The Butterfly Tales...

The Queens Strip

2012-01-29T17:56:00.010+08:00

When I last stepped into a New York strip club, I thought I had seen it all. Tall leggy women in lingerie, strutting around, whispering into your ear for a promise of esctasy in exchange for nominal fee of 20 bucks, because apparently that's what professionalism is all about.

Naturally, I was wrong about that, along with many other things like algebra equations, lottery numbers and what women want.

When Hoyes suggested that he take me out for drinks at the strip clubs, I never thought much to greet it with any enthusiasm that would so much as to warrant an erection. From what I've seen, strip clubs are as exciting to me as having my nails painted with kerosene.

Hoyes : "I'm gonna take you to another strip club out in Queens. It's gonna to be wicked."

I already had it all played out in my head. Instead of walking in to some plush room behind the grand line of velvet ropes, decorated with leather seats and Victorian paintings, I'd probably be walking in to a bar with the equivalent whiff of decadence and whiskey, just without the upmarket fixtures and chic table lamps.

As soon as we turned in to the parking lot, I realised that I was 5 miles from Manhattan, not wearing a kevlar vest and walking into what looked like a massive club. By simple multiplication skills that I picked up from my years in school, I derived the obvious equation from a simple theory.

If,

Space = Capacity and Capacity is a direct correlation to strippers

Then,

Larger space = larger capacity, which also means there are more strippers and hence more boobs.

I am a genius. Everyday I wake up wondering why I never joined NASA because if I did, we would have found aliens by now.

Hoyes : "This is nothing like you've seen in Manhattan. If you like asses, this is the bomb!"

Even if he never told me, I would have figured that out because there wasn't a strip joint in Manhattan that I've been to that was to this scale. However, in my deep mental soliloquy of mass equations, I failed to notice two very important points.

1. Not only was I the only Asian. I was also probably the only other non-African American.

2. The fact that Hoyes talked incessantly about 'asses'

Naturally I assumed that a country blessed with staging the Victoria Secrets annual shows that they, like every other men I knew would benchmark the perfect ass to anyone who struts down that catwalk. I obviously knew very little about American culture because when I got into the club, I thought I was at a Super Size Me 2 casting call.

Not only did ALL the women have huge asses, but they were booty shaking so hard, I think there was enough ripples on their asses collectively to start a tsunami. And my god, their ass was so dimpled with celluloid, that if the bums were any larger, or if I was smaller, I could walk on them and proclaim it to be the moon.

I stood there, almost petrified because Hoyes insisted that he buy me a lap dance and I couldn't find a single girl in there that could sit on me without causing a possible femur fracture. This place had none of the pleasantries of the other velvet rope lounges that Manhattan gave. Tipping a girl for her dance here meant tossing $1 bills over her as she dances.

The club was littered with bills all over the floor and girls were dry humping everything. Some looked like they were convulsing but generally everyone there could have given Beyonce a run for her money for hip shaking. I don't know the exact term for that, but it's that dance where they shake their asses so vigorously, it looks like they stuck a giant vibrator in them.

It would have been tearfully described as a precarious quandry, had there not been a huge bottle of Grey Goose and Red Bull that made it to the table just as he was about to pick a girl for me.

Me: "Dude, can I do 5 shots of vodka instead?"

Him: "Not your kind of girl here?"

Me: "I'm only picking them if this is a team buffet challenge."

A huge burly guy comes by almost immediately and wrapped his arm around Hoyes. This was the second time in the club that I nearly shat my pants. If Hoyes was going to be strangled, I don't know how I was going to make my way back to Manhattan.

Guy: "Come, let me buy you a dance."

He drags Hoyes to the couch and instantaneously, a girl hops onto his lap. Half the time her ass was inches from his face and half the time he had his face all cringed like he had it soaked in salt water for a year.

This girl shocked me with an apptitude of dexerity I thought I would only see in a gymnast, because she was moving her legs over his head and doing random splits at a phenomenal frequency. If gymnastics weren't such a superficial sport made for lithe figures and buldging biceps, she might have made the national team.

Me: "I guess not your kind of women too huh?"

Hoyes: "No dude, I love phat ass. She just had this weird smell coming off her and I don't know if it was from her ass or pussy but I'm not going to be taking chances."

Me: "Good to know."

Hoyes: "Let's get out of here. I'll take you to another joint where the girls are slim."

So we left the place and headed for the next bar which was a good 10 minute drive. Along the way he assured me that the second place was going to be nothing like the first. I didn't think anything couldn't go below the last joint anyway, because unless we are walking into a farm, any place was better.

The second joint did turn out to be a lot better, but it was almost empty because the place was closing and the girls were going into their final rounds on the podium. When we got there, there was an Asian looking girl on stage that was in the midst of her routine.

We got a drink by the bar and she came by after her dance. Hoyes tipped her a dollar and she turned to smile at me. And smiled. And she stood there for a good minute just smiling at me. I figured she was trying to hint at giving me a lap dance, so I did the only polite thing and declined, because I've learned that nothing really good comes out of a women smiling this much to you at a club.

Me: "No thanks."

She storms off.

Me: "That was friendly."
Hoyes: "Erm, you're actually suppose to tip her a dollar for her dance."

Fuck. I am a disgrace to Chinese across the world. I could well be the cause of Chinese being barred from strip clubs.

Schooling Pedestrians

2011-11-29T18:44:00.001+08:00

Seldom am I irked by behaviours and etiquette to a point where it warrants an effort for me to pen my frustrations, because in general I believe alcohol is the quasi solution for all of society’s problems – except for stupidity.

I believe that all pedestrians are innately stupid, until they learn to drive or get hit by a car. Only then do they smarten up. As we learn to drive we realize that pedestrians don’t seem to comprehend the theory that in a collision, mass always comes out the victor, hence we never clash with sumo wrestlers in the ring, but it is perfectly fine to throw rocks at them from a distance.

The most common of it all would be the ‘Pedestrian jay-walking syndrome’. It’s the one where the pedestrian is crossing the road from a distance at such a leisurely pace, that even if the car was slow enough to drive Miss Daisy, it would still have to brake for them. He is looking at your on-coming car and thinks that he has his speed calculations all worked out and that he will make it across in time, but in reality we are slowing down for them.

Unless I didn’t get the memo and that LTA is actually deploying pedestrians as speed regulators, then I would imagine that they should have the decency to run if they want to live. Let’s face it, fixing my front bonnet is a lot easier than mending bones.

My office is situated next to a shop that has some tie-up with a tour agency, and I know this for a fact because everyday, a coach brings throngs of PRC tourist to the shop. I cannot begin to even classify the retail shop because it sells everything from home appliances, to cameras to Chinese medicine, if there was space for a stage, I’m pretty sure there would have been getai performances as well.

So every morning when I get to work, I have to deal with the absolute stupidity pedestrians can offer. For one, none of them give a shit about cars trying to pass them, because I think they truly believe that the road was constructed so that they can all gather in the middle of it for a group photo.

Naturally, they also have no consideration or clue about parking lots, because they are constantly pissed at giving up a potential photo taking slot to a car that is trying to parallel park. I can only imagine how much of an inconvenience the cars put them at because it’s truly hard to find another slot worthy of a photo-taking session.

I never understood these tourist, or if I thought I had the psyche all figured, the anti-thesis deconstructs my every analytical perspective when they can stop directly behind a reversing car just to take pictures.

Parallel parking has never been more stressful because perhaps it’s some sport for them to rush out whenever they see a car reversing and walk behind it. Maybe getting hit by a car is the new Planking on the internet or that they know it’s going to be in the Olympics 30 years from now and so every one of them is practicing it.

Here’s a simple test for you, if you’ve not been thoroughly schooled on this, just to see your aptitude of walking safely.

1. What do you do when you see a reversing car?

a. Walk casually. Behind the car if possible
b. Stop, tweet to all your imaginary followers, warning them of the impending danger and keep at least a 10m distance
c. Ignore it, because apparently it’s the duty for the driver to look out for the pedestrian’s safety

If you picked B, then you belong to a minute fraction of the responsible pedestrian community. You have either been a successful product of the Road Safety Park or you drive a car.

2. What do you do when you cross a road illegally.

a. Run, because getting hit by a car is actually potentially fatal
b. Walk slowly, because so long as you are looking at the on coming car, it will not hit you

For some reason, people tend to think leisurely walking across the road is fine, so long as they are looking at the traffic. What in the world did you get that fucking theory from? I don’t remember it being in the Bible or my traffic police handout.

Unless you are a ruler or a speed camera, you will never be able to accurately judge if you walking speed will get you across on time. If hitting jaywalkers wasn’t a crime, or if men never invented brakes, then jaywalkers would die every minute, or if they smartened up, they’d learn to run.

So here’s a simple motto for the traffic police, school teachers and young parents to educate children on, because if there’s one thing Michael Jackson got right – other than a boy’s age – is that they are our future.

“If you get hit by a car, your survival rate is lower than having AIDS.”

Really, don't stand on the road if you want to live.

The Mute Photograph

2011-10-28T21:33:00.001+08:00

I know in life there are times that a line is drawn to keep the morality and integrity of men in check. By breaching it, we fall from grace, beyond redemption and cheers and we face the scorn of the masses who believe it's only okay to poke fun of people behind their backs. And we perhaps await the wrath of karma.

I know it's wrong to laugh at the paralympics, to kick children in the head or to steal from blind people. But I am an asshole, and as such I grant myself impunity from all consequences. Save your moral lashings for lesser men, this blog was built on one premise.

People who are clearly not equal, do not deserve equal chances, because that would be called Communism.

Sometime back I encountered a guy at the club. At first I thought he was a foreigner because he was gesturing and I thought he was just being rude to me when he used these sounds to communicate with me.

"Uhhh uhhh, ahhh, uuuhh."

He was trying to get me to take a picture for him and a local male celebrity. For a start I hate being asked to take pictures, especially for random male strangers, but I am on a campaign to change the world through my graciousness and run for eventual Presidency, so I decided to be nice and help. even if the person has a penis.

I took the first shot and when there wasn't a flash, I knew the picture was going to suck and that I would need to do a retake. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that when you are in a club that is pitch dark, you need flash. I don't give a shit if it's a Canon, you still need flash.

Me: "You need to on the flash."

He fiddled with it briefly, paused at the blurred picture I had taken and then went on in his second attempt to communicate with me. I took the camera and snapped again. Still without flash, which puzzled me.

Did I not tell him that he needed flash? Is it not obvious from your pictures that you need flash for dark places? Is he a moron? I repeated myself to him again.

Me: "You need flash. It's too dark."

This exchange of camera from me back to him for a toggle and disapproving looks cast upon the heaps of failed photography, ran up to six in total. Imagine, I was standing there, dripping in patience while my vodka was being diluted by ice and I had taken 6 pictures, and at each time, telling him to on the fucking flash. That was my only request.

Finally, I got tired of it and I started yelling into his ear.

Me: "YOU NEED TO ON THE FLASH!!!"

He didn't respond to me at all. Not even to flinch despite having someone yell right into their ear. The male celebrity then turns to me.

Celebrity : "I think he's deaf."

Me: "I think so too.. He's just not listening."

Celebrity : "No.. Like I think he really is deaf."

I paused for a long time. Fuck.Me.

It all made sense. I really am a moron. Fuck saving the world or achieving saint-hood, so long redemption, hello karma. I am going to hell.

The Survival Guide Post - that cannot be posted

2011-09-19T19:31:00.004+08:00

We may have the cleanest roads, safest streets and most expensive car prices, but being in Singapore also means that we sacrifice access to a certain clubbing culture. I’m talking neon lights, lap dances, topless dancing and bass pumping rave joints that will make Orchard Towers look like a Sunday chapel. And if you’ve been to a rave joint, then you know it’ll take a lot more than alcohol to survive.

How to Survive a Rave Joint

1. Night Vision Goggles

There is more light from an iPhone flash than there is at a typical rave joint, because clandestine motives are the order of the day. It’s sometimes so dark at rave joints that more people actually die from falling over steps and knocking into pillars than drug overdoses.

So if you’ve not been taking your vitamins diligently or you have general night blindess – or nyctalopia for the well informed nerds – then your best bet is having night vision goggles, because besides this, it’s an essential spy tool for anyone aspiring to be a pervert.

2. Water

Forget your towers of beer, or you magnum sized cognacs because the only thing that truly matters in a rave joint, is water, lots of it for that matter. If you haven’t already realized, no one truly goes to a rave joint to get drunk. They get high, but never drunk.

Bringing your own water is paramount for bargain clubbers because the prices for water at some places will put oil prices to shame. Call it capitalism or cruel marketing, but as my economics lecture used to say, ‘when there is a demand, exploit it’ – or maybe that was Bill Gates.

3. Watch your drinks

Unlike the clubs here where you can leave your drinks unattended because drugs are too precious to be used for spiking strangers, rave joints have more drugs readily available than calories at McDonald’s. Spiking your drinks need not always be of malicious intent, because sometimes that is how fellow clubbers there say ‘Hello’.

Always drink from the same glass, never share drinks with strangers and don’t even think of accepting a random drink, because if you wake up one day in a back alley and discover that your kidney is on sale on eBay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

4. Glow Sticks

Although glow sticks are essential to rave culture as fingers are to KFC, it really depends on the type of rave joint that you are going to. Commercial rave joints welcome this because most rave gears come with enough reflective strips to qualify as a run-way should the lights at Changi airport blow out.

Underground rave joints however don’t appreciate lights and bringing one along could get you beaten up. Walking in looking like a Christmas tree could cause panic because it looks like a mobile police road block, and there is a lot of paranoia in these places. Trust me.

5. An open mind

They say the best things are experienced without silly inhibitions and trivial judgments, or at least I said that because if your most exciting weekend activity has been Sunday’s communion, then this might be more than you can handle. But so long as you don’t charge in singing hymns, start evangelizing or spraying holy water – because if the bass doesn’t kill you, the patrons will -, the atmosphere will eventually warm up to you. You’ll live.

Butterfly Judges Shuffling Contest

2011-08-22T19:14:00.004+08:00

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.

HAHAHAHAHA

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.

The Caveman Tactic

2011-08-08T00:14:00.002+08:00

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.

Deconstructing Promiscuity

2011-06-28T02:51:00.002+08:00

If you thought that promiscuity was a male centric sport, then you are sorely myopic to the growing participation of females to this activity over the years, because from what I’m seeing, it looks like conservatism is the new dork in town.

Perhaps it’s popular culture finally taking shape around us and western laden themes of decadence, debauchery, violence and a thirst for all things corporeal finally taking our straight-jacket society by the balls and making it cough out wanton adults. There is hope for the future.

“I am number 4”

AL proudly declared. And no, he wasn’t some telekinesis empowered alien, but if he’d managed to remove anything, it was clothes and I would have said dignity, but I never saw any loss of dignity or pride when it came to consensual sex.

He was after all, the fourth person in the group to have exerted a sexual conquest over the girl. Or was it really the case?

It’s an age old saying, and popularized by Missy Elliot, that when a guy fucks around, he is stag and if a women replicates it, she is a slut. That is society’s myopic judgement on issues they deem inappropriate, like one night stands, self-prostitution and farting in public. For all the feminist movements, why is it that women have less rights to promiscuity than men?

Then weeks later, a fifth by their count, was added to the group. And this was in the full presence of the four and all it took was a little more attention from him and a lot less from them. It was the same familiar story the day after, about how he tried and she caved.

So over a wedding lunch the week after, the four of them recounted about how they did it and how they scored. And then it hit me, perhaps they had gotten it all wrong to begin with. Was it really charm on their part or were they all just part of her plan?

When we look at the rules of dating and one night stands, popular belief and un-written code tells you to “Never fuck within the group”, because it’s bad for image and you are just subjectifying yourself to be tea-time gossip or if you are really good, wank fodder. You might have only dated twice in your entire life, but if it’s within the group, you are deemed as virginal as a Puerto Rican streetwalker with genital herpes as panties.

Me: “I don’t think it’s a character flaw.”

Everyone stared at me as if I had just made a marriage vow to a hooker on bended knees.

Me: “It’s a matter of perspective. Have you ever thought that perhaps she had planned to fuck all of you? For all you know, in a different setting, she could be telling her friends, ‘oh my god, I know this group of guys who are damn fucking easy lah!’.”

We’ve always seen sex as a dominance that men exert over women, but why? It’s not like they enjoy it any less, god forbid, because if all my attention in biology hasn’t gone to waste, I remember distinctively that a female orgasm is far superior to men – if they ever get to it. So why can’t men be the subject of a woman’s sexual needs?

Me: “For all you know, she probably intended on it. It’s called advertising. She fucks one of you and she knows you will tell the others. Another makes a move and takes the bait, and she fucks the second one. It doesn’t look like you are passing her around, it just looks like she is having a buffet.”

Then they formulated a theory about her being scarred and confused from a previous relationship, because heartbreak is the next best excuse to fuck strangers after alcohol. Perhaps she was hurt. Perhaps her previous beau left her such an emotional mess that mindless casual sex is her way of picking up the pieces.

It’s so common to try to justify things we do not know, with reasoning that our moral compasses are familiar with. It seems that the only way most people can accept or comprehend promiscuity is to attribute it as consequence of emotional scarring. But is there really a need to ‘moralize’ female promiscuity? Do people not realize by now that women are very much similar to men?

Perhaps this girl really knows what she wants, and that is to fuck every one of them. Or maybe sex is a trivial sport to her that holds no emotional attachment and does not warrant any trigger of attraction, but just simply a motion she goes through to achieve gratification. Quite simply, she fucks for fun, like men, or if she could breathe underwater, she would qualify as a dolphin as well.

Me: “To us you are number 4, but imagine when she’s telling the story to her friends, it will be called ‘I just scored number 40 last night’.”

Promiscuity was never an exclusive gender right, and it should never be as long as the individual is single and void of all emotional commitments to anyone. Why then should their intent or actions be judged?

It’s a narrow perspective on how we view things and that promiscuity is a man’s right to brag and a woman’s secret to her grave. The fact is that we are too arrogant to believe that sex empowers men, and that we think women are incapable of finding solace, pleasure or even catharsis through any means of temporal profligacy.

Rear Ended

2011-05-20T21:01:00.001+08:00

There are many amazing streaks in history. Jose Morinuho went undefeated at home for nearly a decade, Floyd Mayweather has his 40-0 undefeated boxing record and Tiger Woods has scored so many affairs with hookers without taking home a single STD.

For me, it was staying accident free on the road for 12 years. That one time where I got hit while being stationary in my parking lot doesn’t count just as oral sex wouldn’t because it’s really just one person doing everything.

As with all dream streaks, I knew this fairytale would end one day, because it just sounds ludicrous to be on the road 2 hours a day everyday and not get hit by consequences. It’s just like partying in Bangkok. You are not going to hook up with a myriad of women from the clubs without fortuitously locking lips with a ladyboy.

It was just that the occurrence was unacceptable, and by my liberally ductile standards, there aren’t many things I deem unacceptable in society. I think mini skirts are perfectly acceptable even for higher institutions, unless it comes paired with horrible panties.

I think disabilities are acceptable, even leakages in condoms. I think eating food off the floor is acceptable, so long as it’s within the three second time frame. I think cheating is acceptable and even living with hepatitis, but being hit in the back from a start-stop traffic is exactly what I would render a ‘discombobulation’.

It’s embarrassing to begin with because it had to take a magnitude of stupidity and retardation, the kind that you would see in kids who eat ice cream through their eyes, in the reflexes of a sloth on weed, or in suicide bombers. And every time you recount being hit in that situation, people snigger because accidents don’t get any pussier than this.

My friend had his car blown up into flames on CTE. I got a baby bump in the back.

Everything happened like a highlight reel. It was one of those moments that your thought processed at a speed that even a supercomputer would have been proud of. When I saw the rear view mirror of the car and that insidiously looking provisional plate that was stuck on the top right of his mirror, I knew that an impending collision with inexperience was on the cards.

What I didn’t get was why would anyone be accelerating, especially when there was a tail of traffic easing and braking intermittently at every 30 or odd metres. And yet what I saw from the rear mirror looked like he was trying to put his air bags to test from the way he was bolting forward.

I braced for impact. It was nothing short of dramatic. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and I had my foot so far down the brake pedal it was amazing that my foot hadn’t gone through the floor. And I muttered a single word of faith,

“Fuck…”

As soon as I felt my car jerk forward with a thunderous thud that sounded nothing short of a majestic fart from Zeus, I slumbered into a liminal state of denial.

“Got so suay meh..”

In that instance, a million expletives flooded my mind that would have made a gangsta rap sound like a gospel. I think I probably cursed in every language known to man. I was reeling from the shock and impact but primarily still fighting reality, trying to make sense of the absurdity of the whole debacle. How do you get hit with such impact in the slow moving traffic?

It was then that I realized that stupidity was capable of far greater wonders than fate, chance and even a Maybelline make-up counter.

When I finally got out of the car, it felt like an eternity, like I was hit last May and that I went through an entire Christmas still wondering how I got hit. I was pissed and a part of me was trembling with anticipation, because I was undecided if I was going to start yelling or run back to my car if he came out with a bat.

I was pissed because I found myself standing under the morning sun gesturing to the driver who was still in his car. It was hot, I was beginning to perspire and I was wearing a neatly ironed shirt that did not appreciate heat or perspiration.

When he finally got out of the car, I discovered that it was a young boy who looked like he had just gotten his license from a cereal box cutout a month ago. He was nervous, dumbfounded for a good part of the time, apologetic when the situation called for it, but above all, looked like he was prepared to give a blowjob to settle everything.

I hardly bothered speaking either. I made my sentence in clear concise words that I felt were cordial enough to keep him from peeing his pants, but perspicuous enough to let him know that I meant business.

It was a carnival of emotions that started off with, “what the fuck happened” to “give me your driver’s license” to “how do you want to settle”, ending off with what could have been a candid pickup moment had it been a she instead of a boy; “I’ll call you later.”

The damage to my bumper was nothing the sort you would find in a destruction derby. It had scratches, my reverse sensor was knocked out, but for a good part of it, there was surprisingly no indentation, though there was a small crack with flaking paint.

I cannot say the same for his. He deserves it.

I did the standard protocol of taking down his contact – and this time checking to see if the number was correct -, his I/C and driving license. I snapped some pictures, one of my damage, one of his – to gloat over mainly -, and a couple of the situation to illustrate clearly that he was at fault. We then agreed to settle it via insurance, to which at this point the old man in his passenger seat came out to offer his apologies.

I do not take the time to smile at him, nor offer him a hug or handshake, just so to remind them that I am a badass.

As soon as I got back into my car, I see this man running towards my car from my side mirror. Could it be that some kind soul is coming forth to offer his services as an eye witness? Or perhaps a friend of theirs trying to dispute the case?

He: “Hello, I understand you just got into an accident. I have a car workshop and I can offer you very good price for the repairs.”

I don’t know it this was a scam or if the guy was a shark because it felt like he had the ability to sniff out accidents from a mile and be there instantaneously. Or perhaps it was a mere co-incidence. If it was, then his sheer diligence and commitment to work deserves some praise because despite me telling him that I have a workshop and that I am not concerned about repair cost, he insisted that I took his name card and ‘consider about it’.

I sat there for nearly 2 minutes turning down his offer and it felt like I was at a time-share conference, being badgered by hard-sell quips, because ‘they are just doing their job’.

Two hours later, I called LB to tell him about the accident because both of us have the exact same car plate number. He was not the least bit impressed.

He: “Dude, a motorcycle just caught fire right before me.”

This day sucked. I didn’t even have the best story of the day.

Butterfly Votes

2011-05-07T21:41:00.003+08:00

There are things that define us as Singaporeans; National service, multiple uses of tissue papers, chilli crabs, strange un-explained obsession with Hello Kitty, singing the anthem without knowing the meaning and that pink IC.

And then there’s that one privilege that has eluded so many of us because we stayed at the wrong places, or maybe because there was only one voice in the government and that whimper became a silence. It was the right to vote.

This was the vote that would supposedly shape our nation, and I’m not talking about finally having a Chinese Singapore Idol or for your favourite local artiste, but about social issues, better financial support and giving new people a chance to earn a lot of money.

It’s the only thing that every one talks about these days and it just reminds me that age is catching up with me, or perhaps I’m just hanging around the wrong people. I’d be honest with you, politics bores me, right until the election rallies come along and I get an information download of the current affairs in real-time drama – but mostly hilarious.

When it comes to politics, I am as adequate as Gandhi would be at Haute couture. I know the opposition is hot on the PAPs heels, I know that there are issues on rising cost of living and I know there are calls for transparency. All these are as appealing to me as a tub of lard.

We want better housing, better schools, lower rental, but have we also forgotten about life’s other daunting problems like the rising cost of alcohol and lack of Trance clubs?

I voted today. Finally. After years of wondering if moving out was the only way I was going to get a chance to drop a piece of paper in the ballot box.

I always imagined it would be empowering, or emancipating to some extent. Or when my vote was cast, that there would be a effervescence of contentment or maybe a kicking doubt wondering if I made the wrong choice.

But no, there was none of it. If anything, it was the nagging blister on my feet and the sweltering afternoon heat that was punishing me for not voting in the morning. It was intoxicating for the best part of my 2 minute walk over to the polling station, in some part believing that my vote was making a difference, of having a voice – finally -, but as soon as my vote was dropped, I realized that the only good thing that came out of it all, was the off in-lieu entitlement for today.

Do I know who’s going to win? I’m pretty sure I do.

We are going to win. Singaporeans are going to win, because despite what the results might be I think I hear that whimper that had gone into silence again. It made a sound and it was heard. And there will be a reply…

Butterfly Gets Charged

2011-04-11T02:47:00.004+08:00

There are many initiation rites to life that every Singaporean son go through, like national service, your first flirt with alcohol, the accidental discovery of masturbation, surfing the internet for porn and getting charged.

Getting charged by the military is something that men inherit with time and indolence, and along with the ability to pay a $50 fine with such impunity that we think it as a avenue to solve all problems.

How difficult can it be? I show up at CMPB, I stand before an officer, I bow my head in mock remorse for my actions – or lack of it, and I pay a fine after that. Surely even tying a shoe lace is more complicated than this.

I was wrong.

When they said to come in an appropriate haircut, I imagined that that as long as it was neat, sleek and now where near the flamboyance of a peacock’s tail, it would be fine.

So I spent a whole morning fussing in front of the mirror, cursing the limitations of waxes and wondering if I would qualify as a walking fire hazard for the amount of hairspray I had on me.

When I finally got to the guard house – after braving the raining because I had to park the public carparks and walk over -, I barely even got my hand through to exchange my visitors pass, when started shooting me a bewildered look.

He: “Erm, are you here to report for a charge?”
Me: “Yup…”
He: “You need to get a haircut before you can come in.”

I don’t know if I was hit by the absurdity of being denied entry right at the guard room or having to get a hair cut just to get charged, but I stood there staring at him, half hoping for Aston Kutcher to jump out from behind the file cabinets telling me this was an elaborately casted joke, starting from the documented letter from the military, and ending with them breaking into a flash mob dance involving M-16s and finally culminating in them presenting me a cheque for a million bucks.

Me: “I have to get a haircut just to come in?”
He: “Erh, ya. It’s a regulation.”

This was a plumpish teenager who looked like he would pick a box of donuts over a handjob. And since I didn’t have a packet of chips to bribe him with, I relented grudgingly, pissed that I would now need to drive all the way to my hairstylist in town, pay for ERP charges, car-park, a haircut and a tiring drive back to CMPB. T

his was going to cost me more than it did China for building the Great Wall, and after everything, I was going in to be reprimanded and slapped with a fine. This Monday was turning out to be as disastrous as Justin Bieber after puberty.

My regular stylist was on leave so I went with a junior stylist who looks like he shampooed his hair with bleach on a regular basis. I knew an ‘appropriate’ military hairdo meant that seeing your scalp was part of the mandate, along with slopes and crop tops, but I decided that I was not going to surrender my mullet. Not for 10 minutes of standing in front of an officer at least.

So I kept a little mullet down the back of my head; a defiance to having to abide by regulation, or maybe it was just to hold on that taste of civilian freedom. How bad could that be? After all, I was already cropped neatly on all sides; surely they weren’t going to fault me for just a little infringement.

So I drove back, went through security again and faced that same rigid private who had earlier caused me so much inconvenience.

He: “Can you turn around?”

I stared at him in disbelief. Turn around? I had a haircut that would have even qualified me for boot camp and now he wants me to turn around? I was pretty sure I was going to be subjected to a strip search after this.

He: “I still cannot let you in. Your back hair is touching your collar. I think the barber missed a spot.”

God bless his sweet naïve soul.

Me: “Can’t you just let me in. I’ll just wax it up.”
He: “Really cannot. You can go back to them to ask them to trim it off for you. Just a little bit more.”
Me: “Are you serious? You want me to travel all the way back to get a trim?”

He points to the regulatory haircut print out plastered along the walls. This guy had more rigidness in him than a truck full of Viagra.

So I went back for a trim and when I finally got back to face my chubby nemesis, I had wasted over three hours of my life trying to get into camp to be charged. If I wasn’t perspiring under the punishing mid day humidity, I might have appreciated the vile humour in this.

I had walked pass the security check thrice – which I think might be a new day record of sorts -, tried unconvincingly to persuade a 19 year old to turn a blind eye twice and wasted two dollars on parking coupons. Unless you are going into labour, you’re having a better day than me.

And for all that I had to go through, I was charged and fined $50. Amazing what I do to pay money.

Welcome to KL

2011-03-14T01:40:00.002+08:00

When I was young, the country I wanted most to live in was Switzerland. I don’t know if it was inspired by postcards or pictures on chocolate bars, but somehow the idea of snow covered slopes sounded infinitely more inviting than a-go-go bars and strip clubs during pre-puberty.

I look back now in relief that I never chased by boyhood dreams because other than probably great bank interest rates that are housing billions of blood money, I’ve heard that Switzerland is so boring it makes Alaska look like Disneyland.

We complain a ton about Singapore; about propaganda, about the constitution, about CPF, about rising cost of living, about the intolerance on vice, about the mundane nightlife, about the lack of green spaces, about the joke of a beach, about the torrid humidity, about the myth of meritocracy and about the lack of free speech.

We have so much to complain it’s a wonder we have time for anything else. I am guilty of it, I lament on the lack obscenity, of rave joints or coital fuelled parties. Thank God, Kuala Lumpur succeeded where we failed, in nightlife spunk, and it’s not everyday you find Singapore bested in any aspect of living.

Kuala Lumpur has become a second home to me of late and it hasn’t taken me long to find a fondness for the place. It’s no snow covered winter land that Switzerland proposes, but any place with a vivid clubbing scene wins my erection.

Can I see myself living there?

Rave Clubs

It’s something we are no longer blessed with in Singapore. Gone are the days that Boat Quay ruled with trawling groups of ah lians with their Sonia Rykiel bags and Ferragamo hairbands, accompanying their Versace clad boyfriends to bar-clubs that sometimes offered a mountain of drugs that made it look like a Colombian mansion.

I’m talking about hard music that defied the realms of beats and rhythm and is completely impossible to dance to that the only way you can keep up, is shaking your head. Lights are non-existent, and unnecessary given that misdemeanor is the order of the day. You don’t even need alcohol, just a huge bottle of water. Now that’s cheap living.

If you love trance or techno that sounds like it was fed a clinic worth of steroids and speed, then you will live well in the after hours of KL.

And for a city with all other legitimate clubs that close at around 2am – or in Singapore’s context, the time we slip on our shoes to head out to party -, underground clubs come as a communion for all those who believe that parties should end only after 5am.

For whatever drug fuelled enthusiasm rave clubs have taken from societal well-being, they have credited it back by adding vibrancy and credibility to a city who so prides it’s nightlife. And here we are thinking nothing good ever comes out of rave joints. Shame on us.

Food

There really isn’t much of a difference and you don’t have to live on a staple of bugs, rats and half grown ducklings. There’s as much variety there as you would find it here n Singapore and good enough to encourage a growing concern for obesity.

It’s not about the experience of eating, or the diversity of food, or how amazing it taste. The best part is when you pay the bill and realize that it’s almost half the price. God bless exchange rates, so this is how it feels like to be a European in Singapore.

I once had a seafood dinner for four that cost less than a round of martinis. At that moment, I nearly traded in my Singaporean passport. True story.

Jalan P Ramlee

If you know Beach Club and Thai club, then you truly know your clubbing culture of KL. This stretch is as iconic as Orchard Towers and as notorious a reputation as any you will find in KLCC. It’s a simple rule. When there are more females than males at a bar, and there isn’t a free flow, you know that these women are more interested in your wallet than they are in their beers.

It’s flooded with hordes of Caucasian men who are drawn to the exotic sea of women who have arrived from every third world Asian country from Vietnam to Kazakhstan with surprisingly less clothes than they ever had on them, flaunting cleavages and tight skirts, all in a bid to get their attention. They are the very epitome of capitalism, industrious – working every night – and a keen eye to exploit every willing party.

There is no regards for the live band playing, which is a pity because it’s always magical when you put a mic to a Pinoy’s mouth. And neither is there concern for marked up bar prices, because you’ll be spending the better half of your time deliberating if you’ll still have your Rolex or organs intact in the morning if you decide to take them back with you.

Traffic

The traffic in KL is almost execrable it makes the rush hour jam in Singapore look like the Autobahn freeway. During the rush hours, it’s faster to travel on a pogo stick blind-folded than it would be to drive round the corner. The whole city comes to a standstill that the only thing that reminds you that God hasn’t hit the global pause button, is your digital clock ticking away, mocking you as you miss precious minutes of American Idol.

It just puzzling because you don’t ever see that many cars on the road and then once it hits about 5pm, the roads and highways become so packed with all the cars just appearing out of nowhere that it looks like Proton was organizing a flash mob.

If you want to get around the city and do not possess skills of champions which includes teleportation and human flight, then what you need is something that will help you through the long hours of commutation, like an iPhone, a book or maybe a bottle of sleeping pills because sometimes you’ll be lucky if you make it home before Christmas.

The road conditions in some parts will make Mars look like a runway and you are more likely to break your leg in a pothole than you would be to get hit by a car. And from what I’ve heard, the only way a pothole gets patched up, is when it orchestrates a fatality. That’s what you call procrastination.

There isn’t a silver lining to the traffic condition there, except the governance of money that solves all other traffic related offenses like speeding, beating the red light, drink driving and having exhaust pipes that look like they were meant for the A380 Airbus.

There are many merits to this city granted by the stronger dollar against the ringgit, but beyond that living in Singapore has already acclimatized to raging humidity, over-inflation and unexpected floods.

It’s not as glamourous as New York or as fashionable as Hong Kong, but for everything else, it makes it a pretty decent place to live in, if you're forced to flee Singapore, because let’s face it, it's just like Singapore on a little prosiac drip and a painful traffic situation. Let's just keep KL as that 3 hr getaway drive for now, unless you own a helicopter.

The 2008 Hotdog Story

2011-02-26T18:25:00.001+08:00

I missed this story completely. This was on the night of the 26 drinks pub crawl.

There was a reason why I didn't actually detail the 'Hotdog Story' on the night we had our birthday celebration by pub crawling along the Singapore river - and if we had on lifejackets, I'm sure it would have passed of as a duck tour.

Well, that was because I didn't fully appreciate the hilarity of the incident, because I didn't see the entire shit pan out before me and largely because I was already tipsy. Here, is the pieced recount from Huixx, LB, Reznor and Tigerlily's versions.

We were all leaving wine bar for Orchard Towers, drunk no less. Niner was already suffering from alcohol amnesia and barely able to do a decent catwalk. Apparently, Niner bumped into some dude at the hotdog stand and that guy dropped his sausage, so he turns round and yells at Niner.

Niner, obviously shit housed drunk and barely able to even focus on cleavage, does not respond to the guy, which pisses him off even more so he moves in to grab Stefan, at which Huixx intervenes.

Huixx: "Hey you!! Stop this nonsense! Here's $4, take it and stop this nonsense!"

The guy ignores her and throws a claw which catches Niner on his face/neck. Pandemonia erupts. The guy is still yelling at Niner, trying to pick a fight over a fucking $2 sausage. The bouncers are sniggering over the absurdity of it. Reznor is trying to pry them apart and in the midst of it all, LB is shouting,

LB: "HAHAHAHAHA!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!!"

Not even knowing what just happened, my instincts kicked in and I immediately restrained the guy from getting into an altercation with Niner - and prevent him from dishing out anymore pussy catfight moves. And for my troubles, the guy yelled, 'fuck off' to me, twice.

At this point, some crazy ass chick comes by, yelling about Niner dropping her sausage too and this girl wasn't even anywhere near the scene when it all happened, and I was pretty convinced she probably just got off the bus and thought she'd try her luck at a free suasage.

Girl: "You drop my sausage! Buy me back a sausage."

And I checked.. there weren't any sausages on the ground.

Tigerlily: "I give you my sausage loh.."

And Tigerlily was also tipsy and trying to pacify the girl with her half eaten sausage.

Girl: "Buy me back my sausage!!!"

Then out of no where, some dude walks by her and says,

MysteryMan: "Yo! I got two sausages for you!" [flashes both middle fingers at her and walks off]

I almost peed my pants laughing.

What Men Think Of Valentine's Day

2011-02-07T19:42:00.001+08:00

It’s no secret that men and women see things differently, which is why we never agree on bed sheets, cable programs and cars. When a man sees used clothes on the bed, he knows he left it there because he might use it later, but when a woman sees it, all she sees is a reason to yell at the man.

Valentine’s day is the day of love. Many years ago someone decided that we would take a day to celebrate the effects of Cupid’s arrow, of that mystic chemistry that bonds two people and years on, even with overpriced dinners and flowers, we’ve kept that tradition.

The thing is, Valentine’s day is to women what the Champion’s League finals is to men. It’s a day that we look forward to each year with bated anticipation, only that we want to spend it in the company of beer and a 42 inch TV, as opposed to flowers, chocolates and a big hole in the pocket.

The truth about men

Do men really enjoy Valentine’s Day? No. The ugly truth that you are about to read is that most men look forward to this day as much as they would a vasectomy. Most men don’t get the fuss about a day that generally does not have any significant bearing to their relationship, and adding on expectations that women burden them with because social mores dictates that women should be pampered on that day, just serves to collapse any anticipation men will have about Valentine’s day.

I once dated this girl who liked me because she thought I was humourous. She would laugh at everything I said, until I told her that I would not be celebrating Valentine’s because I thought it was dumb. She didn’t think I was funny after that. She also stopped calling.

I’ve spoken to a myriad of men on their opinion of V-day and the overwhelming consensus is that the only way that it would be bearable, was if it was a public holiday. One of them said. “it’s a waste of a day”, another stated that it was “the worst day to be a man” and the one that took the cake was, and I am paraphrasing because of the need to censure expletives, “the dumbest day invented.”

And these were not men spurned by love, nor were they extremists who would burn flowers to show their disdain for the occasion. They are men, who have in their past celebrated this day simply because it was expected of them. The only guy, who was actually enthusiastic about V-day, was single and had never had a date on that day. Coincidence? I think not.

How we perceive Valentine’s Day over time

Valentine ’s Day is the very epitome of capitalism aimed to exploit men eager to prove their love or determination to impress a girl, leading them to succumb to that sudden over-inflation of flowers and food at their favorite restaurant. And our participation in this commercial celebration of love, varies directly to our duration in the relationship.

I’ve seen how time has exacerbated the enthusiasm of my male friends. In the first year, they embrace V-Day with everything expected of a gentleman, from presents to romantic dinners that had so much thought and planning into it, it would have made a wedding look like a tea for two. Then as the years go by, they strangely get hit by a bout of amnesia every time V-day rolls near, hoping, just hoping that if they forget about it, their girlfriends would too. By the end of it, you’ll be lucky if you get a handshake for V-day.

Every year we hope that girls would tell us those magic words, ‘let’s not celebrate Valentine’s Day’, but that will remain a utopian dream like world peace, orgasms and low fat beer. And even if a girl does say that she doesn’t want anything on Valentine’s day, her estrogens will kick in to remind her that she is innately female as soon as people around her starts getting flowers.

Why do men still celebrate?

Valentine ’s Day has become a day of validation. It’s about people in love reassuring one another through material gifts and elaborate surprises. It’s for people who are alone to feel bad about themselves and tell their pets, ‘who needs love when I have you’, and for florists to remember why they are in this business.

Men celebrate V-day because it is expected of them to. Failing which, a cold war will ensue that will make World War 2 look like a game of paintball. Men know that even when a girl tells him that she is fine with not doing anything, he has to do something - because there is always something when a girl says ‘nothing’.

And so the days leading up to the occasion is a period that man is plagued by panic that stems from an absolute cluelessness about what to do. Do we just get presents? Is dinner good enough? What if it’s not romantic? What colour roses does she like? Does she even like roses? Can we do what we did last year? What did we do last year? Is it appropriate to just write a card?

I’ve been on one too many shopping trips with my friends who scramble for presents at the eleventh hour, because that is an ascribed trait of being a man – we don’t plan until we realize we are going to get yelled at. And all these trips were littered with so many ‘I wonder if she likes this’, that it felt more like a precognition session.

So if you were to leave this day to our absolute dictation, society will never be faced with this torrid inflation crisis and it would be a day like any other, because even if it is a cliché to say that every day is Valentine’s Day, we don’t need to specially celebrate one’, the truth is that perhaps men aren’t just practical, but we’re lazy too.

You see, we empathize on what V-day is for women, how it is a catharsis to the vanilla routines of being in a relationship and how it is a timely interjection to being just a regular girl. Girls want a day to be special, but so do men. So just imagine how special V-day will be for us, if we could just do nothing for once.

Of Cops And Corruption

2011-01-19T02:23:00.002+08:00

Growing up, I’ve always heard about the rampant woes of corruption that were inconspicuously married to the police department in Malaysia. I’ve heard that bribes of anything from cigarettes to money to dignity could be the perfect compensation for any traffic offence from speeding to drink driving.

And they are true, because I finally witnessed the blunt of this gross reality that perhaps the servants of these institutions are simply ‘bending’ the law because corruption is a means to sustain a living. Or that perhaps setting up road blocks is just a past time not aimed to deter drink driving, but to make money.

Corrupt traffic police officers are no national secret, unlike Area 54, Roswell, Iraqi nuclear warheads and Hong Kong shrimp dumplings. It is blatant coffee shop topic and banter, and possibly more prevalent in Malaysian local context than Twitter or Facebook will ever be.

In such corruption, defines everything that capitalism stands for, that ultimately, money is everything. And it is no wonder that I see the people here drink and drive with such impunity as long as they have a couple of hundreds in their pockets that will miraculously become talisman that will guide them home, or at least ensure a safe enough passage.

At the rate we were drinking, it would have been an offence to even hold your car keys in Singapore. But this was Kuala Lumpur, home to cool restaurants, complicated roads and where consequences sometimes never catches up to you.

When we finished at the last bar on the outskirts of KLCC, we already had 2 bottles of whisky between the 6 of us. It was a point where no one should be driving, or even peeing without assistance, but I saw that nonchalant defiance of all traffic laws in their eyes and I knew that drink driving was a mandatory curriculum when it comes to driving, along with road rage, talking on handphone and illegal parking.

RO was my designated driver, so he was a lot more discerning with the drinks but from what I learnt about rate of alcohol absorption is that you are fucked anyway if you take more than 8 glasses. If there was a road block, he was going to fail it.

10 minutes into our drive on the expressway, we saw blinking beacons in the distant. In Singapore, if you had that much to drink, the lights are actually an indication for you to jump out the car and make a desperate swim for the causeway. Here, it just means you have to make a trip to the ATM the morning after.

Calmly, he started removing cash from his wallet and furtively began slotting them into various compartments of his car. He was driving a hatchback proton that looked like it was a stunt car for the Fast and the furious, so it was practically a mobile bulls-eye.

The whole conversation played out in Malay, so I had no idea what was going on until RO fed me the post event subtitles, but this was basically what went down after we got pulled over.

RO failed both the breathalyzer test, or as what some of the other locals have told me, these test are sometimes rigged, so having an orange juice can sometimes have the same effect as drinking a whole bottle of tequila.

RO: “So how now?”
Cop: “RM5,000. If not we go to police station.”
RO: “I don’t have RM5,000. Why don’t we go to the station.”
Cop: “RM1,000?”

This was better than the Great Singapore sale. Freedom was having a discount day out and normally I would jump at a grand for having an ‘unblemished’ driving record, but I would soon be taken on a practical course of handling cops in Malaysia. All I needed was a classroom, a notepad and this would have qualified as Corruption Handling 101.

RO: “I don’t have.”
Cop: “You have ATM card? I can drive you to the ATM”

Apparently ATM’s are last options because when they see how much you have in your bank account, they are going to cleave you for all that’s worth.

Cop: “Ask your friend if he has money.”
RO: “He’s from Singapore. Do you want to give him a bad impression of Malaysia?!”
Cop: “How about cigarettes?”

I had no idea what was transpiring between the both of them all this time because I wasn’t born with subtitling capabilities and neither did my iPhone come with one, so I did what I do best when I am confused; I started playing Angry Birds.

RO started emptying his wallet and held the cash just below the window frame. The cop took a glance of it and started to walk off shortly after.

RO: “He wants RM500 now. I just told him this is all I got and if he doesn’t want it, he can take us to the station.”
Me: “We can start hyperventilating now to lower your BAC.”

It was like a game of bluff, RO was calling his dare and only because he knows that this is a staple in KL. It’s about taking whatever bribe that was available or upholding justice and wasting your night doing paperwork.

The cop finally came back and settled for RM150. So that is the price of freedom.

If you actually put that in perspective, they are probably more lucrative than the ERP system because from what I’ve seen about the frivolous caution that the locals practice when it comes to drink driving, he is probably going to make enough for a night to buy over Batam by Christmas.

I'm not implying that every cop in Malaysia is corrupted, God forbid. I believe there are your John Waynes, Rambos and Edward Nortons who are clad in justice trying to better the police department. It's just that I've heard alot of stories from the locals and it's amusing because they talk about it like it is normalized into their routine of life.

I can’t say I hate that system because every wrong can be made right with the right price. It’s like you don’t need to cry over spilt milk there because you can simply mop it up and have it for breakfast again.

But my civic consciousness is knocking against my conscience, or maybe it’s that one too many drunk driving posters about shattering lives or maybe it’s that one poster in Australia that said, “If you drink and drive, you die”, but in any case, we should leave the driving to the cabbies, even if their meters are coincidentally always spoilt.

The 2010 That Went By

2011-01-04T01:18:00.003+08:00

We all know by now how fleeting time is. It passes almost in an instant and we’re left wading in our petty procrastinations that when we look back, we marvel at how insignificant time has rendered our year.

Maybe some of you beat incredible odds, like winning the lottery, getting pregnant by accident, getting caught for drink driving or getting laid for the first time since hitting 200 pounds. Maybe some of you have had such a placid year that you have no memory of it. And maybe some of you are just glad that the year is coming to a close.

As with how I’ve done my previous reviews on the year, I’ll draw on the milestones of the year and award myself with memories that have defined my year.

Most Embarrassing Moment

Some time earlier in the year I had one of those nights that started out with good intentions and then exacerbated into a drunken frenzy that started with me first talking to a stone dog, then doodling on the stone chair, then trying to erase off the ink with my saliva under threat from the security guard to call the cops. All that while being caught on camera.

It didn’t end there. We ended up at St James and the security there was asking me to leave because I was walking around with a t-shirt torn at the centre that would have passed off as a vest. It is apparently inappropriate to dress like that unless you have washboard abs or a vagina. Read it here.

Or maybe it was the time I stood at the weighing machine and realized that I had gained 5kg since I got back from New York. It’s a pity weighing machines don’t accept denial.

Worst Outdoor Event

When we planned to attend the rave party at Genting, it was based on a promise that there would be VIP tickets and a solid 4 hours of trance that would tickle every impulse in my body into abandoning fatigue and dancing till my tendons waved a flag of surrender.

Not only did we not get the tickets, we ended up buying it off the black market at a marked up price that will make all exploitive capitalist proud. To add insult to injury, we also realized that there was no alcohol available at the event. The only thing that would have been worse is dancing naked on Mount Everest.

First Accident

There are things we brag about in life, like sexual conquests, pocket money, the cars our daddy drives and who has a bigger gun. For me, it was about an unblemished 11 year accident free record that unpropitiously ended when I was hit while being stationary in my parking lot.

It was amazing because one moment I was tearing my coupons and the next I’m out of my car taking particulars and then 5 minutes from that, I was making a police report with fervid expletives because the guy had given me a bogus contact number, till the cop on the line had to tell me to “..mind your language”.

Read it here.

New York

Bright lights, big city and everything you wish to see on E! Entertainment. What they don’t sing about are the drive-by shootings, drug peddlers and overpriced strip joints. But that is precisely what makes New York the mosaic masterpiece city that the world celebrates about; the imperfect world of dreams.

I never realized how much I missed the place until I got back and started going, “Hey, I was there” or “I know that place” every time the scene of show was filmed against the backdrop of Manhattan.

My time there, was a self-discovery on varying spectrums, like realizing that I’ve been too comfortable in my career, that I can survive a month without doing the laundry, that I can live with public transport, that I don’t need supper to continue my existence and that I don’t need a medium sized bed when I’m sleeping alone.

Best Gift

When I first started my blog, I had a dream, and that was to write professionally and with enough merit, luck, recognition and money, publish a book. I had other dreams as well, like becoming a movie director, selling pirated VCDs and stopping time, but it all sounded so insignificant compared to world peace and I didn’t want to be inferior to beauty queens.

Although I can’t pen a novel about wizards and flying broom sticks any more, I haven’t had time to draft a screenplay and I’ve been procrastinating on blog posts, I still managed to fulfill that dream of having a book published courtesy of Poca, who compiled a series of my writings into a book for my birthday.

I have 10 copies of that and it is the most brilliant composition since men discovered how to write. It’s not sold in bookstores because it is so awesome, they have to discontinue the encyclopedia if it ever hits the shelves.

2011 Resolution

The last time I actively made a resolution, I was still drawing with crayons and was too young to appreciate the finer things in life like coffee, tequila and cleavages – not in any particular order or coupling.

As I approach the big ‘three zero’, resolutions become more of guidelines for the year than targets or recuperation for the soul. I am making the resolution out of fear than I am for general well-being, or maybe it’s just vanity knocking at my door and that I’m giving myself a chance to recapture youth, or the feeling and look of it.

I need to lose weight or tone up, whichever is easier and less tedious. Normally I would recommend myself a religious schedule of bulimic workouts on my digestive tracks, but public toilets are just not too conducive for masking the grunts of self-induced puking, and also because mouthwash is expensive.

I need to lose weight because I risk a wardrobe makeover and never getting to poke fun of obesity anymore. It would be tragic only because I would lose half my wit if I have to exclude a demographic I so fondly love to ‘subjectify’.

I just want to be able to take that flight of stairs with that same confidence as Sherpa Tensing did when he took Everest, or when Monica took a whole load of Bill in and on her, without fearing that I would go into cardiac arrest or tripping.

So here’s to the new year, even if I spent it singing in an elevator with LB, RotiPrata and Totti, or if I disappointedly remained sober through the night. Here’s to loved ones, who have always stuck by us, even when we’ve gained a few pounds. Here’s to friends, who made us laugh at ourselves and gave us bad suggestions, because we learnt what’s right from doing wrong.

And here’s to 2010, because you passed so quickly and taught us that life is given to those who take it. Hello 2011, I’m coming straight at you this time…

ZoukOut 2010

2010-12-23T14:03:00.002+08:00

As much as I have a disdain for numbers, I believe there are merits for its invention, like giving value to money, undermining my pay cheque, making hot women contactable and remembering milestones.

And when we are validating our holidays, lives and blog worthy material against the backdrop of that imaginary party calendar, then there isn’t one that is bigger than ZoukOut on our sunny island. And how best can I commemorate this momentous event that is helmed by a line up of trance acts that will give even eunuchs an erection, then putting it in statistics.

7 – is the total number of ZoukOuts that I’ve been to over the years. I can’t say that every one of it has been enjoyable or memorable, but I can’t complain much when I don’t even like the idea of dancing with sand between my toes to begin with.

The fact that I’ve continuously and religious subscribed to this dance festival is perhaps telling of my penchant for parties, or maybe this holy tripartite of booze, bikini and babes just supersedes any excuse not to party. It probably even makes having a fire rave party at a petrol station sound like a great idea.

$720 is what I spent on drinks that night - not even counting what the other guys bought -, so you should know that I had enough Red Bulls vodkas in me to give even ammonia in my pee a serious bout of insomnia. It’s unbelievable, if I peed on the sand enough, I probably had enough Red Bull in me to coax it into dancing as well.

1 is the number of cup(s) of beer I had. Let me recount, I started my day at 10am and I had every intention of partying till the break of dawn – and maybe beyond if my feet was blister free – so if my bar experiences served me right, while beer is great for explaining overweight issues, burping and getting ugly people laid, it is not going to help me survive the night.

2am is probably the time when I first got a drop of alcohol down my throat. I am not proud of this, but I’ve learnt that as we get older and brash ambitions, stamina and binge drinking capacities slowly divorces us, we need to learn to pace ourselves or risk an early surrender to fatigue and inebriation.

3 is the number of people I saw participated in a fight which started over spilled beer. If you put your drinks on the ground and expect people to not step on them at ZoukOut, is as optimistically moronic as collecting your feces on a Petri dish and hoping it blossoms into a rose garden. In any case, there were two topless men fighting and one brave woman trying to break up the fight - sounds like Jersey Shore to me.

4 is the number of unopened packets of cigarettes that I had with me on entry to ZoukOut as a favour. I think that is a record.

5 is the number of hours I spent at ZoukOut. This was enough because my only intention of being there was purposefully built around the fact that Tiesto was going to be spinning. This man is to Trance what Michael Jackson is to pop music or what KY jelly is to gays; an integral part of life.

The disappointing thing was that he was no where close to that deliverance of euphoric education that he had when I last went for his gig at Port Dickson. The music was as engaging as a deaf choir in a meat market and it was hardly the visual spectacular than I had envisaged.

I was expecting a carnage of fireworks that would have made National Day look like the musical fountain or an entrance with substantial grandeur that would make landing on the moon look like it was filmed in Disneyland. And the exit was.. hell I didn’t even know he ended. A spaceship to beam him away would have been a good finish if you asked me.

11 am was when RotiPrata finally answered my calls. He had gone missing all night and apparently, he woke up with his pants half down, lying on the grass patch in the middle of Ang Mo Kio, with no recollection of how he even got there – and he didn’t even have cash on him to begin with.

This story took the cake completely and our hypothesis remains that he was gang raped, then dumped out the car. It sounds way cooler than what actually happened anyway, so I will keep it as that.

For as much as ZoukOut has been a carnival of decadence over the years, I think I’ve hit a plateau for the corporeal feast of half naked bodies – well, half of them actually should be wearing more clothes because fats only looks good when you put nipples on them – because I am too pampered with plush sofas, air condition and excellent bar services to want to be squeezing through an army of sweaty bodies.

But I’ll never learn, or maybe I don’t want to because perhaps deep down in me, I know that surrendering an attendance at ZoukOut is sign of growing up. And I don’t want to. And in the words of some retro male singer minus your dumb mambo hand signs,

"I want to be forever young”

So That's Minimum Wage

2010-12-01T00:26:00.003+08:00

The only thing that I took out of China over the last week, other than cup noodles and a tempted will to resist buying a fake iPhone 4, was respect for the majority of the population who are earning a wage than will make flipping burgers at Tampines look like Gisele's catwalk fee.

Okay, I have to be honest. I'd be lying if I said it was respect in entirety because it started with me laughing and telling them to stop joking about it, and then it escalated into amazement, then somewhere down the line when my conscience started warning me about karma, I decided that I would respect them instead. Only because I'm trying to be a better man.

But Butterfly, it's all about being relative to the cost of living index. I know all about these indexes because I invented them when I was drunk and peeing on one leg. And it is because I am measuring against a bevy of lifestyle costs, which I believe to be essential to life like toilet paper, milk and condoms.

In my measure of quality of life and necessities, I have included an irreplaceable list that otherwise absent in life, would prove detrimental to an adult psyche. This includes, beer, vodka, McDonald's and cost of handjobs, along a list of many others.

For the sake of those of you who have never taken economics, geography or sociology, I will explain in brief on how we ascertain cost of living. In simplicity's sake, you take your pay and you divide it against how many Big Macs you can buy and if that other persons pay yields about the same in their country then the cost of living is equal. This is the essentials, because I am asleep when lectures get technical.

I wouldn't say that Zhuhai - the part of China where we were in - was particularly cheap because it bordered Macau and as with the law of proximity, you fuck up everything that is around you. It was not as with some ASEAN countries where you know you can walk in with a USD100 bill and maybe come out with the property deed to a shopping mall.

The other day, we spent an entire afternoon at one of their popular massage centres and I decided to have a foot reflexology because at SGD$20 for an hour, it would have been blasphemous if I had given it a miss.

In general, I do not like making small talk when I am having my feet rubbed because I don't want my masseuse to get distracted and damage my kidneys from pressing the wrong nerve endings, and also because I am not proficient in Mandarin.

But this masseuse of mine kept going on and on about her life for some reason, I could have swore that she was a book about self perseverance in disguise. I had no interest in her ranting until we came onto the topic of salary.

Me: "How much do you earn?"
She: "RMB13 for every one hour foot massage."

I immediately did a quick mental calculation and discovered that she makes $2 per hour, and this is only if she does a session of foot massage. I thought it was a joke and I wanted to snap a picture of her and have all fast foods in Singapore pin it up on their staff board just so that people working there can feel good about themselves.

She: "Good days we get about 4-5 customers."

It's like cheering for mediocracy or giving the guy who came in 5th in the race a standing ovation and a one page interview. All I heard was $10 per day and this girl was beeming with delight that I was her fourth and she might just break her record for day earnings.

And at the same time, a part of me started to respect her because for alot less effort - dignity and clothes -, she could have sold her body and soul - debatetable - to the open arms of prostitution, but here she was, toiling for a months pay which she could have otherwise with alot of makeup and cleavage, gotten in a day.

I am by no means saying that I respect prostitutes any less because I genuinely belief that there are women who are in this trade simply because they love sex or having men push them around, as opposed to rubbing a fungus infected foot that has gone beyond the salvage of Dettol.

It was a lesson in frugality and thrift and you know that this girl had all the right qualifications to present the lecture because she had a tight budget that allowed her $2 on meals daily and a no alcohol or cigarettes policy.

She: "Sometimes customer will give us tips and that's where we earn more money from."

I pretended I couldn't read the English numbers on her tag after that.

Survival Guide # 6 - How To Survive A Budget Airline

2010-11-21T18:50:00.002+08:00

These days, it no longer seems enough to get around with just a car or an EZ link card, you need peddles and an inflatable boat, which makes travelling on a budget airline worthwhile again.

How to survive a budget airline.

1. Emergency exit seats

‘Leg room space’ is a term that was thrown out the equation when they created budget airlines whose true motto is “discomfort for all who is cheap”. The seats are so cramp, the only way you can have any remote comfort is unless you plan on amputating your legs after the flight, or you are a leprechaun.

Your best bet is to be seated at the emergency exits. Beg, bribe or flash a boob if you need to secure the seats, but it’s imperative that you get it if you intend to feel your legs after the flight. You might be the first to die if the doors blow open in mid flight, but at least you’ll be comfortable till that happens.

2. Turbulence

You are in a plane that offers $1 flights, either way, your best bet of surviving a turbulence is praying that your seat belt works and that they aren’t going to be charging for life-jackets. I’ve learnt from a recent trip that when they tell you to return to your seats in an event of a turbulence, they are kidding around with you. Being in the toilet is just about the worst place to be, it’s just like sleeping next to the propellers.

3. Entertainment

There should be a law that mandates that any time spent in the air over an hour should be accompanied by a private in-flight screen that comes with the best selection Hollywood has to offer. Since this is a flight that charges everything down to the air we breathe, a laptop or portable DVD player is your best friend since Lassie.

You need to ration your bag with magazines, playing cards or a blowup doll, just pack anything that will keep you from slitting your wrist in mid air. You’ll need it.

4. Alcohol

If you need to smuggle anything on board, let it be a whole range of vodka or sleeping pills, because you will need this when all else fails. Somehow time passes faster when you are asleep, or drunk – doubly fast when it’s both. So the key here is to make a 3 hour flight to Bangkok feel like a trip from Kallang to Bedok.

5. Parachute

Airlines allow you to hand carry luggage on board, so let’s be smart about it and make it something that counts, like a parachute. There are things in life that we must always be wary of, like strangers, ex-girlfriends, cholesterol, condoms and unknown flashing lights from a video camera – sometimes all those collectively. And budget airlines ranks in at the top with them.

Let’s look at this objectively, you will be spending hours on the plane torturing yourself because you decided saving money on airfare was an astute decision like voting against communism, but it actually means that you just saved enough money to invest in a parachute.

If that plane goes down, in that instance before that, you’ll be the most popular person on board, because you will have that one thing that actually mattered.

Survival Guide # 5 - How To Survive a Birthday

2010-11-21T18:47:00.002+08:00

If you’re old enough to lift a glass of champagne, then you’ve probably experienced a birthday laced with alcohol and the only memory you have is shaking hands with random people and going to sleep hugging the toilet bowl.

How to survive a birthday.

1. Pacing

A birthday without alcohol is blasphemous, much like yawning in church or steak with ketchup, but binge drinking when you don’t have the capacity is just stupid. The key to surviving begins with pacing yourself through all the mindless toasting. It’s not going to be easy, because somehow your friends are always dumber on your birthdays when they think it’s a great idea to get you drunk fast.

Think about it people, when the birthday guy is smashed, someone has to look after him and the party ends earlier. So unless you are rushing home to watch Oprah, don’t rush it. It’s paramount that all your friends understand that this is a birthday celebration and not some competition on who gets to kill your liver. It’s about having fun and you can’t be doing that if you’re passed out on the dance floor.

2. Birthday drinks

I never understood the ritualistic suicide of having a flaming drink for birthday. No one ever enjoys it and people buy you that because they are cheap and they want you drunk fast. It’s a veteran rule to never mix drinks if you intend to leave the night with your dignity – and sometimes chastity – intact. One birthday I attended, it started with a flaming lambo and it ended with him giving the pavement a blowjob – 23 minutes later.

Remember it’s your birthday, you’re entitled to piss on traffic lights with impunity, so what is saying ‘No’ to certain drinks, so long as you are still religiously drinking. Sure, they’ll frown and throw big words like, ‘wah lau’ or ‘buay steady’, but it’s your birthday, so you can probably afford to lose a couple of friends.

3. Yell A lot

Friends will stop making you drink so long as they know that you are inebriated – it’s an obsession, like collecting stamps, vanity and necrophilia. Never tell people you are drunk because people who are drunk will never admit that they are. Yelling helps. Drunk people yell a lot.

4. Going on the offensive

This is a great strategy if your friends are lightweights. Always do group toastings so that you don’t fall into a precarious position of having individuals taking turns to drink with you. So long as they see that you are drinking, you’ll be fine. Be in control, so always pour your own drinks and follow each sip with a question so that it distracts them from noticing your glass.

Remember, it’s you against the horde, just imagine yourself to be Rambo or Hitler because for some reason, everyone is going to be picking on you. If all else fails, I hear McDonald’s has a great birthday package available.

Survival Guide # 4 - How To Survive WAking Up To A Stranger

2010-11-09T01:34:00.002+08:00

Sometimes in life, we lose our battles with alcohol and wake up with alcohol amnesia wondering where we are. Sometimes we wake up next to the toilet bowl, in hotel rooms, and if you’re really lucky, with a condom in your ass.

How to survive waking up with a stranger – in a strange place.

1. Stay

CalmPanic is always the first error a person can commit in this situation, other than getting drunk which was what led you to this in the first place. Relax, take a minute to recollect the night’s escapades and it that fails, take another minute to formulate an exit plan, which includes calculating the nearest route to the door or out the toilet window.

2. Exit Plans

Don’t ask questions unless you intend for a sobriety shag in the morning. Crying, regrets and self berating can be done in the cab. The paramount concern now is to bail when they are asleep.

If you’re unlucky enough to wake up to a “good morning”, then all conversational structures should be shape with politeness and engagement, so long as the other party is good looking. If they are ugly, a quick gorge to their eye should suffice, before charging for the door.

3. Excuses

Always blame it on alcohol so you won’t be labeled with big words like promiscuous, amoral or decadent. After all, alcohol is the explanation of unwanted pregnancies, domestic violence and UFO sightings.Only use this if you are entirely sure you don’t want to wake up next to them again, ever. If not, conversational cues to prompt a name should be inserted right after, “hello” and somewhere before “can you call me a cab?”.

4. Denial

Denial is great for feeding your conscience and to make the situation more awkward. It’s even better than conjuring excuses because you don’t need to validate your lie or hear what the other party has to say. Let’s just hope you won’t be seeing yourself on YouTube.

5. Yelling

Should all else fail, yelling is the best way to get out of your predicament. It won’t be pretty, but if you do it well enough, you can cause the other party great panic and guilt True professionals at yelling have been known to make people defecate in their pants.

6. Milk it for it’s worth

When all else is lost, you should probably make the most out of it, like breakfast in bed, a free ride home or invoicing them for your hourly rate. You’ve already lost your dignity, the least you can do is to take their money.

Survival Guide # 3- How To Survive Being Dump

2010-11-09T01:32:00.001+08:00

At some point in time, every human will go through pitfalls of life, like heartbreaks, bad sex, retrenchment, obesity and ugly children. Sure, there are easy solutions to these like, infanticide, genocide, robbing a bank or bulimia, but when there isn’t any chicken soup left for the heart, this is what you’ll need for breakups.

How to survive being dumped

1. Occupy yourself

Breakups are always hard to get over because you sit there and wallow in self pity, thinking of what you did wrong or what you could have done, when you know very well that a deeper cleavage or fancier car was what they dumped you for.

To break away from this chain of social regression, you need to stop thinking, and what better way than to occupy yourself with other trivialities like reading, travelling, doing sports or surfing for porn. It’s all about channeling your energy on something more positive.

2. Make use of friends

God gave us friends for a purpose other than to boost our Facebook profiles, form organized crime syndicates or make up a mahjong game. Friends are there because in times like these, they are a catharsis to loneliness. Hanging out with friends is the best immediate way to pass time and to bitch incessantly about that ex’s, because friends are willing to listen to sob stories if they need to.

3. Alcohol

Alcohol is after all, the solution to all problems – and the creation as well. You’d be amaze at what a tray of tequila can do for your self esteem, because with the right dosage, music and peer pressure, you might find yourself from wailing at home senselessly to dancing topless sensibly on the bar top.

Think of it this way, if you take it excessively, it might be dangerous and you might pass out and wake up a day later, but that also means you got through a day without felling emotionally vulnerable. Great job.

4. Get Even

Revenge is the dish best served cold, but I say, it’s also the best story you can tell your ex about the time you hooked up with their best friend. Love makes people stupid and falling out of it just makes you bitter. So, when you’re still stupid and bitter, things like rebound dates, revenge sex and burning their cars would sound like the best idea since man decided to add cheese to toast, but is it really?

Revenge as I would say, is like a Guatemalan whore with silicon tits and syphilis. It might like a good idea, but the consequences might be something you cannot handle. The best way to getting even is to move on fast and strong, because you’d have bettered them psychologically and showed that they never really meant that much.

Or maybe if chance permits, a quick jab to your ex’s face followed with a strong knuckle to the throat delivered with your master hand should do the trick. Remember, crying is okay, but it always looks better when someone else is doing it.

Survival Guide # 2 - How to Survive a Blind Date

2010-11-06T21:02:00.002+08:00

How to survive a blind date?

Some point in time, when you are driven by boredom, desperation or nosey friends, you will be thrown into a situation where you have to contend for your survival in a blind date. It can be a disastrous experience. I know so because once I met this girl who had eyes so spaced apart, if they were higher up her head, she would have qualified as a frog.

1. Background check

Don’t make the same mistake I did. Always run a photo check when possible on who you are meeting and verify it with network tools like Facebook, though it’s not always accurate. Once on MySpace, I did a random search and I selected ‘athletic’ as body type and what looked like contestants of The Biggest Loser still popped up.

I know these defeats the purpose of a blind date, but ask yourself; do you really want to risk meeting up with an obese transvestite with a missing ear?

2. Choosing a location

Avoid overtly crowded places if you have no idea how the other person looks like. The last thing you need is bumping into friends who will Twitter about your alopecia plagued date. However, the great thing about crowds is that it’s a natural smokescreen if you need to bail even before a proper introduction.Similarly, avoid deserted areas unless you are aiming to get raped – which I must say is an ambitious goal for a first date.

3. Choosing an activity

Movies make the ideal blind date activity, simply because you don’t need to look at each other and there isn’t a need to create a conversation for a good 2 hours. So you don’t have to be dreading through coffee listening to the other person’s hobbies that might include erection killing cues like ‘social work’ and ‘stamp collecting’.

Never plan anything fancy because the less time you spend on one the better. If they are really worth your time, it’s called a second date.

4. Making conversations

Women should know that men don’t really give a shit about what you are saying, as long as you have a plunging neckline and cleavage that they can talk to. Being rude is a great way to shorten a date. There will be a lot of yelling, but they will leave eventually.

5. Planning your escape

Always formulate an exit strategy before the date, just so that you don’t need to slit your wrist - or theirs – if anything goes wrong. Something like have someone call you 30 minutes into the date or read your imaginary text message. Excusing yourself with reasons like, dinner with the folks, saving the world and booty calls have proved to be adequate. You might also want to sacrifice your family members through a fake accident if you need to bail immediately.

There’s really nothing wrong about cutting off a blind date, because giving people who are clearly unequal, equal chances, is called Communism. We don’t support that.

Survival Guide # 1 - How to survive Thai Discos

2010-11-06T20:58:00.002+08:00

The world as they say, is a battlefield. So how are we to get through life if we don’t have mace, a chastity belt or Chuck Norris? If you are lucky, it’s called a revolver. For the rest of you, thankfully you have me for your one stop survival guide.

How to survive Thai/Viet Discos?

It’s the new hangout for days that you need loud music and the clubs aren’t in operation. It ain’t classy but if you are looking for an adventure, then this is where you will find, decadence, vice, over-priced tequila shots and if you are really lucky, STDs.

1. Rejecting lady drinks

Women here generally make a living out of peddling drinks for tips. They are generally deaf because they don’t take no for an answer and they approach you with the best pickup lines. There was this one girl who came over because she said I sent her a signal despite the fact that I hardly even looked at her. I was convinced she was either a dolphin or a Nokia phone.

If saying no isn’t enough, you can move to another table. Do not even bother with an introductory handshake because trivial niceties are only signs of weakness here. If she still does not get the message, a quick jab to her throat should solve it.

2. Hanging Garlands

It’s about showing support to the dancers. It’s about status. It’s about bragging rights. But really, is there a point to this when it’s not like it gets you an instant orgasm. That money goes to better use like, paying taxes, Gucci or Toto. Don’t worry about charity, your $50 won’t save a life despite what they tell you.

If a dancer really likes you, you don’t need to hang a garland to get her attention. You don’t want to be competing with a horde of cash happy men who believe garlands can unzip pants faster. Let the others tip, whilst you enjoy the show. It’s not like they will stop dancing anyway.

3. Don’t be fooled by sweet talk

Girls there will butter you with so many pleasantries that they can make a 2 inch penis sound like Sea Biscuit. Don’t be fooled into thinking a couple of tequila shots will get them naked. Love is a commodified item you can get there for 3 tequila shots, or if you are really in a rush, you can get them to propose to you for $200.

4. Appreciating the scene

The best way to digest these bars is with a drink at a corner of a bar, where you can appreciate all the clockworks of the place from a safe distance. It’s like a meat market, where people peddle shots, morals and themselves.

You can join the fray if you wish to, because what fun is there in staying sober because we all know that with enough alcohol, everything is a good idea. Just remember, if you are ever in doubt, more vodka usually solves the problems. After all, alcohol is the solution to all problems.

We Got The Intern In Trouble

2010-10-28T03:37:00.008+08:00

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.

The Midnight Rugby

2010-10-14T12:37:00.003+08:00

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.

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

2010-10-11T02:26:00.000+08:00

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"

Me: "FUCK! ARE YOU HAVING A SEIZURE OR ARE YOU PUKING?!"

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.

It's Called Pants

2010-09-20T02:15:00.003+08:00

For all the merits women have been ascribed with, beginning with tolerance, faith, bitching and blowjobs, it's a pity that myopia is perched right next to them as if in vile mockery of all things good in women.

Women can thrill men with a flaunt of a falling shoulder strap, a jest tilt of her shortening skirt and even the overtly frequent use of cleavages still makes men forgive any stupidity they bring with it. And yet all these wonderful rights to being a woman still gets eroded and forgotten by them when you add alcohol into the equation.

I'm sure looking beautiful is paramount when you go out clubbing. It's not just the men you have to impress, but it's also the imaginary competition you have with every other girl in the club. Who looks prettier? Who has the nicest leg? Who looks cheap in that Dolce? Can I make fun of the piece of lard by the bar? Is any one keeping count on calories?

So fake lashes, barebacks, stiletto heels and mini skirts become your assets, when in reality they are liabilities. It's like planning to fuck a leper and hoping to come out of it fine, and maybe if you're lucky, have a kid from it that is such a genius, he makes Einstein look like an autistic monkey.

Do girls actually consider the consequences of getting drunk?

Look, it's really simple. If you are going out to have a crazy night with copious engagements with champagne or martinis, then at least plan for it. And I'm not even talking about having a proper meal before you head out or putting a condom in your bag. There is a simple solution to all that, and it's called, pants.

The only thing dumber than a girl getting pissed drunk, is getting pissed drunk in a skirt, because not only will you be losing a liver, your dignity is going out the door as well when you parade your ass for the world to see. If that happens, I hope you wore nice undies at least. What can be worse for your friends to find out that, not only are you a bad drinker, you also have bad taste in panties.

Just the other night, we were laughing when we saw a group of girls on a hen's night queuing for entry at Butter Factory. And I was laughing only because she was in a skirt that was so short even a midget could wear it as a thong, and I knew that she was going to end the night crawling out.

I'm not sure if she gave lap dances that night, but I'm pretty sure she gave a lot of upskirts because I saw her being dragged out by her friends and her panties were still showing. You can snigger if you saw, I think half of the adult population in Singapore did.

Do girls not know that prevention is better than cure, that consequence is always there to remind us of our decisions and that a myopic choice to wear short skirts once and get drunk is forgivable but twice just makes you either an idiot or a slut.

We've all seen it too often. Girls drunk by the side of the road and friends having a dilemma on protecting their modesty or making sure she doesn't choke on her own vomit. And passerbys are just confused on whether to laugh at their inebriated state or at the granny panties.

I'm all for girls or people in general to drink, because alcohol is essential to partying just as young alter boys are to Catholic priests. The word that I must bold - and I cannot believe I am saying this - is moderation.

If a guy passes out from severe inebriation and pees his pants, it's fine because it's the responsibility and in the nature of men to do stupid and embarassing things. Sure, he'll get laughed at for a couple of days, but he will go home and wank off to a poster of Megan Fox, or Michael J Fox or an Animal Planet fox poster, whatever. And he will be fine after that.

As much as we belive in equilateral rights between the sexes, you have to understand that there are just some things that are ascribed gender characteristics. Getting drunk and carried out a club is a male dominant gene, much like how nagging is dominated by women. Let's face it, women don't look as good as men in getting drunk.

If you know you are going heavy with the drinks, or even think that the night has any inclinations of imploding into a voracious cheer of alcohol, then start comprehending that high heels aren't your best friends when walking straight becomes a possibility lost beyond the recall of sobriety.

And short skirts? Only if you intend and can control your drinks with wretched moderation, or unless it is your intention to parade your newest Victoria Secrets purchases and hope that you make it to http://www.drunkmorons.com/.

If I had to write a slogan for pants, it would be:

"Protecting your modesty so that you can drink more" or "It might not look as good as a short skirt, and it's not as user friendly to pee with, but it's also alot more difficult to be raped in."

How To Lose Your Partner In 10 Ways - Pt 4

2010-09-06T01:26:00.004+08:00

Sorry to have keep you in abeyance while I've taken a small sabbatical from the keyboard and lost a couple of weeks without decent enough events for me to re-ignite any interest to pen it down for laughs.

But before I get on with any tales of drunk revelry, I thought it best that I close up this long running chapter before I lose more literary merits to age - my birthday just passed by the way - and brain cells for a prolonged engagement with alcohol.

8. The TV remote

Not many women realize this but a TV remote controller is one of the most sacred possessions a man will have in his lifetime, much like his pink IC when he is 18, his car, an autographed soccer jersey and maybe an NDP goodie bag.

Most women also don't know that deliberately parting a man from his TV remote is a national felony recognised across all countries of the world, with the exception of Tibet and Alaska where television might not be invented just yet. And it is punishable with a tight master hand to the face and a knee to the gut.

Thankfully, men are merciful beings who generally do not extend this punishment against their perpetrator because women have discovered that cleavage, lap dances and blowjobs when executed with the right intentions, can be very persuading even for the most resolute of couch potatoes.

That said, women should understand that a man's bond with the TV remote is a madatory ritual phase that all men enter like their fathers before them, much like puberty, just with alot less stress, curiosity and embarassment. And to break that bond by taking it away from him or by changing his channels, is as sacrilegious as giving blowjobs as a substitute for Sunday communion.

Without his remote, a man loses his dignity and his best friend. His world begins to crumble because he will henceforth be stuck with the same channel as switching it manually would have become too tedious. And in time, his animosity towards you grows because he has lost that one tool that allowed him to escape your nagging.

A breakup becomes the inevitable event on the horizon that will be marked on the calender with considerable anticipation.

I had an ex-girlfriend who believed that it was her duty to filter shows for my viewing, which included a ban on watching wrestling. If I had stumbled upon it from channel surfing, she would take it upon herself to hold the remote for me, just so I will never glance upon that channel again. I celebrated her departure, needless to say.

9. World Cup

When something comes around once every four years, it should be revered as the a global phenomenon it is. Challenging it is about as dumb an idea as trying to pee at a tornado. Women should never try to make men choose between them or a World Cup match unless they want to set themselves up for disapointment.

You will never win.

You know that even if your man picked you, it was filled with resentment and regret and done so probably out of a calculated move that you would have been incessantly nagging at him had he not done so and he would never have enjoyed the match anyway because you would have laced it with so much emotional blackmail, he would not even be able to take a dump without feeling guilty.

World Cup was never meant to steal your boyfriend - or as recent viewersip demographics has shown. possibly girlfriend - but for the seasoned person, capable of seeing beyond this myopic and petty grudge with this male centric sport, they actually realize that this is a chance to showcase themselves as understanding partners, far surpassing the realm of young women with nothing more that short skirts, tight asses and a chestful of insecurities.

So if you want to still have a relationship after the World Cup, then this a time to perhaps start pretending that you are interested in watching grown men chase after a ball. After all, this happens once every four years, much like how often men will take you out to watch the sunrise after they are in a relationship, so embrace it.

10. Bad Sex

As we mature, we understand that love isn't just a canvas of doe eyed kisses, long talks on the phone and romantic dinners, but also an intricate fabric of sexual intimacy and that sometimes love just means licking your partners ass.

You see, while sex might not be paramount at the start of all relationship life cycles, couples grow to become less forgiving to flaws in technique and physique. A 3 inch penis might have been sufficient in the first couple of months when an orgasm might have been fuelled by a strong spark of passion, but as the relationship gets longer and the penis remains the same, it becomes a problem.

Taking 2 minutes to figure which hole he should be inserting in is a crime intolerable as pink cars and peeing in lifts are. Taking more time to wear a condom than actual sex including foreplay is also a herald to a relationship that will not last longer than Lindsay Lohan's jail stint.

If you suck at it, corrective measures should be taken immediately unless finding a new partner every 2 months is on your cards, of which tales of your suckiness would travel and soon the only one willing to fuck you is a hamster in heat, with a lot of steriods.

I once dated a girl who told me she believed in chastity and that sex was a gift saved for marital bliss. Not only did I know that I was never going to marry this person, I had also lost all prior interest in putting my hand down her blouse, and the erection.

If a virgin might have been what men liked before a relationship, then being a slut is what's going to keep the relationship going.

The Friday Scuffle

2010-08-17T01:07:00.004+08:00

In life there are things that should never be mixed, like heels and champagne, obesity and bikinis, North Korea and nuclear warheads amongst many other, and as of couple Fridays back, ego and alcohol.

Oh, but we've already known that too well as witnessed by the obscene amount of fights that have broken out in clubs. And I say obscene not because I think it's complete childish - God forbid, it makes great entertainment value, second only to midget wrestling - , but because fights in real life are never as glamourous as Hollywood depicts.

It's always messy, we never get that picture perfect still shot of a knockout and it ends way too fast. Rocky Balboa looked like he could take a punch from every one in China and still have a Kentucky Fried Chicken before he goes down for the count.

It all started at the toilet for me where I was unceremoniously cut at the queue by a girl. And because I am brilliant at deducing the situation, I figured that if this came down to a fist fight, I would have a substantial advantage over her lithe 40 odd kg frame and plus I hadn't file my nails all day.

Me: "Wah! You just cut my queue!"

She turns around, clearly inebriated and has no idea what I am saying. She wouldn't have anyway to begin with even if she was sober because she wasn't local. And if it wasn't because she was actually pretty and could probably know Wushu, I would have challenged her to a round of Chinese chess for the rights to the toilet.

Me: "Oh it's okay. You guys don't queue to begin with."

So I got out back out to find the guys at the bar, ready to palaver my little tale of friction when all of the sudden, I am hit at the side of my face. I turn, clutch my face and exclaim loudly to the first guy I see. He pays me no attention. Instead, he starts yelling at D2.

I stand there clueless as to what is going on while the guy yells away. I hear juvenile key phrases like, "you bump into me" and "never say sorry" and I start looking around the club frantically hoping to see Ekin Cheng and Jordan Chan pop up from the crowd, cued with techno Canto pop and gang cheers.

The next thing I know, another guy comes over stark raving mad and throws in huge words like, "loser" and "poor" and then starts boasting about being a lawyer. I do not get to drink anything during this 5 minutes of yelling, but I am generally amused by it.

Apparently, everything that the two guys have done is scripted - probably down to what vulgarities they were planning to use because the first guy looked like he would normally have problems saying his name without thinking.

It was a script formed from a thick plot of spurned love, a bruised ego, revenge and a lot cauldron full of inmaturity. It's something a TVB drama would have been if all their actors were 12 years old.

So it was revenge. D2 had been the subject for this aggrevation and his reaction would have been the bait for a full on violence had he not kept his cool and read the situation. RotiPrata had gone out to the smoking deck where they were, to settle things with security.

Bystander: "You okay?"
D2: "You want to start also issit?!"

The guy was livid but it was hilarious because it seemed for a moment, that wrath had eroded all sense of clarity in D2 and he would have killed even Big Bird if it tired to pacify him.

Bystander: "What the fuck?! I just asked if you are okay?!"

I would have have giggled myself to death if it didn't look like another fight might break out from this. Immediately, the bystander's friend started talking to me.

Friend: "Hey, tell your friend to chill lah.."

I would have replied him if I wasn't laughing to badly.

When we got out to the smoking deck, the first guy that hit D2 had suddenly surrendered into an apologetic lump of gutlessness. At first I thought that RotiPrata might have sliced off his testicles with an amonia laced letter opener, then I realized how absurd the whole debacle had adulterated itself into.

Apparently, the first guy who had hit D2, had in his drunken stupor, vitiated his claim against D2 by confessing that he had thrown a punch. On the other hand, the second guy who had instigated the whole affair continued his yelling, which were like stand up comedy punchlines.

2nd Guy: "You are a fucking loser. You are poor. I am rich. I am a lawyer! Just remember that when you kiss her, you are tasting my dick!"

I think the only thing he missed out was 'my daddy has a bigger gun than your daddy. I don't want to friend you'. And then he got dragged out, because he had a friend who is a self-confessing moron that made Forrest Gump look like Ari Gold.

Bystander and his friend comes by again and tries to appease everyone. Yang, who had been quiet all night turns to the friend.

Yang: "I know you.."
Friend: "Oh? Where from?"
Yang: "You look familiar.. you look like someone... that I want to punch the face in because..."

And there was a long pause. I was half expecting a joke at the end of it that would have ended with us giving high fives and chest bumping, but no. There was nothing but contempt that lay ahead, but this was what the guy said in retaliation.

Friend: "Eh.. why your friend like that! I'm hurt by what he just said. I was just trying to be nice and then he come and say such things."

I don't know if he was a Catholic church alter boy or a gay manicurist by day, but I laughed so hard, I barely had strength to hold my cigarette. Where are the Hollywood fights when you need one?

The One About The Stairs

2010-08-03T03:05:00.003+08:00

“Who scared who! Drink lah!”

There are few verbal cues in my dictionary that is capable of heralding an eventful night. And when this comes regurgitated from LB, you know that it’s a polarizing effect of either things turning out decent or usually, a dismal spiral to the worst night ever.

And I have empirical evidences to purport my stance. The last time he said that, I ended up walking around St James with a torn shirt and the other time, he tore down the ceiling panels. I don’t remember any of the times that things turned out good.

There wasn’t a planned destruction of our liver despite it being a Friday night. I wanted to check out Lunar and Shanghai Dolly and we capped the tour of Clarke Quay with a decent round of Jagerbombs only because we bumped into Xin at one of the bars and we convinced her that buying us a round was a courtesy tribute to us for winning our money in mahjong.

Then we ended in Zouk, or if you are taking blood alcohol readings then, more rightfully, we started at Zouk with a bottle of whiskey and Red Bull. Then it came a bottle of vodka and somewhere along the way it got out of hand.

Poca joined us briefly before surrendering to a charge of alcohol concoctions that she had re-toxified herself with at another club. Along the way, Felice popped by with an emotionally burdened heart. And somewhere into the second vodka, I lost track of sobriety.

It was one of those nights that we were making cheers out of nothing and celebrating insignificance. We could have made a toast to cockles and starfishes and drank to that like it was a wedding party and none of us cared if any of it made sense. It was the very scene that would have won us an Oscar if we were making film about binge drinking.

Danny pours a glass and hands it to me. I take it respectfully despite a blurring vision and an ailing strength soon to be surrendered to vodka and hand it to LB, who rejects the drink. I yell to LB,

Me: “If you are not going to drink it, no one can!”

In response to this vile sacrilegious snub of alcohol, I spill the entire contents of the drink onto the floor next to me – and on to some girl’s foot.

She starts yelling at me, that much I remember, but I am not responding well to anything even if Megan Fox is requesting an emergency tit fuck. I do what all men do when women are yelling at them, I pretend to search for my imaginary TV remote controller.

I don’t know if someone dragged her away, or she choked on her saliva, but the yelling ceased, or maybe she finally realized that yelling gets you nowhere when it comes to men, because we only respond well to crying, lap-dances and stripteases. We don’t even need you to say ‘please’.

By the time we got out of Zouk, my memory was already in patches. I remembered having a lot of difficulty just standing still on a spot and accusing stepping on pavements as a test of sobriety. I didn’t give a shit what time it was or that RotiPrata was missing. I just needed to get home.

As soon as I got in the cab with LB, I knew two things for sure; I was never going to make it home without spewing in the cab and I was probably never going to remember how I got back. I was right about one, which makes me half a psychic. I started spewing just as we turned in to my place.

UUuuuuuuuaaaAaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh!!!

A torrent flood right out my mouth and had it not been for a seasoned cabbie who read all the facial symptoms of frowns, rolling eyes and furious contractions of the neck muscles and intervened with a paper bag, I would have filled it with so much puke, it would make the Three Gorges Dam look like a puddle.

I remembered throwing the bag out the window and laughing about it. I remembered staggering to my gate and constantly reminding myself to lock up. I remembered struggling with the locks, but that was no where near the Everest feat of scaling the flight of stairs to my room, because I was going to attempt it without an oxygen tank, a Sherpa and with a lot more alcohol in my system.

It was almost an impossible task, like a colour-blind kid trying to solve the Rubic''s Cube. I was barely even capable of standing and no where near making progress of conquering the first step, despite having a wall as support.

I was swaying so much, I started having motion sickness myself and having grave difficulty just standing, let alone comprehend why the steps always seemed to be 2 inches too far for me to reach. Then a streak of brilliance hit me. The only way I was going make it up the stairs, was if I kept my centre of gravity low to prevent myself from falling over.

So I did what every intelligent drunk man would have done; I started crawling. It wasn’t much easier than walking would have been, but what mattered was that I was making progress on the stairs.

Then somewhere after the forth step, I must have either passed out entirely, or decided that taking a nap on the stairs was a brilliant idea. I know so because I woke up abruptly probably half an hour later with alcohol amnesia and freaked myself out.

For one, when I woke up, I had no recollection of where I was, or more importantly, what I was trying to achieve just moments before I surrendered to alcohol and fatigue. But, waking up in pitch darkness and on a stairway that resembles an alley is urine inducing. I sat there frozen, half wondering if I had made a bet about climbing stairs or if I had given the cabbie a wrong address.

A million impulses exploded in my head. Should I scream? Should I trying to get up or just pretend to be sleeping? Did I just puke on my shirt? Am I still in Singapore? Do I still have my kidneys available?

I looked up at the 15 remaining steps and calculated my rate of ascent, to which I vaguely remembered to be time drive. So, if I took 15 minutes to clear the 4 steps, then I was probably going to reach the top by the next season of American Idol, and I needed to puke babdly.

And this was the only clear message I go all night long.

I am fucked.

New York Invasion Pt 7 - Comedy Club

2010-07-26T03:40:00.003+08:00

What’s staying in the Big Apple if I cannot exercise my right to indulge in commercial tourism, which should always include a shameless pose with landmarks, preferably made popular by famous figures in history like, Carrie Bradshaw and the cast of Friends – complete with a 'victory’ pose just to bold my Asian heritage.

From my place on 47th and 7th Ave, I am a pawn in the greater commercial capital known as Times Square, made famous by TRL and many other Hollywood movies that included mass murders, catastrophic meteor strikes and couple of forgettable romance plots.

Now, the amazing thing about Times Square is that you are encapsuled in a concrete mass of gigantic illuminated billboards and force fed with thousands of brands that light up the city centre enough for you to still need sunglasses at midnight – and a tan if you are really lucky.

And right in the midst of millions of commuters rubbing shoulders on walkways, you have a myriad of people trying to sell tickets for anything from comedy clubs, to strip joints, bus tours, right down to probably a sale of immigrants.

You have your busking guild of caricature painters, graffiti rebels, jugglers that might have more credentials if they juggled with toddlers instead and the occasional Hulk body doubles doing workouts against traffic lights.

And so I succumbed to the thought of being tickled by stand up comedians, after all, this was the very country that gave us, famous comedians like Jerry Seinfeld and Homer Simpson. What could go wrong?

The Comedy Club.

It was a simple concept. 2 hour, 6 comedians, 2 rounds of drinks and an overpriced cover charge. If it was anything like what I’ve seen on YouTube, then I was expecting to be in stitches rolling on the floor in pain because my appendix ruptured from all that laughing.

But no. This was like walking into church hoping for a sermon and you find Ozzy Osbourne staging a wet t-shirt contest for transsexuals.

The only thing that prevented me from walking out was the USD$40 dollar cover charge and the promise to down a shot of tequila every time the comedian sucked. The only problem with this was that in the US, a shot of alcohol is about 2 and a half times a regular shot back here and the tequila was so bad, I thought it was mouth wash.

The first act was pretty decent and I would have smiled if I wasn’t so bittered by the tequila. It had all the right elements of what comedy should be; exaggerated facial spasms, vulgarities, racism and laughing at poor people.

Then it all went down hill, like the Euro, to a point where I had no idea what the comic on stage was actually saying. It was like he had a serious case of Tourette’s, either severely short-tongued or had a dick in his mouth and half the time it looked like he was fighting with his shadow. He was so horrible, he would make a mute sound like the funniest man in the world.

By then, we were already 4 shots of tequila deep and there was no way I was going to stomach a fifth. I was going to cheer and laugh my ass off even if he starts insulting Mother Teressa.

For all aspiring comics, I have an advice for you. Crowd cues are important markers. When they chuckle, you know you had an okay joke. When they laugh, you know it’s a good one and you can recycle it, unless you are in a wheel-chair, then it could just be sympathy laughs or that they are laughing at you.

Now, when there is an awkward silence, it’s the cue for you to slit your wrist, because in some cultures, dying is actually funny. If you are on stage for a 15min set and half of your punch-lines end in enough silence to hear an iPhone vibrating from across the room, then it’s time to re-think that offer as a waiter.

The last comic that went up was so boring or maybe he only contrived materials for a 3 second set, that he spent half the time in silence, or maybe he was waiting for a crowd response or just maybe it was the tequila that forfeited my hearing.

I was going to cheer for him as well, until the waitress came over to inform us that they had ran out of tequila, which amused me even more than he did.

Me: “You ran out of tequila?”
She: “Yeah, well we don’t really carry stock because quite honestly, no one drinks it here. It’s horrible.”

I booed him, along with the rest of the crowd.

Empire State Building.

I went up when I was already inebriated, because it was the only way I was going to step onto a platform King Kong was shot down from. I hate heights.

World Trade Centre Memorial.

What’s being in Manhattan if you don’t visit Ground Zero, the infamous grave of 3000 souls that lost their lives on September 11. I’ve seen videos of it and the photos and stories plastered on the walls are honestly heart-wrenching.

There was even this huge wall with all the names of people who perished in the attack.

D: “What are you looking for?”
Me: “Chinese people.”
D: “How are you going to find it amongst all that names?”
Me: “It’s easy, I’m starting at T for Tan, then I’m moving to L for Lee. We Chinese aren’t too creative when it comes to last names.”

Brooklyn Bridge.

On the 6th day I was in New York, I attempted to walk the Brooklyn Bridge. The only thing that hindered my magnificent feat of tourist imperative, was the weather. It started raining and I ended up getting stuck below the flyover between Manhattan Bridge and Brooklyn Bridge, along with the rest of the homeless people.

I have never been more afraid of my life since the turbulence, until now.

When I finally re-attempted it a week and a half later, I realized that it wasn’t about being on the bridge or conquering it that was rewarding. It was actually knowing that by walking back, I was getting further from Brooklyn with every step that made me smile.

And now that I’m back in Singapore, I guess I do miss it back there. Even if I risk getting shot..

New York Invasion Pt 6 - Strip Club

2010-07-08T16:00:00.003+08:00

“Com’on! We are in New York! You have to come to the strip clubs!”

And there I was standing, with a cigarette in hand and a night breeze that was coaxing me to run for a hot shower or at least to go grab my jacket. But even without it, I was covered in my All Asian glory. Now, certainly they do realize that I am Asian, and that nothing they will have in a New York Strip club will rival what we have in Asia.

Me: “I’m from Asia. The clubs we have back home will make this look like a Catholic Kindergarten.”

Last I checked, there wasn’t a strip club here that had dancers capable of keeping three live fishes in their very special lady area, neither could they smoke a cigarette nor shoot darts with it and no, they certainly are not capable of turning water to Coke.

It wasn’t that they were persuasive enough, but it was after all New York, and I found it distressing that I was lobbying against something that had naked women dancing in front of me. I was not going to risk catching a homosexuality bug when I’m abroad – it’s an airborne disease, people just don’t realize it -, so I decided to cure it with a lap dance.

The thing about the strip clubs is that there really is a certain classiness built into them. I don’t know if it’s the low light and plush cushions or the absence of the proverbial neon lit centre stage. The music is sexy, loungey, nothing like the techno beats that Bangkok has concocted so you see dancers actually dancing and not look like they are in epileptic shock.

The ambience is almost relaxing in contrast to the stark impact of walking into an Agogo bar and wondering if you are either going to get pregnant from seating down on their sofas or catch syphilis from using their toilet paper.

We got in and they seated the eight of us in what would be considered the best seats in the house, which would mean in the middle, with a panoramic view of all dancers on any stage, giving maximum expose of topless time. The only thing better than this, would be a 52 inch LCD screen equipped with a Playstation.

It was typically pitch dark as what you would expect of a strip joint, with the only credible lighting coming from the stages and the illuminated menu holders on the table. This cloak of darkness was everyone’s best bet on privacy, so you won’t be walking in to spot your neighbor or boss gawking away at silicon.

I can’t say that strip clubs are a shameless activity to engage in because it’s a male rite of passage that will certify you as a normal heterosexual male and you can take solace that the lap dance you are paying for is going to some kids school fees or a Gucci bag – it’s good both ways. It’s a male centric activity that might not be as productive as playing Texas Hold’em, but it is infinity more exciting than golf.

The place was decently packed with what I am assuming to be either working professionals or waiters from a posh Italian restaurant. Young, neatly dressed and definitely capable of having an erection, while the eight of us came with an appetite for great expectations and I certainly was hoping for a magic show.

Franz takes out his phone and starts punching away with texts. Almost immediately, this huge ass security guy comes over so quickly, I thought there was buffet at our table. I’ve never seen fat people move so quickly otherwise.

Security: “No phones.”

Franz tucks the cell phone back into his pocket and then starts typing away again as he leaves. Instantaneously, another security spots it and he comes charging over.

Security2: “Hey! Put that away. We are not going to tell you again.”

This other guy was huge. He was built like a tank and looked like he could bench press Mount Everest, crush a Picanto with his bare hands and eat both an elephant and Moses Lim for breakfast. He is not someone you want to get thrown out by because you could land in Alaska if he puts in effort on his throw.

Franz being European, either does not take well to authority and rules, or he has been beaten up by the Hulk before, because he does not give a shit about verbal warnings. As soon as the second guy turns, he starts taking out his phone again.

Me: “You do know that using phones here is not permitted right?”
Franz: “So what? What’s he going to do?”

Well, I had a million thoughts about what could happen and about 90% of that included serious bodily harm, loss of dignity, humiliation and wasting my $20 drink because my face will be planted to the floor outside the club. Obviously, he couldn’t think of a single one, so I decided to shut up and not share my thoughts on consequences with him.

Then it happened.

Security2: “Hey man, I ain’t playin’ wit you. You are going to put that away or I am going to have to ask all you gentlemen to leave.”

Everyone turns to Franz with enough frown to put a wrinkle on Teflon frying pan. No-one apparently understood what was more important than watching topless ladies dance on podiums.

Allan: “Dude, just put your phone away. It’s a fucking strip club, they hate phones.”
Franz: “See, I told you he’s not going to do anything?”

Like really? He had to pick a time and place like this and a person like that security guy to prove a point? He couldn’t have waited till we’ve had our drinks or ready to leave? Or at least when I’m out having a smoke? There is a time and place for proving a point, it’s called Myth Busters. I just want to go home alive.

The others pay no attention to him and start scanning the room for strippers. The general rule is that customers are not allowed to touch the strippers when they are giving a lap dance – apparently it violates a moral code, wow, who would have thought.

So imagine the absurdity of it. We are paying for some girl to be dancing topless – which they already are doing in the first place – in close proximity for your breaths to touch them, but not your nose, or any part of you, except your dollar bill. What is the point of it?

I see more sense in investing my money in Viet Dongs than this. You are paying $25 for a lap dance, when in some countries not only might this get you a bride, but you also get to inherit her disabled parents.

Stripper: “Hey honey, would you like a lap dance?”
Me: “How much is it?”
Stripper: “$25 for one dance.”
Me: “How much do I have to pay if I’m Asian?”
Stripper: “It’s still $25.”
Me: “Is there a discount? I have a much smaller body mass for you to dance around.”

She stopped talking to me after that for some unknown reason. I think it’s because she maxed out her Asian quota for the night, but it started a whole episode of us just accusing everyone of them to be racist.

Ro: “How much for a lap dance?”
Stripper2: “$25 per dance.”
Ro: “How come I’m paying the Asian rate? Are you racist?”

J: “How about I pay you $5.”
Stripper3: “The going rate here is $25.”
J: “How about a discount for your fellow countryman.”
Stripper: “Are you from Ukraine?”
J: “Are you racist?”

Pretty much no one wanted to come over after word got out that we were pretty much just messing around with them, which was a good thing because other than one dancer who was legitimately hot, the others looked like they would look a lot better with clothes on.

Allen: “Hey guys, sorry that this place turned out this bad tonight. The girls are usually way better than this.”

Me: “It’s okay. I’ve seen a girl pull razor blades out her vagina in Bangkok. There is nothing that is going to beat that traumatic experience here.”

Pepe looked at me in disbelief. He didn’t have a steady gait and the vodka was kicking in, but it looked like he was combating inebriation to hear something as ludicrous as pulling razors out of a vagina.

Oh yes, and that’s not all they pull out. They can keep live fishes in there, shoot darts, smoke faster than a Marlboro man can and open bottle caps with their vagina so quickly that you know they always have a job behind the bar when all else fails or sags. It’s like a magic show that will make David Blaine look like a clown at a children’s party.

Me: “One time, this girl sucked up a bottle of water with a straw in her pussy, and she spit back Coke into an empty bottle.”

Uuuurrrrgghhhhhhh!!!

Pepe starts throwing up on the floor as soon as I finish my story.

Pepe: “Now I am never going to drink Coke.”

New York Invasion Pt 5

2010-06-30T13:34:00.002+08:00

They call it the greatest city in the world, but it’s becoming increasingly clear over the coming three weeks that I’ve been in New York, that New Yorkers don’t really know about anything outside their island.

They say America is the home of the brave, but it’s also home of the ignorant, or does the entire modern world just assume that English is a language permitted only to those with blonde hair, hairy chest, 8 inches of meat hung below the waist and have potatoes as a staple diet.

“So what language do people in Singapore speak?”

I’ve been asked this almost everyday on the first week I was here. And when I tell them that English is actually the first language, they are in such disbelief, it’s like telling them orgies were invented by a gay Mormon.

Is it that hard to believe that people on the other side of the Pacific is capable of stringing a sentence longer than “Hello’, “Can I helpch chew” and “noodles or rice”? And yes, we also English names and no, Chinese characters are not drawings, although it is so tedious just to write something, I’m glad they invented talking.

Just the other day, this old Irish lady at a restaurant started a random conversation with me. She was this chatty old lady that seemed like she was possibly a passenger on the Titanic and she had so many facial expressions going on for each word that was coming out her mouth, it was like her facial muscles were on Red Bull.

She: “What did yer say yer name was youn’ man.”
Me: “Shaun.”
She: “And where are yer from?”
Me: “Singapore.”
She: “And how do yer say yer name in yer con-tree.”

Like what the fuck? Am I being punked? Or it this some trick question? Or was there supposed to be a native way to say my name that my parents forgot to tell me about?

Me: “Err… Shaun?”
She: “But how do yer say it in yer native language?”
Me: “Yep..it’s still Shaun.”
She: “Fascinating.”

I think I might have given her, her first orgasm from that conversation because she looked so satisfyingly confused to know that an Asian was capable of having an Irish name, it’s was like inventing the iPod and seeing a polar bear using it.

You see, in the US, anything out of the country, well, is out of the country and needs less attention. They have the geographical aptitude of a bat in a disco. All they know is that they have noisy neighbours to the North and neighbours from the South that come in useful as gardeners.

To them Asia is a conglomerate mass that centres around China, which makes Singapore and many other countries like Japan and Korea a dot within the greater domain of China. I don’t blame them, because locally we use the word ‘Americans’ frivolously to describe US citizens when in actuality it is an umbrella term that would include Canada.

Me: “Singapore used to be a part of the British colony.”
C: “Oh yea, almost every country is. Look where that turned out. They come in, they mess around with you and they leave and now you have to drive on the wrong side of the road.”

And because New York is such a mosaic community of ethnicity, even in Chinatown when I eat at a café called Singapore Café, the people there don’t take in assumption that because I am Chinese, I will know what every dish on the menu is.

Me: “I’ll have a Penang laksa.”
Waiter: “This is not curry based soup. It is a litte sour…”
Me: “Don’t worry I know.”
Waiter: “It’s a little spicy..”

Com’on, we invented Katong laksa, we eat pig’s inlets like it’s a daily staple and I have my Singaporean slang spewing out my mouth. Do you think I won’t know what Penang laksa is? Our lives are revolved around gourmet pleasantries even if it means not wasting any part of poultry.

Then the food came and I took a spoonful and nearly choked on the gratuitous use of lime. I was wrong. Apparently I don’t know anything about Singaporean food made in the New York..

New York Invasion Pt 4 - Survival

2010-06-24T09:56:00.004+08:00

Somewhere in Sun Tzi’s Art of War, there has to be a line that says, “If you wanna go to New York, then you better go in prepared, or die”, well if it isn’t then he obviously forgot to write it in because it’s as important as nuclear warheads is to North Korea.

I usually would save a survival guide for Rhythm Magazine, but I’m going to make an exception and save the lives of people who are going to be travelling 18 hours to a city that is not going to give you a refund or a decent laksa.

1. Bring a kettle

For some reason – unknown to the great minds of society and Nissin Corporation – hotels in New York do not provide you with a kettle. And we know that a kettle is paramount when cup noodles are supposed to be a staple diet for everyone.

There was nothing more torturous than having my cup noodles mock me from my table and knowing that I was never going to eat them unless I called for room service to bring me hot water, which will never be hot enough and it’s just blasphemous to have warm water in cup noodles. It’s like settling for a hand job from a buffalo.

We need hot water, you might not know it yet, but you do, because it’s also handy for sterilizing underwear if you need them for prolong periods of time. If you think a kettle is too bulky, then get a blowtorch, a Petri dish, magnifying glass or a socket that is capable of blowing a fuse and starting a fire. Don’t think, just pack it.

2. A Universal Plug

If you don’t already know, the United States has a history of non-conformance as seen with their continued practice to drive on the opposite side of the road and disregard for the metric system. As such, you can expect that your plugs are not going to fit into their sockets, much like how most Asian things would not fit nicely into theirs.

Electricity is one of man's most basic needs, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. We need it to keep our laptops charged and our iPhone's with enough battery to last a day, without either it would truly be a pointless day.

3. Insurance

There are times where we should never challenge consequences nor leave fate a chance to screw us over. Health care in the US is such a serious issue, I will not even attempt to make fun of it. The medical bills can amount to grossly insane numbers that you would think it comes with either a free blowjob or a Mercedes.

You can be admitted to hospital for a stomachache and by them time your bill comes to you, you’d be leaving the hospital with one kidney less because you have to pawn it. Don’t be cheap and get one, this is the only time an insurance might actually save your ass – literally.

4. Bullet Proof Vest

I know Manhattan is all about Jimmy Choos, Dior sunglasses and Burberry overcoats but did you also know that New York is a great place to put on your Kevlar vest that will save you from bullets and unexplained stabbings, although not from ridicule, punches to the face and dog bites.

It’s fine in Manhattan in general, but it’s a required item, like condoms, mace and a valid driving license, if you travel to the Bronx or Brooklyn at night. I didn’t make this shit up because people joke about it all the time in New York and they joke about Paris Hilton being a whore as well, and look how that turned out.

Everyday there is a news report that says, “Another Teen dies from gunshot” and you’d think that schools should have started giving out free bulletproof vest instead of milk by now. Sure, it’s going to be bulky, make you look overweight but nothing beats getting up from a drive by shooting and shouting,

“It works!”

5. Basic Brains To Read Maps

The great thing about New York City is that they work on a grid system, so it’s pretty hard to get lost if you can count. The tricky part is figuring out which side of the subway you need to be on and most importantly, where the subway entrance is.

It’s so obscurely tucked in the shadow of the city’s impressive structures that I wonder why it’s never occurred to the authorities to make a more prominent sign indicating the subway entrance. It takes a keen eye and a lot of luck finding one, just like trying to find a Jew in Anne Frank’s house.

6. Buskers

It’s always good to be cheap at the appropriate moments, so before you start crowding around to watch a street performer execute his/their less than stellar prowess in the realms of entertainment, be it lighting a painting on fire, breakdancing or strumming a guitar in their underwear, remember, never to stay till the end.

I’ve not seen a street busker that has been remotely impressive to say the least. And when everyone round starts applauding for a simple forward flip, it felt like it was a celebration of mediocracy and it’s not even time for the Paralympics yet.

Pick your acts, don’t be coerced into throwing in a dollar just because you think effort deserves to be rewarded. Remember, giving people who are clearly unequal, equal chances is called communism. We are allowed to be cheap, it’s part of being Singaporean. I love it.

It’s a concrete jungle out here in New York, but we are from Singapore, so nobody probably sees more bricks than us. There really is nothing to fear as long as you keep to one simple rule.

“When there is danger, run.”

New York Pt 3 - Memo

2010-06-16T12:21:00.004+08:00

There are times when even I know when to draw the line between moderation and an open bar. It’s one thing where you can make fun of people and you know you’re breeching on a slap, but when you are in a city where someone can pull a gun on you, you learn to behave.

The weather in New York has been accommodating to say the least. It’s been raining, I’ve been drenched because carrying an umbrella just isn’t glamourous and my shirts still smell of a cosmopolitan mix of rain and exhaust fumes. Yet beyond it all, it’s never rained when I’m out clubbing.

It’s been rather tamed and uneventful over the last week, unless you count my touristy demeanour and insatiable appetite to soak up Manhattan’s finest offer of gourmet and movie sites and I have pictures of the apartment block they use in Friends to prove. My life is sad.

On Friday, to pop the champagne for a pre-mature celebration of our hard work in the Big Apple, we headed out to one of the top bars in New York. It was a roof top party against the setting sun and made ever more enjoyable with a cornucopian feast of vodka, champagne and Red Bull. And maybe a couple of blondes if it rocks your boat.

This was at 7pm and we conveniently skipped dinner because all great men in society do not need food to supplement their greatness as long as there is enough alcohol to last the night. We make unsound decisions in life, so instead of wading in regret, we overcome it with more drinking. Apparently, alcohol does lower our ability to think.

By the time we made the decision to leave for another event down on 3rd Avenue, we had cleared 4 bottles between 16 of us and I somehow felt that the night was going to be different, after all, I was partying with Mexicans, just minus the cocaine and their families.

The second place was packed with the familiar crowd that I’ve grown accustomed to see in bars littered across the island. There was the air of corporate slaves still tucked behind their suits, there were the odd group of women who look like their last martini was when Japan bombed Pearl Harbour and there were girls who looked like they would jump into a wet T-shirt contest.

So there was the ample parade of cleavage that is as staple a backdrop in any bar as the Empire State building is to New York. It is New York and the last I heard, not only did they invent the iPad, but they also did decadence and bar fights

The thing about being the only Asian in the group is that you inevitably garner more interest than you’d like because everything centers around how geographically ignorant some of them can be.

Girl: “You know, I just had my first joint last night, but I bet you guys do it all the time in China.”
Me: “No, we smoke opium where we are.”
Girl: “Opium? What’s that?”
Me: “It’s what we grow in our backyard, which is Thailand.”

After awhile, I just ran out of things to lie about where Singapore was or explain in detail why I’m able to converse in English. I could have said Singapore was in Africa and I might have gotten away with it or just confess to that Singapore is actually the illegitimate capital of China.

Alex: “Guys, we are going to bail here and head to a real club.”

I glanced around at the place. I have the same interest in the music and crowd as I would at a Bingo draw with midgets. I was up for anything that was offering more drinks and music that didn’t include people rapping in it, even if it meant having to travel to Queens without my bulletproof vest.

When we got there, it was audibly obvious that this was the best club I’ve been to in New York and deaf people would have been rejoicing if they came. There was finally some decent Trance and enough space to appreciate it. The crowd profile was a surprising mosaic of sluts, douche bags, sleek professionals and suspected Italian Godfathers.

I don’t know what was worse, jumping off the roof top, or trying to squeeze through ripping biceps to get to the toilet. My liver was done for the night and there was no way my stomach was willing to accommodate another sip of vodka, but I was no where in the region of being potentially suicidal from inebriated mischief.

That role, was going to assumed by Memo, an individual that had as much self destructive propensity as Attila would have on his best.

He had by our decision to leave the club, smashed two glasses by accident and was just simply testing his limits. And if I thought that was bad, he took what felt like a lifetime to sign his credit card because he was staring so intently at it, I thought they had printed the latest Harry Potter book on the receipt.

Joey: “Memo! Sign the fuckin’ card already fer cryin’ out loud!”

We got so tired of waiting, we went out to the road side to try to hail a cab, and this proved to be the best decision ever because a fight broke out and I found myself being Singaporean again for gravitating to find the best spot to watch like, just stopping short of applauding and too slow to have it posted on YouTube.

It was brutal watching two men beat the crap out of a skinny Latin American, but the gravity of the matter soon became clear. This was going to exacerbate from a street fight to an all out gang war. Where is my bulletproof vest when I need one?

Alex quickly dragged us off because his spider senses was ringing off the hook.

Alex: “Let’s go. It’s not safe to stay here.”

Apparently, most drive by shooting starts with a collision of two – or more – voracious egos and ends with someone in hospital and another getting sodomized in prison for the next 20 years. It’s such an incentive I wonder why people are not doing it in Singapore.

When we finally managed to get a cab, he refused to take us back to Manhattan and since we didn’t have a gun to put to his head, we took out a dollar bill instead and it did so much wonders, magicians should no longer need to use wands, ever.

When we got back to the hotel, Memo started trash talking with random people on the street and it’s one thing to be able to piss off bartenders, but to be able to piss off drug dealers, it takes a whole lot of balls that not even Hitler had.

Guy: “You better get the fuck out of my face muthafucker!”

It was going down faster than porn starlet. One of the guys hurried over to break up the shoving, but I was half on my cigarette and it was the last stick I had in my pack, so between finishing up my cigarette and getting beat down by a group of drug peddlers, I think I made a pretty sound decision to stand rooted and pretend I was just another tourist.

“Today is not a good day to die.”

That was my sober conscience calling out to me. Not that I needed it to, because as much as I am a hazard drunk, a revolver still scares the shit out of my inebriated consciousness. I was determined not to leave New York with a bullet hole.

Me: “I don’t want to be racist but it’s nearly 4 in the morning, we should not be messing with those guys. Midgets are fine, but not them.”

Joey: “I ain’t even headin’ o’wer.”

David: “What’s going on?”

Me: “Memo is trying to get himself killed.”

At that moment, a police patrol drove by, and it instantaneously dissolved any possible conflict that was going to explode 6 feet from where I was. This was the most calming sight I had all night excluding the first bottle of vodka I saw at our table in the evening.

Me: “Memo, you need to go sleep and calm your shit down.”

5 minutes later, we realized that Memo had disappeared. This was 4am in the morning, with the only possible places still open being the strip club round the corner and McDonald’s. And at both places, we couldn’t find him.

His phone was off and from the probable altercation that almost went down just earlier, I guess it was almost a safe bet to assume that he was now bound to his feet and in a car headed for the Bronx, Mexico or if he managed to get his last prayer in, Heaven.

You have to realize that at that point in time, I had enough alcohol in me to have my pee qualify as vodka. Naturally, the well being of Memo – dire, no doubt – had as much gravity as peeing on toilet seats or filing for taxes. I am not in a condition to give a shit.

An hour later, we found him back near the hotel chatting up with another group of drug peddlers trying to buy weed for $2. He was so wasted that he could not even sign for his card, but he still had a urge to smoke a joint or five. And I thought,

“This guy has priorities. Everyone needs a friend like him.”

New York Invasion Pt 2 - Hello Manhattan

2010-06-11T12:25:00.004+08:00

It’s raining in Manhattan and it’s been a familiar sight of busy New Yorkers briskly weaving between the traffic of firmly pressed Hugo suits and Burberry coats. Women in Manolo Blahniks are skipping puddles that should only be possible in Nikes. And right round my hotel, I have a drug peddler who’s been trying to sell me cocaine for the last 3 days.

I’ve been watching so much TV filmed against the backdrop of New York that I feel like I’ve been a local all my life, minus the fact that deciphering the subway is like reading Harry Potter in Sanskrit, looking the wrong way when crossing the road and having spare cash for tips.

It’s true. Being Singaporean meant that my life has been pampered with incredible public transport system that anyone from an autistic Yorkshire Terrier to an inebriated grandparent can find their way around. Not New York.

Being Singaporean also meant that if I need to cross a street, I should generally look right first. Not New York, not unless I want to get hit by monster truck or a fire engine because those beast over here have so much silver on it, I thought they all had a free Pimp My Ride makeover for their diligence in 9/11.

As I am typing this, I’ve heard three fire engines driving by with their siren on. Either they are practicing their drills or New Yorkers are in dire need of learning how to light their stove without blowing up the neighbourhood.

Being Singaporean also means that we don’t need to tip, ever, because it’s incredibly dumb when we are at an open bar, and bartenders expect us to tip. It’s a fucking open bar for crying out loud, I should be able to get drunk without emptying my pockets for change or you frowning.

But being Singaporean in Singapore also means that I will never get to see a guy in briefs and boots, playing a guitar and peddling for hugs, and not get thrown in jail within an hour. Either New York is incredibly tolerant on the margins of performing art, or the police force is just plain lazy.

I also probably will not have people coming up to sell me fake Rolex watches and drugs. Actually, no one has tried peddling me watches yet, but hey, I’m Chinese and we invented fake watches. And drugs that are offered so blatantly is amazing because back home, they have such sophisticated names to mask it, it sometimes sound like a 17 yr old virgin.

I also probably will be able to have the luxury of shitting in my hotel room without closing the toilet door, and this turned out to a bad idea. You see, coming back late most nights usually means that fatigue, alcohol and sometimes a bursting bladder can corrupt my judgement or simple precautionary practices, like latching the door.

And so we all know how dangerous this is because we’re daring consequence – or in this case your dear house keeping – to walk in on you jerking off to Sesame Street or in the shower with a member of the same sex or any other common embarrassing moments.

Or in my case, with my pants down.

For some reason, everything that has happened to me has a lot to do with being in the toilet. I don’t know if it’s God’s way of telling me something because it’s too expensive to SMS me in New York.

But there I was, just doing the routine morning deposit when I hear house keeping outside my door. The toilet is facing the door directly so where I was seated, I could see – to my horror nonetheless, like finding sweet popcorns in a bag of salty – that I had left the door unlatched.

It was a simple decision – of which by now you should realize that by now, I’m not good at making choices – of closing my toilet door or being optimistic about making to the room door in time and hope that shit doesn’t fly out my ass at the same time.

“House-keeping.”

I got up, tried to stumble to the door with my boxers bound around my ankles that allowed me shuffle briefly but anything more and I was going to trip over – sounds like commitment already. I was not going to make it, and the door was already opening.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!”

The door slammed so abruptly, I didn’t know if she had fainted from shock or ran back across the border.

New York Invasion Pt 1 - Turbulence

2010-06-06T03:48:00.002+08:00

Life is all about the choices we make and the time we make them. It’s about priorities and challenging consequences to catch up to our decisions. Obviously, I’m not very good at this aspect of life.

When I travel, the only thing I look forward to is the meals on board airlines. I like it. No, I believe I am in love with the idea of having airplane food. I know this puzzles you as much as homosexuality, but there isn’t anything better 17,000 feet in the air, unless it’s a complimentary handjob.

When I boarded my flight bound for transit at Narita Airport at 11.30pm, my primary concern wasn’t about the lack of decent in flight movies or that I didn’t get an isle seat, but rather if they were going to serve us supper. And when all we had was a bun, I decided sleeping was the best way to curb hunger and disappointment.

I woke up 4 hours later with an erection because they were serving breakfast. However, I also woke up with a slight stomach discomfort. Now, I weighed my options. I could,

a. Go to the toilet and delay my breakfast.
b. Hold up till I’ve had breakfast, then go to the toilet happy.

It was a decision that was so obvious, blind people all the way back in Singapore would have seen it. I was going to will my stomach into submission and celebrate it with noodles, a fruit plate and yogurt.

Half way through my course of noodles, I start having doubts about my decision. Perhaps, just perhaps I should have made the toilet trip before I started my foray into my consumption pleasantries.

The noodles are done, my stomach is in heavy protest but I ignore it anyway as there is a mixed fruit plate that awaits my attention. I take two slices of watermelon and look distantly at the yogurt. I might not make it to dessert. I need to take a dump.

Now, how am I going to get out when I’m at the window, have my tray still in front of me, and the guy next to me is munching away at his? I decide to wait, and pretend that my deep frown is from the movie I am pretending to watch.

When the flight attendant finally clears the trays, I make a dash for the toilet that already has a small queue formed. I am not too concerned, because if I can survive the rave club in Hong Kong, I will survive this with my dignity and pants intact.

Finally as I got in, my pants came off so fast I was decently impressed with myself. I don’t think I’ve had my pants off so fast without naked women to coax me. I give myself a pat on the back and fire away.

Suddenly, everything is shaking and my vision is in pandemonium. I think to myself, is this the feeling of liberation? Is this how it is supposed to be when you have a massive bowel clearance? Is this my stomach and anus rejoicing?

The shaking is massive, so great that I am thrown up from the toilet seat. Holy mother of Jesus, what the fuck is happening? I hear the trays shaking, I am being tossed from side to side, it’s so scary even my shit is refusing to come out.

It becomes clear now, we are experiencing turbulence, and from what it seems, very bad turbulence. I grip the handle to hold myself down, preventing shit from spraying everywhere. This is the only thing preventing me from clutching my hands together in prayer. Oh God, do you need to do this now?

The PA system comes on and it is in Japanese. I have no idea what the lady is saying so an entirety of possibilities race through my head.

“What the fuck are you saying? Just fucking say it in English for once! Please! And is there a life-jacket under the toilet bowl as well?”

My mind was in places. You cannot imagine how difficult it is to be panicking and trying to coax shit out your ass at the same time, it’s like trying to kick a field goal in a wheel-chair. The only consolation is that she is reporting it calmly.

“We are experiencing turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”

There is a knock on the door from the flight attendant requesting that I return to my seat. I am nowhere near done, so I ignore her. I assess the situation; if I head out, the overwhelming situation will terrify me and I will shit my pants anyway, hence, I am probably in the best place to be right now, with my pants down.

More knocks on the door follows, I respond with a mild ‘yes’. 3 minutes later, the turbulence has ceased but the knocks on my door has increased furiously. Maybe they are worried that I’ve passed out but I’ve diligently responded to their knocks have I not?

“Sir? Excuse me sir?”

“I am shitting!”

And then there was silence. Peace has been restored at last. When I got out, I saw the line had grown to about 6 other men waiting for the toilet. I guess they all shat their pants as well.

June Is For Change

2010-06-04T16:41:00.002+08:00

June is going to be a first of many sorts for me and hopefully it heralds for changes to come - largely positive I hope because fate seems less cruel to me these days.

Fot starts, there is the Sg Blog Awards and I'm actually one of the finalist. That says alot because I sense a paradigm shift in conservatism in Singapore because for a blog like mine - crude, explicit but funny nonetheless - to be recognised in a mainstream media, it shows the maturing of society and also the due credit to literary merits, ME.

That's a long way from 3 years back when I was supposed to do something for Channel News Asia and they wanted me to tone down on my style and it culminated in, "Singapore is not ready for him".

I would rally you to vote for me simply because it's time for you to give back, after years of tickling you with tales of decadence, inebriation and disaster dates, it's time for you to show your appreciation. That includes all of you who have bought me beers or given me lap dances.

It's increasingly hard for me to keep up with new stories and even more so this month because in 7 hours, I will be boarding a flight to New York for the month and last I heard, data charges cost an arm and leg and a Ferrari steering wheel.

New York, ahh yes, the Big Apple, the home of Carrie, of high fashion, endless shopping, great food, hopefully cheap alcohol and the promise land of the vicarious TV addicts. So how will Butterfly, your self destructive, tequila shooting, toilet hugging, free puking, party addict fit into Manhattan's finest?

I have no idea, but I'm sure there will be stories about it...

Well, the only thing worse than getting drunk and thrown out the club there, is getting mugged while sober at a back alley. Can't be that bad I suppose..

How To Lose Your Partner In 10 Ways - Pt 3

2010-05-30T17:52:00.002+08:00

Let's get this continued..

6. Tattooing Their Name

There’s always been a jinx to this, like walking under a ladder, opening an umbrella inside the house or calling someone immediately after you’ve taken their number. Look, if there was a fairytale ending to tattooing someone’s name, then Walt Disney would have said so.

Everyone who has done so is either separated, divorced or in penitentiary for domestic abuse. Jolie did that with Billy Bob, and look where that has ended. The only one that has probably got away so far is David Beckham and that’s because he fucked up the spelling of her name.

I had a friend in secondary school that inked his girlfriend’s name on his thigh and she ended up running off with a lesbian. True story. I don’t know what is worse, getting hit by a bus or finding out your girlfriend is lesbian.

But Butterfly, I know people who have their partners names tattooed on them and they are still together, I hear you protesting already. I’m sure some of them make it through life okay, but it’s a rarity, much like Japanese virgins at 21 and I’m sure you can fit them all into a Cherry QQ.

It’s one thing to profess your love and devotion through body art, but it’s another thing when you are trying to defy a divine power. Don’t jinx it, if you really need to show someone you love them, take them out for dinner, buy them flowers, start practicing foreplay or if you really absolutely have to, change your phone wallpaper to their image.

Don’t tempt fate to be laughing at you for sitting through an hour of pain from tattooing and then another 2 hours of agony – financially and physically – trying to cover up your dumb idea. The only thing dumber than getting tattoos of each others’ name, is wearing couple t-shirts, because people aren’t smiling at you, they are laughing.

7. Staying too far from each other

They say Singapore is a small island, but unless you are driving a Lamborghini with impunity for traffic laws and speed limits, it’s still a huge ass pain travelling from one end to the other.

At the start of any courtship, distance between couples is a mere excuse to ‘spend more time together’ because travelling back and forth is apparently as orgasmic and fulfilling as a fresh oven baked pizza with extra cheese. It’s called a Relationship Life Cycle, so which means in time to come, sending her back to Jurong when you are at Tampines, is as rewarding as having genital warts.

It’s a simple rule; date within area codes. If you are in Bishan, then your pool of eligibles should be somewhere between Toa Payoh and Ang Mo Kio. Serangoon is okay, but if it’s Hougang, then you better have a car.

People who stay in the West, should only date people in the West, and maybe Johor Bahru, since I always believe that it’s actually in a different time zone, so if you are dating anyone in mainland Singapore – anything not Jurong, Choa Chu Kang or Westward – it’s like having a long distance relationship.

It’s a simple logic. When it gets too tedious and time consuming to travel to meet for lunch or for a ride home, it’s just going to put a strain on the relationship and unless you are rewarded with a huge plate of steak or mind blowing sex each time, it’s just not going to be worth it.

If your parents tell you that they are relocating to another district that is over 8 MRT stops from where you are, then start printing flyers to handout to your new neighbourhood, pimping yourself. The relationship you are in is going to degenerate faster than Michael Jackson’s nose.

Now with this simple grasp of geographical knowledge and human reflex behavior, you can apply it efficaciously to a relationship that you need to nip. Instead of being obnoxious and rude, which might end with you getting a beat down from your partner, move away, and get them to travel to you.

Any guy that will religiously send you back and pick you up from home when he stays on the other end of Singapore, is either a moron or he just hasn’t fucked you yet. Men are easier to read than a pre-school comic strip, it’s just that women are too blind to see.

Thank You For Not Talking

2010-05-24T02:10:00.001+08:00

There are times when we should be allowed personal space and total silence, like when we are in the toilet, cab rides, on the verge of suicide and most importantly, when we are about to be waxed.

Sometimes people just don’t get it. If I wanted to have a conversation, I would have dialed a chat line and certainly not when I have my dick exposed and experiencing considerable pain. The only words that should be coming out of me are, “Arggghhhh” and “Give me morphine!”

Going for a wax is just like any other body treatment with therapists pushing for packages and treatments with fancy names, through hard critique of you. Yes, we all know this is a marketing ploy and that stepping in is an appointment for your self-esteem to take a bashing and come out looking like Rocky Balboa.

In a facial, you suddenly have the worst complexion in the world and you suddenly discover that your skin is in such dire states of dehydration of sorts, that you wonder if grafting skin from your ass is the only solution.

Go for a foot reflexology and you discover that your internal organs are in such a mess that you should either start auctioning it off on eBay to Chinese soup makers, or you start coming back for more massages that will miraculously cure everything down to in-grown toenails.

We are never adequate in these sessions, I’ve learnt that. But, what does it take for some peace and quiet? An iPod? A jab to their throats? This time, it was about in-grown hair and damaging hair follicles, and it took my wax therapist a lot of words to get that message across.

“When you don’t take care of your skin, your hairs can’t talk to you and tell you that they are hurt, so the only way for them to complain is to have in-grown hair.”

Like really? If stupidity had a voice, it would have sounded just like that. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh or to bite my tongue off. Maybe I could pretend to faint and she’ll stop talking, but I certainly wasn’t about to risk being rude to someone who was in a position to administer pain to me.

I don’t get it. Is talking suppose to ease the situation? Is the sole intention to make what is already an awkward state irritating as well? Why would men want to talk or hear you complain when they are not wearing pants?

I got by most of the waxing with typical male answers like, “umm”, “yah” and “okay”. Then 10 minutes later, just as I was having wax applied to my ass, I added a string of new vocabulary to the conversation.

“Fuckkkk! Damn hot!”

It was so hot, I thought I was having my ass branded and that I might never shit again. It was like accidentally spilling boiling water on your ass, that for a moment I reverted into that reflex butt clench. Of all the questions and she forgot to ask if the wax is too hot for my ass.

Butterfly Goes On Cruise

2010-05-19T15:16:00.002+08:00

I’ve always had a positive memory of cruises. There was the endless buffet spreads, the sanctuary of the video games room, the labyrinth like corridors of endless running and of course the in-ship theatre, which somehow seemed like the coolest thing since Transformers.

Of course, I was young then. Too young to even be allowed to hold a mug of beer or even appreciate mini-skirts and cleavages for that matter. And the cruise was just an extended session of being in a video game arcade.

15 years on, with more zest for life, a larger appetite for entertainment and probably not as much maturity, I sat by the balcony of my cabin and wondered, “what the fuck am I going to do for three days if I’m allergic to dice and cards?”

I figured. Cruises are great for two kinds of people; gamblers and Whales. It is paradise if you are trying to fight anorexia or have a new found embracement for obesity. Cruises are basically catered for people who want to gamble, have a buffet in-between and pretend that they can engage in other recreational activities outside the casino.

Let’s face it. There is nothing to do besides gambling or standing in a buffet line that has the same selection of food every day, that is worth your time or can justify your time away from proper bars and clubs in Singapore. And there isn’t even a proper cabaret show on board that has periodic wardrobe malfunctions.

It all started good. The champagne reception, the spacious balcony class rooms complete with, well, a balcony if you haven’t guessed it and a promising dinner with lots of wine. Then 2 hours later, having toured the entire boat enough to be qualified to re-write their fire escape routes, Poca and I were so bored, I would have paid $5 to watch re-runs of Under One Roof – which would normally be my choice of suicide reasons.

There was the arcade, which was fun for about the first $10 we spent, beyond that it was like putting a eunuch in an orgy. A decade ago, this place might have given me an erection, but these days, anything without a keyboard or internet services just doesn’t seem enough – unless I get to redeem a bottle of vodka with my games coupons.

Then there was the theatre, but unfortunately for them, we discovered Vuze and we have been religious bit torrent fans since, so there probably isn’t a movie we’ve not seen. So in a way, I’m actually socially responsible for refusing to buy pirated DVDs. Why buy, when you can download.

It was great that they had supper. The only problem was that it was the same food that was going to be served for breakfast, lunch and dinner as well. It’s like walking into McDonalds, you know you are going to be having McShit; the only difference is if we are having it with fries or nuggets or up-sized.

And then there was the casino. The familiar green felt tables, the buzzing jackpots that have been programmed to con all your money, the neon jackpot signs and the expressionless croupiers that doesn’t give a shit about you as much as you try to be friendly.

It was great for all of the 15 minutes that we were by the VIP baccarat tables, and the time when I was walking out with 3 x $100 chips in my left breast pocket. That was the last fond memory I had of the place, until we decided that going back to fuck at the balcony was going to be the highlight of the trip instead. I love Baccarat, it’s the best game ever.

It was just a wreck for the insipid attempt of creating alternative entertainments that are peripheral to the casino. The bars were either empty with lounge singers performing to an audience that looked like they would have more fun going for a kidney dialysis or choice of 60’s songs that suspiciously sounded as if the cruise was heading to Vietnam to join the war.

The next morning, we forcibly dragged ourselves out of bed at 6.45am to try to catch the sun rise. It was cloudy, we were still battling fatigue and phosphene and all we got to witness, was a glaring stream of light that outlined the clouds. It was at this point of time that I learnt never to wake up for anything unless it is breakfast, because it is going to be a fucking waste of time.

The ship docked at Port Klang and because I was convinced that there was nothing that could beat the potential hazard of dying of boredom on board the cruise liner, we decided to head into town to do some shopping and what better place than Port Klang’s very own mega mall; Jusco.

The place was massive. Imagine Vivocity, now multiply it by 2, remove all the decent clothes store, good looking people and restaurants and then add in an immeasurable quotient of boredom and suckiness. That’s Jusco.

The only great thing was the fish spa, because this was the first time I’ve actually had anything shown this much interest in sucking my feet. It was overwhelming in all honesty, because for the initial couple of seconds, witnessing a school of fish engulfing your feet takes quite a bit of digesting and a whole new level of tolerance.

Poca was freaking out and backed out entirely on doing the fish spa. I was 15 minutes into my treatment and convinced that I was not going to last another 15 minutes of tickling insanity and my mind was beginning to prance at the weirdest thoughts. What if they chew off my toenails? Do they know when to stop? Will I kill the fishes if I have foot rot? Are they going to charge the fishes to me if do kill them?

When we got back on the ship, I made the one mistake of not cashing out my chips. For one, I’m not an avid gambler, nor will I make a good one because I have an impulse for placing bets on wayward odds. I made three $100 bets on a tie with a 1-8 payout odds, and I lost them all. I hate Baccarat, it’s the fucking dumbest game invented ever.

We then hooked up with ManjaRockStar, D and VD for drinks, which was in part a pre-celebration for MRS’s birthday and in truth, another validated excuse to knock back tequila shots like nuns to communion.

There really wasn’t much to choose from when it came to drinking holes on board. It was about finding the least sucky place with decently priced alcohol and a crowd that preferably didn’t live through World War II. The place we settled for was so bad, it sucked more than a horde of prostitutes giving a blowjob.

It was pretty much a subdued session, even though we did run through nearly the entire bottle of crap tequila that tasted like it was made from cheapness – we could probably have enjoyed kerosene more. There were the intermittent dares of licking a plate of salt, a foiled lap dance attempt that was surrender to shyness and petty inhibitions, but nothing too gregarious like a bar top dance.

And that was the weekend. Gone as quickly as it came, poorer than when I started and more sober than usual. My mum should be so proud of me.

How To Lose Your Partner In 10 Ways - Pt 2

2010-05-10T03:13:00.003+08:00

I know I’ve been awful at keeping up with regular posts, but coming back every night with a breath of vodka is hardly the right condition to be in. Let’s pick up from where I left off..

3. iPhone

While it is the greatest invention by mankind after the condom, this is also the biggest irony of technology and it’s mantra of bridging people or if Nokia was still alive, ‘connecting people’. Not many people realize it, but the iPhone is actually the aphesis of everything communal and social.

In short, this is the very reason why people are antisocial. And we are all so guilty of it; immersed in the cornucopian library of games or tapping away on that great social centric denominator that we call the World Wide Web. We are all as guilty as calories on a Kit-Kat dipped in lard.

So often am I at a table and the reflex action of everyone with an iPhone is to silently partition themselves from everyone else and just indulge in their new relationship with the iPhone. It’s like it’s a fucking Tamagochi, except that it vibrates and you can use it as a phone. And the poor Blackberry user is left all alone, that even talking would feel like masturbating.

Think of the iPhone as Robin Hood, robbing you of precious interaction between you and your partner – maybe sometimes it’s for the better because sometimes you need to shut up for a relationship to work. Remember, it’s only rude when only one person has an iPhone.

4. Threesome with a familiar

Threesomes are great, probably the best invention by the French since fries. And yet it is a delicate subject or act that needs proper stucture, rules and engagement when you are in a relationship. Having your dog present as witness does not count, and neither does your dildo, even if it has a name.

There are countless merits in a threesome, it’s like having a conference exchange on the latest sex positions and foreplay matters. It is anything but vanilla. It’s a proof of life and having lived it well. It’s an initiation passage of sorts. It’s about being adventurous together and it sure as hell beats phone sex.

It’s a known fact that threesomes with a mutual friend in an equation is a quotient for disaster and before that implodes, it comes with endless paranoia, nagging and sometimes a punch to the face. If you are planning for a third party, then anyone on your Facebook is not an option – this is one time having many people on your Facebook account will work against you.

We all know that threesomes with a friend complicates matters, just like how Dan, Serena and Vanessa found out. But we don’t need Gossip Girl or cable network television to tell us so because as great the session might be, there will always be an awkwardness that will greet you after that voracious orgasm.

You can be sure that any contact – platonic or coincidental for that matter – with that friend after, will be frown upon and accepted with a barrage of questions and rabid skepticism – a lot of it. If you are planning to lose a friend, then this is a great way and if you are (un)lucky, maybe the relationship as well.

Strangers are great insertions to this because it negates emotional attachments and chance of further infidelity. There should not be any exchange of contacts or handshakes for that matter when it is all over. Strangers are great for ‘no frills’ engagements amongst many other things like unexplained murders, syphilis and missing furniture.

There are tons of rules to iron out before you dive in – no pun intended. Is kissing allowed? How about snuggling? Who gets to go first? Who should you end off with? Are the girls allowed to kiss? Should men be allowed to kiss? Who’s in charge of the camera?

If you have that all covered, welcome to Nirvana, I hope it went well for you.

5. Paying for everything

One thing most girls don’t realize is that while men in general do not mind paying for trivialities like meals, movies and condoms, they also do not like the idea of always paying for it.

But Butterfly, men do not like women paying for them; I hear you say? My balls are dangling because they are gawking at your ignorance and stupidity. Who the fuck ever told you that men hate women paying is a liar or chauvinist – maybe both. But they are also definitely a moron.

Yes it’s that topic about a man’s pride and ego, but this is 2010; TV’s are getting slimmer, society is more receptive to anal sex and if the Mayan’s are right, the world is ending in 2 years. Pride and egos are commodities that are fashionably outdated much like Nokia and bubble tea. No man is ever going to honestly bitch about not having to pay.

It’s all about sustainability. Men are never going to always open the car door for you or keep the toilet seat diligently down. We are never going to always pay attention to what you are saying and naturally, we are never going to be happy if you keep making us pay for your shit.

Men might not realize this, but an independent woman is as alluring as tight asses and deep cleavages. We might not always admit it or maybe we are too conditioned by social mores and tradition to believe that it is not right for women to pay, but men actually appreciate the occasional offer of a treat.

If you are a woman and you are tattooed with the belief that men should always pay, then your myopia to changes in society is going to cause you to lose your partner. No man with a functional penis should take this shit either. If it’s equality that women want, then it’s time we gave them a bill or twenty.

If you are a woman, and you’ve been paying, then spare me 3 minutes while I laugh at your absolute stupidity because the only thing funnier than this, is discovering that your husband has a vagina. No man is ever deserving of your full monetary support, unless he is as awesome as Ip Man.

Friday's A Pain

2010-05-03T10:34:00.001+08:00

“You need to call the ambulance. I am in great pain. My toe is fucking bleeding!”

I can’t begin to describe the state I was in or the circumstances that led up to that point. There was alcohol, that I was sure because if there weren’t any that was coursing through my blood and killing off sensibility, logic and my liver amongst other things, then I might not have been in this plight – but I would be in a lot more pain.

I know alcohol does many wondrous things to man, like inventing spaceships, explaining pregnancies and giving courage to those who seek. I know that it makes me an extraordinary conversationalist and pick up artist because just last Wednesday I accomplished a feat in 5 sentences that some men wait a lifetime to hear.

It was a random conversation that started outside the toilet that degenerated into a debate on age.

She: “How old are you? Turning 30 at most?”
Me: “Yeah, there abouts.”
She: “I’m turning 40.”
Me: “You wanna use the cubicle first? Your bladder might not be able to hold up.”
She: “Fuck you.”

Sure she was yelling, but that’s what women do when they are trying to get a point across to men, because they think we don’t listen. The truth is, we just like to see them pissed and also that watching TV is way more interesting than hearing someone nag.

Now, the situation about me on the ground, clutching my toe in so much agony that I would have made a leper look like he was having rashes. Was alcohol trying to prove a point to my inebriated consciousness that I am too much a hazard for my own good when I am drinking?

It was a Friday night and I was sitting bare-footed by the road, wondering if my toe needed a cast, or amputation to prevent bacteria spread or maybe it just needs a kiss. And all I hear is laughter from the boys and RotiPrata hitting the ground next to me with a twig.

One hour ago…

I made a forced grin at the sight of the bottle of Hennesy perched awkwardly in the middle of the table. Alone, naked without her usual entourage of ice buckets and jugs of water and hardly the temptress that she would have been if this was a different setting.

This was a Thai disco after all, so there was hardly a need for premium spirits to be on display and neither am I a gallant binge artist for brown spirits. The taste of champagne was still lurking in my palate and from what happened earlier that night, it looked like I was on a crash course.

Girl: “Help support me. Buy flower for singer.”

I had just gotten back to the table from the washroom, hardly had the luxury of refilling my glass and now I was harassed by a girl to buy flowers. So I did the only logically thing. I started drying my hands on her garland.

To say that she was livid would be a gross injustice to her, because she was staring so hard at me I thought we were playing charades and she was trying to be Medusa. So I stared back at her because I am Perseus, son of Zeus.

Me: “Are we challenging? Your eyes are so small, you are going to lose!”

For one, the girl so ugly, even a vibrator would have said no to fucking her and she looked like she was going to throw a punch at me. Finally, RotiPrata had to drag me away because he was convinced that at some point, she would have stabbed me with her fake nails and I was going to lose the staring competition.

We ended up doing more productive stuff with our time and alcohol.

Me: “Dude. You just need to wave at the dancers, smile and shout ‘you suck’. As long as you are smiling and waving, it doesn’t matter what you say. They’ll think that you are cheering them on.”

And that’s what we did for the remainder of the night and because we were waving so frantically at them, they actually thought we loved them and that at some point, we were going to hang garlands on them. Unfortunately, we are assholes and not drunk enough to be doing stupid things.

We left, and someone thought it would be a great idea to cross the road and climb the railings to the other side, just to hail a cab. It’s one thing when you are sober, but when you are inebriated, that is akin to taking a piss in the middle of the road and gamble that you don’t get hit.

Everything was great up to that point. The night had been more about salvaging and making the best of everything, than it had been about being at a great place at a great time, but generally I wouldn’t have complained much; until I decided to kick a can at the boys.

It was a can sitting so invitingly on the railing and I had a grand plan of how I was going to execute an inspiring roundhouse kick that would have made Donnie Yen proud and how the can was going to hit one of them in the face and everyone was going to have a laugh about it. Unfortunately, I had everything wrong except for the laughing part.

I don’t even know why I decided to kick it. It was not as if I was flexible to begin with or even capable to reach the top railing with my feet. It was not as if I was being provoked or that I had a purpose that was driving my action. It was not as if I didn’t know that stretching my legs above my waist had been a problem since turning 21.

Not only did I completely miss the can, I also ended up smashing my feet into the railing. The consolation was that the can fell off due to the impact my feet caused from tragically crashing into steel.

Me: “Fffff…… FUCKKKK!!!!”

There had never been a more agonizing cry since Rocky got the crap beat out of him or when we had to sit through 4 hours of Star Awards.

Me: “My toe is bleeding!!!!”
RP: “It’s not bleeding lah, don’t be so ah gua.”
Me: “Are you fucking blind? Does this look like nail polish to you? This is blood!!”
D2: “Look up for the camera.”
Me: “I am in great pain. Do I look like I can look up? You need to call an ambulance. I need to go to the hospital.”

15 minutes later, I am sitting outside Living Room still clutching on to my toes with my socks and shoes next to me on the ground. The security is eyeing me in contempt and no one gives a shit about me.

Security: “Sorry sir, please don’t sit here.”
Me: “I can’t find my friends and my toe is in terrible pain.”

He has his ‘I don’t give a shit about your toe, but I will beat the shit out of you with my fist’ face, so I don’t even attempt to be a wise ass. I might lose a toe, so my immediate goal for the night is to protect my remaining body parts.

How To Lose Your Partner in 10 Ways - Pt 1

2010-04-22T20:17:00.003+08:00

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

2010-04-12T01:08:00.001+08:00

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

2010-04-10T16:58:00.002+08:00

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

2010-04-06T00:14:00.003+08:00

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?”

Friday's Fight Night

2010-03-23T01:57:00.005+08:00

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

2010-03-15T03:27:00.003+08:00

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

2010-03-08T04:07:00.007+08:00

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

2010-03-04T02:37:00.002+08:00

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..

The Thing About Chinese New Year

2010-02-24T03:39:00.003+08:00

Chinese New Years are always my favourite time of the year, not only because of long weekends and food that defy all calorie counts, but also because ironically it celebrates not being married – how else do you get Ang Baos.

This festive season is always filled with so much pseudo positivity that it’s like half the country is on prozac over dose. It’s like going to Haw Par Villa. I never understood what all the hype is about taking a boat ride to see how you will be tortured in hell.

Why is it pseudo positivity you ask? Well it’s because so much well wishes comes out the mouth that I wonder if people actually know and truly mean what they are saying or that it’s just a social routine. It's like touching wood every time you say something ominous.

The only thing better that can come out of their mouths in this period, would be if they pulled a red packet out of it.

That said, I’ll give you the six things that define every Chinese New Year for me, because this is my blog and I don’t give a shit about what defines yours.

1. Well Wishes

This is the one time we are encouraged to say four letter words – Mandarin nonetheless – like ‘all year got fish’ and ‘step step high increase’ and dumber ones when you are my age and people tell you, ‘faster high grow up’. Like, hello? Puberty gave up on me ages ago.

I’d be honest here. I only say the most common ‘Gong Xi Fa Cai’, of which I don’t even understand the fucking meaning of it because it’s like you are congratulating someone for something that probably hasn’t or will never happen.

It’s just mocking. It’s like celebrating a pre-ejaculation, but worse, because you’d probably never get to enjoy anything at the end.

2. Goodies

I can’t really say I enjoy the snacks because I hate snacks. If I had to choose between starving and a pineapple tart, I would choose hidden third option, which is the razor, to slit my throat.

I also realize people are deaf during this period, or generally they don’t really give a shit about what you are saying.

They : “Try this pineapple tart. Very nice. Best you can find in Singapore.”
Me: “It’s okay. I don’t eat pineapple tarts.”
They : “Come, take one. Very nice. You must try this.”

I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Do I need to send an email on this? Do I need to pee in the tart box to make myself clear? Maybe I need to yell. Was I laughing when I said it? Maybe I need to emphasize it with sign languages.

3. Gambling

The other thing I do love about CNY, is the blatant gambling. It’s only natural I feel this way, because I am Chinese, and the only thing we love better than gambling, is playing Mahjong and pretending that we are only playing it to pass time. Or maybe going to karaokes, but then again, singing is a Pinoy thing.

I hate Blackjack, because it’s a stupid game that resigns you to fate. You don’t need skill, all you need is luck and the ability to count till 21 – or 16 at least. The best game is Mahjong, because it helps to pass time.

Chinese New Year without gambling is like Michael Phelps without this bodysuits and bong, just ordinary.

4. In-Between

I won’t even call this gambling because it’s the dumbest yet most thrilling communal game since ‘Heart Attack!” and Mad Magazine.

You just open two cards and you call you rbet and hope it falls between both cards. It’s so easy to play, if dolphins had fingers to shuffle cards, they would be playing it. And at the same time, it is so wretchedly cursed with coincidences, you think you are witnessing a David Blaine card trick.

Just last weekend, I saw a pot grew from $30 to over $670 because in 4 hands, 3 of them hit a double from a 2 and Q and A and K. Those were the three times I laughed the hardest all week long. It was so funny, my conscience was laughing along with me.

5. Repetitive Questions

As you get older, your relatives run out of topics to talk to you about, that is why they constantly ask you the same questions every year.

If you went through an entire CNY without someone asking you; “When are you getting married”, then you belong to a very select group of people. There aren’t many of you that are this privileged. You can probably all fit into a Maxi cab.

6. Ang Baos

If Ang Baos had tits, it would be the equivalent of Florence Nightingale, because this is one tangible reward that supersedes all prior and subsequent flaws CNY may possess and saves it from being the shittiest period of the year – which is when we pay taxes.

This is the one time when single people are reassured that they are doing the right thing when they continue to receive red packets, mock at the bleeding bank books of married couples and think of a vasectomy when you see ugly children running around.

It’s like as if the married people are trying to tell us to stay single, so embrace it, enjoy it and cash it in.

2010-02-18T15:57:00.003+08:00

Before I start writing a new post - long overdued I know -, here's some for those who haven't read the third. Here.

Butterfly Hates Time Share

2010-02-09T02:27:00.009+08:00

Now, remember what it was like to honour words? To deliver promises? For civic mindedness and honesty? For efficacious communication and trust? For compensation of time and due reward.

Well obviously some people have forgotten. And since it is at my expense of time – and partial amusement if I really must admit -, then I say spare no mercy. My humour is only as potent as my wrath.

When I agree to take time off my busy schedule to attend a time-share, it’s not because I really give a shit about what they are trying to sell. You can be selling me tampons for all I care or Nike shoes to polio kids, and the only reason I’m there is because you are offering me something attractive to sit through an hour of me giving you a hard time.

You can’t hard sell me. I will buy what I want to, although I don’t always make the most sound choices, or sometimes $5 cup noodles sound too good a bargain to resist or maybe that one time I bought that sound system that is now still in the box.

It’s not like it was a convivial parade when I sat in that dingy office that would have made a cardboard box look like the Taj Mahal. Neither am I some gregarious youth looking for conversations with a novice trying to up sell me a program that made as much sense as heavy metal song lyrics.

So for sitting through 70 minutes, oh wait no, it was 90 minutes because I gave them so much problems with my questions, the company director actually had to tend to me himself, I think I fucking deserve my free accommodation and air ticket to Phuket.

What?! But Butterfly, you mean you didn’t get your promised gifts?

No shit Sherlocks! It says on the fucking voucher that I have to email my booking details to them, but I must have obviously missed out the part about the 'no reply will be given' fine print.

And here I was thinking I was going to start believing in free goods. Start trusting that perhaps there can be other free things in life, like sex, air, newspapers and STDs.

But because I am such a magnanimous person, so much so that my armpits sweat magnanimity and forgiveness like rain over the Amazon, I am willing to take the high road and give you fucking shitheads in that company a chance to redeem yourself.

I am giving you the benefit of doubt that your IT server might have crashed because there is a free chapatti food festival in India or re-runs of Slumdog Millionaire, so your help desk is not available to rectify the problem.

Or that perhaps Poca might have mistyped the email and God forbid, Hotmail has yet to prompt her of her mistake. Or that maybe you are just so overjoyed to see my booking reservations that your admin staff passed out from sheer excitement.

Whatever the case, I am going to re-send – for the 3^rd time. My gawd, three times. Not maybe people even get that many chances in life. You are so much luckier than the Jews at the Holocaust, or John McCain who will never be President.

So what do you do when you are given another chance by me? You don’t fuck it up. You read the damn email and you acknowledge the fucking booking. And if you have some time, you send me an apology letter and maybe a voucher for two free sundaes at MacDonalds.

The Consequence of Luminous Friday

2010-02-03T00:30:00.004+08:00

Consequence is like a gay prison cell mate, you don’t want to believe it will come, but sooner or later, he’s going to fuck you in the ass.

When we got past laughing about the Luminous Friday story the day after, which included filling in blanks about what happened and who did what, never did I imagine that the story hadn’t ended with a punctuation.

I did however come to realize how RotiPrata came to have a whole massive roll of toilet paper that would have been enough to wipe every ass in China, in his possession.

To put it simply, alcohol is a vortex of all logical behaviour. Call it an emancipation of rage or surrender of basic motor skills, but it all began when he started having difficulty pulling the paper hand towels, he lost patience and decided the best way was to kick open the contraption and take it altogether.

Then of course, Monday came and it was always a day we would recount the weekend over a morning cigarette and allow consequence to catch up to us, or in most case, deny all of it.

We knew Friday was a carnage of sorts; intemperance of alcohol, school boy misdemeanor, kleptomaniac disclosures and the list runs on, all we needed was an axe murderer and we would have made Fox River Prison look like a kindergarten.

What we didn’t know, was the repercussion of our actions.

First it was a complaint that LB had ruined the pool table’s felt cloth by staining it. This was in addition to him also breaking a cue in what he now refers to as ‘The Longest Pool Game Ever’.

Sure, there were giggles and grins under the guise of condemnation and scorn of his actions. And most definitely, the cost of replacing the felt cloth did send a wave of severity through our cranial receptors, but if there were cause of worry for LB, we lost it somewhere after he tore our shirts.

Then evening came with a phone call. A rude awakening. It was like receiving a voice mail from consequence and it would have sounded like, ‘Haha...”. In reality, it sounded like this,

“I don’t know what you muthafuckers did, but your faces are all over the video. And who the fuck broke that paper shit in the toilet?!”

Well apparently, our whole debacle was caught on CCTV. The main star of it being me and my little stunt by the bench, right down to talking to the stone dog. Oh, but I wasn’t alone.

RotiPrata had to top it off by apparently –and I say apparently because we don’t see how that is possible – being caught kicking down the paper hand towel holder and running off with it.

If you actually knew who I was, or what I do, then you’d probably figure out why this is a HUGE problem. So huge, there isn’t even a font size worthy enough to write it in.

RotiPrata: “What the fuck are we going to do now?”

Me: “How the fuck should I know? Apologise? Fix the bloody hand towel disposer? Do you think thinner is good for getting marker stains out?”

Then after a full evening contemplating what reaction to this would be, which probably included fleeing the country, full cosmetic surgery and blaming alcohol amongst other things, we decided to leave matters to fate.

I met LB and Reznor an hour later.

Me: “You muthafucker, you ruined a pool table.”
LB: “I told you all not to ask me to drink already. You see! This is what happens when I drink you fucker!”
Me: “Ahh, fuck you. Yours isn’t even close to what happened to RotiPrata and me.”

LB: “Huh? What happened?”
Me: “Remember our debacle?”
LB: “Ya..”
Me: “We got caught on CCTV…”

There was a long pregnant silence. His face was priceless. Then,

LB: “HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”

The great thing was that things took a turn for the better and it all came down to Sunday afternoon champagne brunch that burnt a hole in the wallet to mitigate matters.

LB was so tickled by the fact that the brunch was angled almost like it was a punishment that he spent the days leading up to it in perpetual stitches every time we mentioned it.

Then Sunday came, and it was exactly as how I had imagined it to be; good food and a race to clear out as many bottles of Champagne as we could. It just got so out of hand with ferocious cheers one after another that I had to do what all responsible men would do.

I ran to the toilet to induce puke and I can because I am that awesome. It was also weird because I had so much meat for lunch, it was like I was puking meatballs.

Then 18 bottles of Champagne later, LB was so drunk, he - and I will go about this like a checklist – accomplished it all in one afternoon.

a. Bite someone x 3

b. Volunteered to have his chest hair plucked

c. Threw a glass of water at RotiPrata

d. Threw a full bucket of ice and water at RotiPrata

e. Wrestled to the ground

f. Volunteered to pay for a group hair wash

g. Concussed in the backseat of the car

h. Paid $210 for our hair wash

Don’t you just love alcohol?

The Luminous Friday

2010-01-25T01:26:00.005+08:00

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

2010-01-16T21:05:00.002+08:00

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

2010-01-11T02:13:00.002+08:00

“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

2010-01-08T01:23:00.008+08:00

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.

Butterfly Goes To Turi Beach

2009-12-28T10:38:00.002+08:00

Every once in a while, charity finds a way to align themselves with alternative lifestyle cultures, because people are just bored of watching celebrities prance around on stage and knowing their money is going to be of great use buying someone a condo.

Well, holding a starving kid with cerebral palsy in your arms just doesn’t cut it like it used to and is it just me or was there a general consensus to not give a shit about people with kidney problems, because of what the fuck happened to NKF.

So what do all great organizations or societal structures do in the face of adversity – namely just corruption allegations really- ? They adapt, resource and re-align with lifestyle pillars that are entire polar opposites of charity; the clubbing scene.

On hind sight, this actually makes great sense, since with the inception of alcohol and with enough amounts, everything will be a great idea, like beer showers, domestic violence and donating to charity.

Couple weeks back, we supported The Butter Factory who did some charity tie up for bone marrow donations. It was held at Turi Beach in Batam and I basically interpreted it the way I wanted.

“Beach party, free booze and great music. Oh and with a charitable cause.”

I was sold on the idea. Not so much that I was doing a good cause, but because there was going to be a party. And I am too blinded by alcohol, and not good enough a person to really care what my donation is going to do.

After all, I’ve donated to NKF before and look what that turned out to be. So, unless my money is going to fund some war in Iraq or self-esteem courses for Whales, I don’t really give a shit. I am a horrible person.

It was also great that I had LB, Nana and IceMan heading down as well so if everything else failed, I knew I would have 3 more buddies wasting a weekend like me.

Shortly after we got there, it started pouring so heavily, it looked like Batam was going to sink. What was worse was that the villas were built into the slope, so I was convinced that if a landslide didn’t kill us, the lack of decent TV channels would.

We spent the entire afternoon in IceMan’s room playing Texas Hold’em with cigarettes as chips, almost convinced that the torrential downpour was a mocking from God for forfeiting a weekend to travel to Batam for charity.

Then it stopped, almost as sudden as it came and we were back on schedule for a nice outdoor dinner spread and the ever inviting thought of a pool party. Then more good news followed in the words of ‘open bar’, which got me so excited, I tore my larynx while executing a silent cheer.

There was also an area setup for recruitment of bone marrow donors. And I was dragged there by LB, at a point in time where I already had a few drinks and pleasantries have gone beyond my recall.

Some of the highlights of the recruitment lady’s persuasion to have me become a donor.

Lady: “Would you like to donate?”
Me: “Nope, I don’t think I should.”
Lady: “Why not?”
Me: “I’m a bad person.”

Lady: “Do you know that it is a 1 in 10,000 match to find a suitable donor?”
Me: “How’s that guy going to feel when I’m that match and I say NO.”

If she had a stick, she would have beaten me all the way into Christmas.

Then there was the art auction that Butter Factory organized to raise funds, that was a lot more refreshing than having to call in to place a donation because of some fire breathing, coal walking, stage prancing act.

With all the formalities out the way, the music started playing, but it was a slow coax to what would be a night any Trance junkie would have been proud of. Old school beats, techno hits and even a couple of Jay Chou songs snuck right between.

Before we knew it, we all lined at the shallow end of the pool, jumping, forcing nasty liquids like bourbon down each others throats and attempting front flips off the platform.

4 hours later, you know something is wrong when we’ve had so much to drink and no one has actually left the pool for the toilet. By then I had already made a conscious decision to moderate my drinking.

Where possible, I would spit a good portion of the drink back out into the pool every time someone forced a bottle of bourbon down my throat. Then it hit me; everyone else was practically doing the same!

5 hours later, you know how fucked the pool is when we’re spitting back whiskey and bourbon into the pool and spraying Red Bull all around. If we had gone 6 hours, we might have shat, puked and had supper in there as well.

Then we broke up the party and then talks of supper came up and we had so much time getting up to the rooms and making so much noise banging on Cel’s door, her snap back at us probably woke me.

I got back to the room with Nana, stumbling through the corridor and fumbling with our door knob and key. It just wouldn’t open, but I could see our bags so this had to be our room. Or did they lock us out?

Me: “Nana, this is not funny. Not funny I tell you. I cannot open the door.”

It was like China all over again. Then 5 seconds later, I held up the door handle.

Me: “Nana, this is not funny man, not funny at all. I think I broke the door handle from the hinge.”

The lucky thing was that it actually opened the door.

Nana: “Do you think they are going to make us pay for that?”

The Hong Kong Rave Club

2009-12-24T13:54:00.002+08:00

If you’ve watched enough Hong Kong movies and wondered if rave culture in clubs is as blatant as movies portray, then you should know two things. Yes it is, and that if you have a stomachache in a club, you are fucked.

And you know what else will get you fucked? Staring. It’ll pretty much get you the same ass beating and trash talking in Singapore – but in Cantonese.

That said, I’m sure if you throw some dough around, it’ll get you fucked in all merit of the word. It’s Asia, there are definitely people in the club who would go down on you for money. Think about it, we’re Chinese, we basically invented prostitution.

The great thing about being back in Hong Kong was the weather. It was chilly enough to bring a coat but not freezing to the point where I feel the risk of amputating my fingers every time I smoke.

The down side was that our entire day was spent sitting through a seminar that I hardly even had time to appreciate the in-room movies, let alone do some shopping to exploit the cheaper designer label prices.

What we didn’t do in the day, we made up amply for in the night. Ceaseless flow of alcohol, and a gratuitous wide eye appreciation of cornucopian parade of Jagerbomb trains. And along the way we were singing so loudly on the streets that we only needed a reindeer and it would have been a Christmas carol.

Then there was Club Pipi, reputed dance club and the biggest Hong Kong had to offer. And from the entrance it looked like it was ostensibly living up to its billing, with a whole throng for people that looked like they were there for the next Young & Dangerous casting.

Crowds were a good thing for us, because only an hour ago, we were at this club that was so empty, they had more urinals than people. Ironically, that place was called Full House. I laughed so hard, I peed all over the floor. It’s like calling your daughter Princess and she turns out looking like a toad, with a missing ear.

The place was large, I’d have gushed over it except that in Singapore, we’re used to mega dance clubs. It was obvious that this used to be an old cinema judging from the usher isles and impressively high ceiling. It’s a pity that I don’t give a shit about décor so long as there’s alcohol.

So it all started again. The familiar surreptitious comments and glances on the place, the people, the music all while keeping a close proximity to the bar and penning out the drinking itinerary.

The first bottle of vodka came out. I was still periodically tapping my feet, trying to coax them into beat to dance to some cataclysmal mash of pop and R&B that would have made deaf people frown.

Then, it came. Almost instantaneously, without warning, or regards to the glasses of vodka that awaited my lips. That all familiar rumbling in the tummy.

This was bad. I was in a club, having a stomach upset and needing to shit badly. Very badly.

I placed the glass down and started walking briskly to the toilet, periodically breaking out into hops and skips, whilst clenching my butt tighter with each approaching step.

It was full as I expected it to be. I now wished I hadn’t laughed at Full House because if this was there, I would be picking my cubicle by how much toilet paper they had. Maybe this was karma, and it sure picked a great time to get back at me.

I immediately rooted myself outside the nearest cubicle, started pulling out paper from the communal toilet roll and prayed. It was the only thing I could do because it felt like an eternity just waiting for my turn.

Then I realized, there was actually more than one person inside the cubicle. And since this isn’t a gay club, the obvious was beginning to settle in. People were actually doing drugs in there.

I glanced over to the other cubicles and it was the same circus there. I am fucked. How long am I going to have to wait before I’m allowed to do what the toilets are actually built for. Am I the only legitimate toilet user in this place?

I was breaking out in sweat just bending over with my hands supported on the wall. A thousand scenarios raced through my mind. Maybe I could run to some back alley and shit by the drain, or a basket. Maybe I might not make it that far, so will the stairs do? Will I get thrown out if I shat my pants?

Or maybe, if I just prayed hard enough, they will be done soon?

Then some guy taps me on the back and says something in Cantonese to me. Generally, my comprehension of the language is as good as a midget trying to do a pole vault. So when I’m trying to hold my shit in, everything sounds like penguins singing the national anthem of Antarctica.

Me: “I… don’t speak.. Cantonese.”

He: “Oh, if you want to use the toy-let, I think maybe you try sum-where else. These pee-pole will be in there long time.”

FUCK! Hope was the only thing I had left that perhaps their packet of blow was about done, or that one of them was going to OD and they would come bursting out, dragging the muthafucker with them. And now, it was all gone.

I was at a crossroads, a decision making axis where all great men have come to face. Do I stay and wait, or do I leave in search of more toilets?

I quickly made my way back to the guys.

Me: “I need a toilet. Badly. Like a VIP toilet, or for crew.”

Sam: “Okay follow me. I bring you to VIP toilet.”

So I did, and 30 seconds later, I ended up at another toilet – to his credit -, but with the same powder carnival. Maybe this was just another cue from God to crap my pants.

I went back to the bar where the bottles had multiplied and they were on to champagne. I was going to have none of it, I was not going to dance and I certainly was not going to shit by the looks of it.

Some of the guys came up to me, visibly inebriated with a lot less concern for my plight.

They: “Come drink!!”

Me: “Don’t touch me. Like seriously don’t touch me. I’m trying to concentrate on keeping my shit in.”

Then 15 minutes in, one of the guys had deliberately poured champagne on one of the girls, another had gotten emotional and I was still gently pacing the place, singing hymns to myself.

Me: “Hey, I need to go like now. I’ll see you guys back at the hotel.”
Nana: “We’ll all go back together.”
Me: “Then we need to go now. I don’t think you want to be there in the cab when I shit myself.”

I eventually made it, with dignity intact. And it took me a sprint across the hotel lobby that would have made Usain Bolt look like Terry Fox.

Sleepless in China

2009-12-18T22:43:00.003+08:00

This is perhaps the longest I’ve been silent of any literary merits, and no I’m not on a sabbatical nor have I abandoned my blog. Truth is, I’ve been away a lot, I’m having trouble with my desk top and there just isn’t enough hours in a day to mix writing and drinking.

So where do I start? The nights in Hong Kong? The one I nearly shat my pants? The Turi beach pool that we tainted with Red Bull and Whiskey? The one we fed ceramic plates to crocodiles? This was the one in China..

Sometime back we made a trip to China. It was a less than refreshing welcome back to a place that seemed very much the backwash of rapid commercialization in Macau – save for the slightly cool weather.

It was back to the all too familiar sights of men spitting by the road, dwarfed puppies on sale for 100RMB, traffic lights that no one gave a shit about and if you think about it, they only need to sell fried rats and this could actually pass off as Bangkok..

The thing about this particular part of China, is that there really isn’t anything to do, unless you love cheap clothes that look like it’s from a basket sale at emporium. Electronic stuffs are great too, just that nothing is ever real, so you can buy Nokia models that are so advanced, the guys in Sweden don’t even know it’s out.

So what’s left is to wait in baited anticipation for dinner – because no one ever wakes up for lunch-, then for night because having alcohol before the sun sets just isn’t good for the liver.

This was one night where the party had adjourned to one of the larger local joints and everyone was trashed. And I know we were because one of them refused to wear his pants and I don’t even remember how many bottles of champagne, vodka and cognac we went through.

That embarrassment is something we have sworn not to discuss again, so it’s beyond me to relate the matter in public, especially when most of that insanity didn’t even come from me.

What I did remember was that by the end of the night, we chalked up about quite an impressive tab and the place didn’t accept credit cards. By then most of the guys had left and the remaining four of us had to literally clear out pockets down to the coins just to make the figure.

And for a moment, I was convinced we wouldn’t have enough cash and that all of us had to sell a part of our organ to make up the difference. At that point, I was ready to part with my liver, and throw in a testicle for another bottle of champagne.

Then everyone left, staggering out of the bar, and I was stuck with Nana who had to send one of his friend who had been playing host to us back. It was going to be a quick detour to her place and then back to our hotel for some much needed sleep.

And then it went from a quick drop off to having to make sure she got up to her place because she was so drunk out her wits, she even had problems with the front lobby door. So we became Samaritans and then five minutes later when we finally got in, she passed out on Nana and I found myself walking round the place trying to entertain myself.

Remember, I was drunk, very bored and restless. And what would anyone in my state do when there is a fruit basket in front of them with a pair of knives? If you said, ‘cut some fruits to eat’, then you must be gay and never been drunk before.

Next I know, I was fighting the fruits with the knives while Nana looked on in bewilderment. I had, when I was done with it, disfigured the fruits so badly you wouldn’t know a banana from a pineapple.

Me: “Do you think she’ll notice if we stole her stuff?”

I scanned round the room, threw some cosmetics out the window then tried to move the television.

Me: “This is fucking heavy!”

Nana looked on in amusement.

Me: “Let’s get out of here. It’s boring!”

So we left and mind you, this was some apartment that had no lights at the corridors so imagine how many problems we had going down with enough alcohol in us to drown a ferret.

When we got to the door, I started blind feeling for the latch which felt like some funny knob that I couldn’t figure if I had to turn it, push it or to pee on it. Neither worked, and then slowly it dawned on me, perhaps we needed a key to open. We were fucked.

Me: “Nana, this is not funny. I can’t open the door. Not funny I tell you, we are going to be stuck in here till morning. Not funny man, not funny at all.”

He looked on once again. Silent, with a frown but his lips pursed together almost breaking into a smile. All this while I continued frantically fiddling with the knob.

Me: “FUCK!! We’re going to be stuck here!!”

Any moment now, I was going to break into tears just so that it might lubricate the door enough to slide open.

Me: “Not funny Nana, not funny…”

Then he pushed the gate and it miraculously swung open. And then I realized, all this while, I was pulling the side gate which wasn’t suppose to open to begin with.

Oh, and the knob? It was a screw.

And Here, Lies

2009-11-29T19:41:00.003+08:00

People say relationships are based on trust, but that’s just a moral consensus to attenuate the subliminal value of lies, so that we see it in a desecrated shell embodying all that is negative and detrimental to a relationship.

I’ve never been a huge fan of moral propaganda and you shouldn’t too, because if we all stuck to that moral compass, humans would never have discovered life treasures like pot, nudist beaches, vodka and ass rims.

If you shed beliefs, denial and fairytales and actually deconstructed this delicate frame we call ‘relationships’ you’ll slowly appreciate the value of lies, because not only is it intrinsic it’s also positive at times – except for when someone has a cock in the mouth and lies about it.

You don’t need a ratiocinative microscope to understand that lies are more prevalent in relationships than orgasms. In perspective, the chances of you being in a lie-free relationship is like putting a leatherback turtle hatchling with a clipped flipper in the middle of the Sahara desert and bet it makes it to Siloso beach for ZoukOut.

If you are going to argue with me on this, then let me make it clear that relationships with your right hand, dildo or dog isn’t counted as one, unless you are fucking your dog – then I don’t really wish to argue with you to begin with.

You see, if trust builds a relationship, then lies sustain it when everything from love, sex and erections have fallen out the equation.

And this is anything from blind compliments to faking orgasms. Anything that soothes the ego and pleasing to the ears. Anything that stops a nag, quells an argument or explains an erectile dysfunction.

The healthy portion of these lies are what we call ‘White Lies’ and if you think about it, it’s like bull’s shit. At first you think it’s horrible, then you realize it’s healthy for the plants but they still stink when you fall into it.

Lies are a staple in any relationship that involves communication. It’s a realm where trivialities get swept under the carpet so that there is less shouting to be done in the day, like lying about how food taste, about doing the dishes, about feeding the dog, about sleeping with the neighbour and any other daily routine.

Just the other night, I was having a debate with Liz about men and what horrible creatures they are. Well, I would have agreed, just for the fact that she didn’t seem to realize that there was this other species called women that are equally bad.

I sometimes snigger when people make it seem that lying is a defective gene found only in the male chromosome, just like shoe obsession is with women. Unfortunately, if lying is a birth right for males, then females have taken that exclusivity from us, because if you haven’t noticed, women are lying like it’s on sale.

If you disagree, you need to burn your feminist self help books and stop your self-denial medication, or if you are a guy reading this with a girl then it’s because you are trying to get into her pants. Then that will be proof that lies are the immovable pillars of any relationship.

Let’s put it in perspective. The day any relationship is free of lies, is the day Clay Aiken fucks a girl – a real girl, and not one that resembles a man. That day will come when Singapore is ruled by opposition or when Whales say no to a buffet.

So when there really isn’t a way to take it out of the equation, the only option we really have is to live by it, and learn that the best way to handle lies isn’t with a quick knife to the gut or knee to the balls, but to trust that lies perhaps play a greater role than we know in relationship building.

After all, some moron once said that what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger. I say, what you lose, perhaps really isn’t worth it to begin with.

That Vegetarian Dinner

2009-11-20T10:26:00.002+08:00

I’ve always loved weddings. Not because it’s a union of souls and a celebration of love – sometimes for convenience or shot-gun marriages-, but largely because I love cold dishes and shark’s fin and rarely do I leave any wedding thinking of Big Mac and fries.

This last wedding was a little different.

It was between one of my old friend and his girlfriend whom he had been dating for so long, that I believe they were together when Valentine’s Day was created. Naturally, I saw this as a chance to catch up with the boys and also pay for an overpriced dinner.

I’ve never quite gotten the grasp when it comes to how much we really need to give for weddings. Do we give less on weekdays? What is the lowest we can give? Can we take-away unfinished food? Am I allowed to keep the napkins? What do we use as yardsticks? Do people really give empty packets? Do you think we can get through dinner with no one finding out?

There were just so many things drifting through my mind like a kaleidoscopic opera of debates between figures that I decided to stick with $100, for a 4 Star hotel on a Wednesday. I figured it was a fairly decent amount given that mid week banquets are like store wide discounts.

When I got to the table – almost fashionably late because it took me a whole to decide that wine and beer are too much of a staple banquet diet for me to pass up-, I immediately did a quick check with the others on how much they gave.

Me: “How much did you guys give?”
R: “$70”
Me: “What?!”
H: “I also gave $70. Weekday dinners are about there.”
Me: “Fuck! I gave a hundred.”
A: “You know it’s vegetarian food right?”
Me: [Hysterically] “WHAT THE FUCK?!! IS THERE ANY MORE BAD NEWS I NEED TO KNOW?!”

I snatched the menu and scanned through it, looking for erection giving words like ‘shark’s fin’, ‘abalone’ or ‘garoupa ‘, but the only thing that barely teased was the word ‘mock’ planted right before ‘shark’s fin’ and followed by stupid words like ‘bamboo shoots’.

Half the time I had no idea what the menu was saying because if you’ve been to enough weddings, you’d know that they have the coolest names for the simplest food. Things like, ‘double broiled ginko nuts..’, which really is just ‘Cheng Teng’ and ‘Longevity Catch’ which is basically your fish.

Then before me was a whole list of gimmicky names that told me nothing about the food, like ‘Treasure Bag with broccoli’ and there I was hoping there was going to be a slice of chicken in that bag somewhere. There was nothing I could do about it, so I turned to the only thing that would make this worthwhile.

Me: “I’m going to get my money’s worth on wine.”
R: “You know there was supposed to be no alcohol?”
Me: “I would have slit my wrist if that happened, but I’m glad to be alive and thrilled to drink cheap house wine.”

The other down side was my grumpy waitress, who looked like she just menopaused on her train ride to work. She never smiled, never asked anything courteously and her face was always so constipated that she only needed to be purple to qualify as a prune, but I didn’t give a shit because she executed the one task I gave her perfectly.

Me: “Keep this glass always filled.”

You know you’re fucked when tomato slices which are normally decorative or garnishes, become the main dish. The first dish, usually one of my favourites, had been raped. In place of the jelly fish, was kway tiao and I’m assuming the tomatoes represented the squid. Disappointed, I start drinking faster.

Then it just went downhill. Shark’s fins were glass noodles cooked in what I can only assume to be starch with some bamboo shoot that pandas might have enjoyed. The ‘treasure bag’ was stuffed toufu skin with more vegetables and the fried rice looked like it was fried with the same ingredients they’ve been using all night.

I have to verify that I’m not a particular person when it comes to eating, because I eat almost anything – sometimes not knowing what I’m eating. So, when I bitch about food, you’ll know that it’s so bad, if I had brought combat rations, I would be chewing up on it in the toilet.

Me: “Well, at least the dessert should be good right? They can’t possibly fuck up dessert because it’s vegetarian to begin with.”

When they served the bowl of red bean paste, I was secretly hoping they served it with a razor to slit my throat with. It was so diluted, you'd think they were trying to feed everyone with a single bean mixed in sugar water.

I’ve never quite understood why anyone would propose for a vegetarian dinner. Do they not realize that vast majority of Singaporeans are carnivores and for a good reason, because meat just fucking taste better!

I know people say vegetarian food is usually more expensive, but not the one I had. I don’t see how yam and mushrooms can be expensive, because in general rule, food is only expensive when something is killed.

Look, I’ll be very blunt, if I pay money, I’m expecting at least a decent meal with meat, and not having to feel like I’m on a constipation rehab with my dosage of vegetables. If you are vegetarian, then just punish yourself, or your family’s table, and not everyone else. Give us meat.

Big Mac anyone?