Monday, August 22, 2011

Butterfly Judges Shuffling Contest

If you’ve been an avid reader of my blog, you’d know that way before LMFAO ignited a nation into a shuffle frenzy and before lactic acid forced fatigue into my aging muscles, I was a huge fan of the Melbourne Shuffle as chronicled in my memoirs of the immense merits it had to hooking up strangers.

So when Powerhouse staged a shuffling competition, it was only befitting that I took to the stage, as a judge. There is nothing better in life than sitting on a platform and critiquing people for their valiant efforts in crowd pleasing and showboating.

Thing is, I’ve never really like how much shuffling has become over the years and I’ve a simple philosophy to that. It’s not about how well you dance, but how good you look while doing it. Which is why I think over-elaborate hand-movements and body jerks might look good while you are doing a flash mob or having a seizure, it’s never suited for the clubs.

I’ll be honest. I enjoy laughing at people dance because I am a terrible human being and I was actually hoping this would decompose into a mimicry of a Singapore Idol audition, complete with failing lungs and two left feet. So I was disappointed to discover that this was the actual finals and it would take some level of competency to even be on stage.

But I was wrong. God was going to be kind to be an uplift my spirits.

Majority of the contestants had prowess that stretched beyond the novice side shuffles. Some possessed technically sound glides and kicks. And a couple had a well choreographed routine with coupling track to dance along. But two of them left me the biggest smile.

The first was a guy who came on stage and for a better half of his performance, I had my head tilted to the side wondering if he was trying to keep his balance because the floor was slippery or perhaps it was the stage buckling under the reverberating bass, because it looked like he was having a crotch infection more than he was shuffling.

I paused for a long time, frowning in anticipation for him to start his real routine. And when I finally realized that he was actually dancing, I did what normal people would do.


I know it is unethical for a judge to be laughing in the face of effort and courage to take the stage, but I am a flawed human being and I have no qualms about laughing at people. The other guys around started nudging me.

"You are a fucker man.”

I don’t think so. It’s like sitting through an entire porn flick without being allowed to have an erection or jeer at the Paralympics. I am terribly flawed.

When he ended his set, I was hoping for the others to emulate him, because had this been a Stand Up Comedy contest, he would have had it in the bag within the first minute. But no, more competent shufflers came up which pretty much the same moves and I thought that the best part of my night had ended with him.

No. God was favourable to me that night.

One of the contestants had pulled out and in his place, the emcee had gotten a girl from the audience. Or maybe she volunteered herself because without coaxing, she charged up the stage with enough enthusiasm to Richard Simmons to shame.

This was a girl, in a tight fitting short dress, in one of those slippers with a stubbed heel and she looked like she was the poster girl for anorexia. She started out with a lot of jumping which seemed like she was having a charismatic praise and worship session, but as she continued, I didn’t know what was more worrying; her bones breaking or her panties that were exposed more frequently than the beat of the music.

I figured that was the only reason the loudest cheers in the club were from the people just in front of the stage. I gave her high marks for technicality only because of her attire and pretty decent scores for presentation because maybe she was actually up there to promote her underpants.

When that all ended, I rewarded my hard work with a bottle of vodka and a lot of Red Bull. Being a judge is exhausting.

Monday, August 08, 2011

The Caveman Tactic

There’s always that equivocal line between ‘yes’ and ‘no’. That subtle cue of a rejection or tease. And the ability to read that will be the greatest gift you can give to your testosterone charged testicles.

The age old saying of ‘when a girl says no, she actually means yes’ was probably coined by a rapist, a deaf one for that matter because there is absolutely phonic semblance the two words hold. However, there is truth in it, a lot of it, because the only reason men don’t understand women, is because women can never make up their minds.

If you’ve actually forced yourself on any women enough, you’ll know that persistence is a virtue that is sometimes rewarded. You can turn most ‘no’ into a ‘yes’ if you try hard enough, long enough or have enough alcohol or chloroform with you.

Maybe she relented because she was playing hard to get, or maybe you irritated her enough, or maybe it was even sympathy, but when a woman really means ‘No’, you’ll know it because she won’t be around long enough for you to try again. Punching you in the face is also a way of telling you she’s serious about saying ‘No’. I’m pretty sure about that.

Despite what your mothers have told you about hard work or essence of chicken, persistence is the real key to success. If you fail, keep trying. Unless you cave in to suicide or depression, success will come – at some point in time.

There are several characteristic situations and actions that most of us will experience some point in life, some maybe every weekend. Like insisting to send a girl home, then jumping into the cab despite her assurance that she is capable of taking a cab home by herself. Or maybe it’s dragging her into the cab with you. Or forcing an inexhaustible line of drinks to her face that will make even Audi’s car assembly line look inefficient.

We’ve come to coin this as the Caveman Tactics.

But Butterfly, aren’t you divulging the secrets of how men hook up with women, I hear you protest? Do you actually think women are dumb enough not to know what we are up to? They know it as much as you want it and it’s apparent from the way we’ve tried to make them drink, to our body language, right down to the erection that you are hiding in your pants. The only reason you scored, is because subconsciously, they allowed you to.

The Caveman tactic in its core, is named after the mating rituals of prehistoric predecessors, a club to the head of a female, and dragging the spoils back to his hut. Over the years, as society has refined itself, so has the tactic, masked under a clever guise of a starting conversation, and then dragging them off when they least expect it.

While the rules have changed, the essence of it remains. The raw aggression, the dominance over the other person and the pure dictatorship of the process would make even Hitler proud. You structure things the way you want, when you need it and where you’ll do it, and the best thing is, you don’t take no for an answer.

The wonder of the Caveman is that it takes a lot of courage – or alcohol – to pull it off, and the brashness of it catches them off guard at times. You know what you want and you’ve made your intentions clear, the only thing you’ve stopped short of, is urinating all over her.

The marked characteristic is decisiveness. You do not ask or leave a window of opportunity for her to think. It is about being as straight as an anti-gay pride activist. Do not ask if she wants to go here or there with you, because the only words she should hear, is ‘Let’s go’, followed by a firm grip of her hand. I’ve been told that pulling women by the hair these days are frowned upon.

It works because you eliminate her thought processes on consequences, inhibitions and troublesome friends who might be worried about her. Naturally this works only if you’ve made her comfortable enough with you, so speaking to her cleavage is not encouraged.

If you’ve just picked up a random stranger and executed the Caveman to a varying degree of success, then one thing’s for sure – other than she possibly being a slut – is that she has some interest in you and have allowed you this far.

While the Caveman is a well drilled tactic that is honed over practice, it is also an intricate process that doesn’t just stop at flushing the girl with alcohol or jumping into the cab with her. Crafting the next move is equally important. We call this, ‘The Excuse’.

It’s about validating your actions and buying time for yourself. An example,

M: “We’ll go back to get my car, and I’ll send you back.”
F: “It’s really okay., I can go back by myself”
M: “I’ll send you back.” [give directions to your home to the cab driver]

M: “Let’s go up to my place first. I need to rest up a bit before I can drive.”

At this juncture, there really is not much of an option for her. Sometimes, men use other excuses, like needing to take a pee, or to charge their phones, but the intent is always the same because with a penis, comes predictability.

Naturally there are also times when women use the same excuses, of having to pee or charge their imaginary dying handphone. At times like these, the first thing you have to do, is ask yourself, “Are you sure that is a woman? Does she have un-naturally large hands or breasts?”.

When a girl you don’t know agrees to come up to your place in the middle of the night, after a clubbing session, she is not there to just have a conversation with you. Let’s make this clear. Ladies, if you have no intention of getting raped, do not even agree to go this far, because at this point, men are deaf and they will think every objection or resist you put up, is part of foreplay.

We’ve all done this, some of you will want to try this, but we’ve all seen or heard about it.

Daveman – I call him so because he embraces it so religiously – would be my mascot if I ever had to make this into a sport. He works tirelessly on the floor and once he has zoned in, ‘no’ is hardly a word he comprehends, unless it’s a slap across the face, but it’s Singapore and civility is something women here have been institutionalized to practice.

In the past I thought it worked only when there was sufficient contact built up, from casual banter to furtive flirts over drinks, culminating in being able to place your hand on her ass without resistance. However it seems that I was wrong, because it seems to work even if the only contact you’ve had, is a handshake.

Has society finally shed its pseudo skin of conservatism, or has boldness always been rewarded to those who dare venture? Perhaps alcohol has always been a red herring and people are just buried by passive inhibitions, and will spark into a sexual frenzy if given the right nudge, or in this instance – a club to the head.