.A.Book.