Oh my Fishing Gawd, we're Champions!

To take the day off or not, that was the question I asked myself. Mind you, making such decisions requires planning. So I sent in my leave form and said to my boss, “Gimme the day off or I’ll tell the rest that you enjoy watching…the stock market when you’re actually supposed to be doing work! Muahaha!”

Actually, I didn’t, but you get the idea.

The match was at 2.30 (Holy cow!!!) a.m. therefore it was imperative that I meet my friend at the not-so-trendy area of Sri Hartamas much earlier to get ourselves seats and most importantly, a good parking spot because neither of us wanted to pay to park our cars when we could just park at the side of the road, free of charge but with a much higher chance of being robbed. Yes, we’re stingy buggers. The agreed place to meet was called Souled Out, a rather clever play on words if I may say so. The atmosphere was, to put it mildly, f-2-da-c-king choking. Cigarette smoke enveloped the entire top floor where I found my friend who had managed to secure a small but strategic spot. There were numerous times where I was actually gasping for fresh air, but because this was the match of the year, I was bolted to my chair—and every second thereafter was torturous. (See what men are willing to endure for their passion.) Heck, I reckon a few of my nose hairs are singed from trying to block out the despicable smoke from entering my already poor lungs. But it was well worth it; my favourite team won but not before the opposition and a certain Ronaldo gave me the frights (there was more than one fright!) of my life. Fortunately, my constitution was up to the mark otherwise I would’ve passed out like a little girl at a Miley Cyrus concert. (Damn, I really don’t like that girl.)

On my way back home, I reminisced about my time watching the match. It was absolute fun and to watch it with a fellow (he’s a bit a more hardcore than I am) supporter of the best football club on the planet, Manchester United, was even better. But I just couldn’t shake off the feeling of how people could do this late night sojourns, week after week. I’m a fairly fit guy, but I was knackered after eating my third slice of pizza.

It got me thinking, do these kids (and dire wannabes) know what they’re doing to their bodies, and ultimately, their future as old cretins? Smoking and drinking from start to finish without so much as a pause. They laughed, cheered and jeered with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And that’s just for starters. I see them doing it with not a care for the world. It makes me sad that it’s these same people that will either suffer a disease or two or, heaven forbid, end up being healthier than I am. Which would suck tremendous amounts of orange juice. (I’m trying to cut down on my swearing, hence the euphemisms.)

I guess I’m too much of a prude when it comes to these things. My colleagues (not you!) find it very odd that I can sleep early, get up early and read a book. On a weekend. My friends know me too well to call me up for any sojourn that involves the words Clubbing and Alcohol. I will reiterate this again: I do not mind participating, provided it’s not every week and that there is a very valid reason as to why I have to fork out a lot of money where it could be put to better use. Like, for instance, buying rice.

Getting up at 1 a.m. to watch a football match takes a lot out of me. Literally. My wallet’s kind of thin now. I think I need sleep. Winnie the Pooh bolster, here I come!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: It’s almost June! Time flies fast when you’re underpaid, overworked, and generally bored with watching American Idol.

Urm...

Nothing much to say since there isn’t anything that’s needs saying.

Fret not, I shall be back and I shall be back with a vengeance. Or at least with a cleaner pair of undies…

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Sometimes the thing that you want the most is the thing that won’t make you happy in the long run. You might as well just do it.

Call me Chrisssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

Nope, I have not turned into a can of 100Plus (I despise carbonated drinks but for the purpose of this post, I drank an isotonic drink instead) of which my gas is now seeping out into the atmosphere. The sibilant title refers to the reptile fair (the fair was housed in an enclosed area the size of a decent sized bedroom) that I accidentally stumbled upon when I was on my way buying buns. The clincher was the fact that they had not one, but two anacondas. Yes, those same snakes that tried to terrify J.Lo into wearing something less bootylicious were on display.

I’ve always been a nature lover (okay, maybe liker is a better word); I attribute my animal knowledge to the various National Geographic documentaries and countless other animal-related stuff that I watched near religiously when I was a wee lad. This was way before anyone heard of the word Crikey and that thought animals were beautiful Sheilas even when said animals were 20-foot long crocodiles.

Saw a King Cobra albeit a small one. As long as a nice sausage. Looked pretty harmless, but then again, they’re harmless when they’re not dangerous (Captain Obvious!). Then I saw another King Cobra. This was no small fry, this was effing big. While the smaller one looked like a docile noodle, this one was a 16-foot long muthafugga. Coming face to face with a deadly creature separated only by a glass wall an inch or so thick, makes you feel safe but just barely. A single bite would’ve left me dead in half an hour. As I was about to walk away, all of a sudden, it raised its body and out came its fabled hood. My sister and I were immediately taken aback. It seems that the caretaker inadvertently shook its enclosure, thus the cobra felt threatened and assumed its stance.

Note to self: Never, ever, provoke a King Cobra. Never.

Then there was this tiny cobra. The caretaker, a laidback chap with a penchant of blowing his cigarette smoke into my face, then opened the tiny cobra’s box and dropped a small, cute mouse. Nothing happened. The mouse literally ran circles over the cobra. Obviously this particular reptile is stupid. Sensing that the audience (my mom and I) wanted to see some action, the caretaker nudged the mouse closer to the snake and only then it started to make a move. And boy did it make its move. Like a scene from a Sir David Attenborough (minus the droll) documentary, the cobra struck the mouse with lightning speed. The mouse dropped dead in 2 seconds. 3 seconds earlier it was alive but now it is dead.

The death of the mouse got me thinking about 7how life can be so easily snuffed out. Especially when you have the power. Humans are—let’s be fair now—pathetic; we require weapons in order for us to decimate Mother Earth and her creatures. Then there are cases in which humans are treated far worse than one could imagine. The recent Josef Fritzl case comes to mind. The man is an animal but calling him that would be disrespectful. The man is a monster. Frankly, humans (I use the term lightly) like him do not, I repeat, DO NOT, deserve to live another day. People are suffering all over the world, most recently, the people of Myanmar, and here is this old man, still breathing.

Alas, the power to eradicate scum lies only with a far superior being than all of us. I believe justice shall prevail. It just sucks when justice comes late.

I want my buns now.

PS: Finally watched Iron Man and while I thought it’s a bajillion miles better than the entire Spider-Man series (I enjoyed number 2 a lot but it’s child’s play compared to this) I’m only going to give this a solid 6/10. Robert Downey Jr. is Tony Stark/Iron Man. The flying part where he tries to evade two F-22s was simply awesome. Gwyneth Paltrow, looked amazing and this is coming from a non-fan. Until now.

PPS: CHAMPIONS!

Yes, folks, I am old.

Jay London said it best: Thank You.

By the time many of you read this (you know who you are, many thanks), I would be older and a lot more cranky. But not that old, as told by my (old) colleagues.

Which, is funny, since I’ve always felt old.

This year I turn 24 (!!!) and it’s as though I’m turning, urgh, 42. I’m, at present, semi-contented (I’ll get to the other not-contented part later) with my life; I’ve a job where I don’t feel like quitting anytime this month. Or the next. I’ve great colleagues that make it more interesting and the fact that I get paid (poorly) means I don’t have to scour the newspapers and various recruitment websites for a job with the title “Good Pay” in it for days on end. And before I forget, I am now entering my seventh (7) month of being employed! Kudos to me. I’ve good friends who I don’t get to see often. But that’s my fault, to be perfectly honest. I’m busy (I’m not fond of this word because the minute you say you’re busy, people automatically assume you’re going to give birth or perform some extraordinary feat with your feet) throughout the weekdays (Boss: I’ve done ALL my reports, just waiting to send them, hehe) and by the end of the day, I just want to go home, eat my mommy’s cooking and sleep. Weekends for me are packed with familial and other commitments and since now the price of basically everything has gone up, so has my legendary parsimony.

Alas, there are some things that do not jive (this is an old word only old-timers like myself know how to use without sounding like a college nerd who has just discovered braces) with me. I really don’t know why I’m saying this, but I’m just going to say it anyway:

Ladies, I’m still available.

I’ve always been a Lone Ranger of sorts. I got this from my dad, I guess. I’d rather go about doing my things by myself than drag along a friend. I wouldn’t even consider bringing my best mate for something that I’d rather do myself because I know I’ll do it much quicker and with less expenditure. I don’t eat lunch when I’m out by myself, you know. But sometimes…sometimes it would be nice to have someone special holding on to you while you’re both walking in a shopping centre. I admit, I miss that feeling. Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s all the rom-coms (WTF! Chris watches rom-coms???!?!?!?!) I’ve watched recently. Maybe, just maybe, I would like to be—I can’t believe I’m going to say this:

Wanted. (Not in a criminal way, of course.)

I know, I know. My time will come and yadda yadda. Thankfully, those emo days are far and wide. Sometimes, I’ll say, “Thank God, I’m single.” Parsimony is a wonderful thing when you’re pampering yourself.

I have become a bit more eccentric, if that’s possible. I tend to say and do things that a few years ago were impossible. I won’t name them here, partly because I don’t remember the exact details or the nature of how it happened, but suffice it to say, it has gotten me into some pretty awkward and not pleasant situations. I’m a bit bolder. I’m probably known in the office as the court jester. Which is fine by me. I’d rather be the jovial, funny dude than be the office asshole that everyone detests on sight.

Thanks to all who wished me and may your week ahead be blessed with good things.

I hope mine will, too.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Orkay, I wrote this whilst partially under the emo spell. Darn, I hate it. Must listen to Slayer now. Ahhh…