Fuck

62.

Nope, that is not the number of children I want to have by the time I’m 30. That’s the score I got for the exam. The one that I failed on Monday morning. Passing mark? A not too distant 70. I needed eight more. A measly eight and I would’ve been a certified CONsultant. Fo sho, as they say. Lady Luck didn’t smile on me. I think she was on leave.

You know what’s worst than failing? Being monstrously hungry and dreadfully sleepy and, of course, failing. To further compound my wretched start to the day, my glasses decided to break while I was midway into the exam. It broke by itself, I swear. I started chuckling. The other people thought I was mad. They probably they thought I was an asshole for disrupting their concentration. I sincerely apologise. After getting over the fact that I didn’t get the highest marks I so dreamt about, and to console myself, I headed for lunch. I had spaghetti Napolitano, which essentially was spaghetti with ugly meatballs and even uglier mixed vegetables. The three sad-looking meatballs were surprisingly all right. They were so hot they burned my tongue. On the way back, the train decided to stop having air-conditioning. Someone’s shoes smelled really bad. I missed the feeder bus by a whisker. I had to wait 45 minutes for the next one in the stifling heat. Someone’s armpits smelled really bad. In the evening, Mother Nature decided to throw in her own brand of misery by turning on the heavenly sprinklers (an awful analogy, I know) just as I was about to go for a jog.

I'm gonna make cellophane tape on glasses sexy.

I can take the studying bit, and really I have no other choice since I’m already in it for life, but it’s the paying-for-the-re-sit that’s a major bummer. It ain’t cheap; it’s someone’s pay and a bit more. Maybe I can get my future employer to pay for it. Or at least subsidise it a little. I’m well worth it. I think.

Anyhow, here’s a big congratulations to the Cookie Man (have a safe journey back to Slovenia! I know you’re not reading this, but what the heck) and to my dear friend, Fill, for finally getting something good after enduring a tumultuous time the last couple of months. It’s nice to hear good news when you’re feeling like shit.

In hindsight, I think I did the very best I could. As disappointed as I am, honestly, getting a 62 is pretty darn good considering some of the questions just boggled me silly. Better luck the next time, was the invigilator’s words. He’s right. By the time I’m done posting this, I’ll most probably be finally unpacking my bag, sorting out my notes and preparing for the next round, which will be in a month’s time. I hope to get a job as well, hoping that any potential employers wouldn’t mind hiring a hardworking yet still uncertified dude.

In the mean time, I think I’m going for some retail therapy.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Never, ever, study at 1 a.m. and then getting up later at 5 a.m. to study again on the day of your exam. It be bad, yo.

I am a Malaysian Human. Whatever that means...

If I was born and bred in Nigeria, I would be a proud Nigerian. If I was born and bred on some remote hilltop village which is located only by trekking for 8 hours and climbing treacherous mountainous regions located in Borneo, I would be proud to be a, um, village person from Borneo. If I was half Jamaican and half Japanese (Jamainese? Japacan?) but bred in Scotland, I would be a proud Scot.

But I was born in Malaysia. I was bred in Malaysia. And I’m not sure if I’m proud to be a Malaysian. Or a human, for that matter. But that’s really a whole different kettle of fish altogether…

Over the years, I have had the “not bothered” attitude when it comes to my nationality. To me, I’m in Malaysia and there’s no point in me doing patriotic things. Like attaching detachable flags on my car. Or jumping off a building wearing the national colours. I’ve never stuck the country’s flag on my car. I’ve never worn a t-shirt bearing the Malaysian flag nor do my handkerchiefs bear the distinctive colours. Heck, I don’t even remember the words to the national anthem, Negaraku. (I will surely be hunted down and killed and have my entrails on pikes after this. Mark my words.). I just know that I’m in a country that is both distinctive and every so often exasperating. I won’t do that and I don’t see myself doing it in the foreseeable future.

I won’t lie and say that I’ve never made a racist remark myself. When I was growing up, I was subjected to, at times, really disparaging remarks about my skin, my eyes, and heck, even my very existence. Never accuse me of being a racist. I hate everyone equally.

Racial harmony? Never heard of it.

It has been said that with the country’s current political situation and other whatnots, a number of people have talked about immigration in order to escape. Escape from what exactly, I’m not sure. I have heard of people citing reasons such as the many hiccups in the judiciary system, the lack of unity among the races, our RM5.68 (!!!11LOL11!!!OMG) cup of Americano coffee as catalysts to jump ship. I for one wouldn’t mind working in another country. In fact, I don’t mind if I had to work in another country for the rest of my work-able life, but when my bones start to ache and I develop a belly the size of a small manatee, I would love to come back, and ultimately, finally settle down.

I may hate it from time to time (which right-thinking Malaysian doesn’t?), the people, the road, cashiers, contractors, salespeople, but home is where the heart is. You can call me unpatriotic. I just call it as it is. Today, the country celebrates its 50^th year of independence. I, on the other hand, will celebrate my “freedom” on the 3^rd of next month. Now, that’s more meaningful to me.

Happy 50^th Birthday, Malaysia.

Here’s to another (un)glorious 50.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Exam is next Monday. Wish me luck, guys and gal. I’ll bring them with me.

Yikes

Wow.

The third week of my not-really-5-week course is now over. Just slightly over a month ago, I was busy doing nothing. Right now I’m so preoccupied that I even forget to shave. My beard. No funny thoughts. The last two weekends just blitzed by like a, um, blizzard. And the next two will be no different. In fact, they’re going to go by so fast, I’ll have a beard of epic proportions by the time I get to the exam room (no hall, since the organisers are cheapskates).

Mr. Overachiever, who henceforth shall be known as simply as Mr. Just-A-Question; Just-One-Question; This-is-Bad, confuses my confused face with my I’m-thinking-but-it-looks-like-I’m-confused face. He’s a nice guy; humorous at times, but his thick accent makes his jokes sound deadly boring. Get him into a classroom, and he’ll transform into a 12-year-old with a beard of epic proportions. Nasty.

I’d like to think I’m one of those guys who can multi-task. You know, for instance, brushing my teeth and headbanging. That kind of thing. The last three weeks have been anything but.

I’m so screwed.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: No loooooong posts make Chris sad.

I'm running on empty

As previously mentioned in the last post, there’s the overachiever who asks questions when there’s not even an answer to it. Yesterday, the funny fellow turned to look at me, and with an expression that was a mixture of disbelief and general WTFness, asked me, “How can you be so happy?” I told him, “Coz I took some weed?” He. He. He.

Well, fortunately for him, no. I didn’t say that but now I wish I did. It would’ve just whizzed by him faster than you can say “Dumbarse!” anyway. But I did say this, “There’s no point in being in a state of constant negativity and doubt. It’s unhealthy. And really uncool, too.” Not particularly Zen-inspired but it got my point across. I hope so because he still gave me a WTF look.

I hate to say this, but I’m so busy that I don’t even have the time to do simple things, like baking a cake. Not that I bake cakes to begin with but you get the idea. My body feels like it’s made of clay while my brain is number than a cold pack of sea cucumber. Every day for the past two weeks feels as though I was put into a blender with no Off switch. For some strange reason, I can’t seem to remember what I’ve learned so far. This is bad, as the exam’s only a couple of weeks away and I still have about twenty chapters to go. Woo. Pee.

I can only hope and pray that the next week will be better.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Somehow, I’m not that worried. After all, this is only just the beginning. I hope. My brain is benumbed from trying to cram in a fuckload of shit. Pardon my English.

Finally! An update! Woohoo!

The last five days have been a blur. Seriously. From having all the time in the world do shave my armpits to not having much to sleep, this five-week course has really put me in place. And it’s not even five weeks. It’s more like three and some. I don’t know how to count.

Anyway, the week’s been tiring as heck. Train rides to-and-fro the training centre have been fraught with idiots in all shapes and sizes. It also doesn’t help that the reference book I have to lug back every single day weighs more than my dumbbells, which aren’t the lightest things in the world to begin with. I feel like banging the book on some poor bugger’s head but I resist.

(Oh, how I resist...)

As usual, in my class there’s the overachiever who wants to know every single thing there is to know about something that has only one definition. It’s kind of weird seeing old men who have way more experience than me peering at their own reference book and slowly keying in data. I feel positively young. There’s also an old guy who knows a lot and always arrogantly points out things. He must be quite the charmer. And then there’s the lady who’s so polite, she’s actually annoying. Reminds me of me.

It’s all good, though. I’ve learned shit loads of things. Sometimes, I get lost, which is understandable considering that my only experience in the corporate world is sitting in a tiny room, keying in data for eight hours for two months. The only thing keeping me from going insane and start killing rabbits is the fact that I would be highly desirable once I pass the friggin’ exam. It’s a pipe dream, I know, but it’s still a dream.

I’m off for now. I have to study. Really. But don’t worry, I’ll keep on updating and visiting your blogs. Laters!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I find this really, really interesting. Has anyone heard of a gay Jesus before? I think not. I say, if your own belief system is as strong as sticks on fire, and you believe whatever that gets fed down your throat, then you deserve to be hit on the head with a sledgehammer. Either than that, I say bravo to the gay pastor. You, sir, rock.

PPS: As funny as this may sound, I'll be attending my very first night class today (Saturday)!

If you think you’re nice, you’re not

I’m a nice guy. Most of the time, anyway. I’m polite; I say please and thank you far too many times that after a while it sounds rude. I always queue to pay my facial wash. I am predisposed to avoid trouble because it’s too much trouble just to be in trouble. I like to think I keep chivalry alive and well. I do hold the doors for you females, you know. I am sometimes too effusive in my praise. I am known to be glib at the most inopportune times. Which brings me to this:

I can’t stand it when people are nice to me.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice when someone comes up to me, and says that hey, you’re nice a guy. It makes me go all Melinda “I think I can see it; me neck!” Doolittle, but only for awhile. But when people are very nice to me, I get uncomfortable. Agitated, even. Sometimes, the evil side of me would think that these people are fake and sycophantic. My evil side even has a name. It’s Evil Chris. Imaginative, eh?

I remember an incident in my previous life as a salesguy, one of the seniors told me to never say “Thank you” to the client at the end of a conversation. I gave him my trademark WTF + Huh? look, and asked the obvious, “Why the hell not?” He shrugged his nonexistent shoulders, cracked a wry smile, and unctuously said, “Because it means that they are doing you a favour.” I tried to digest it but since I had a pretty crappy lunch, I quickly nodded, scrunched up my face so that it looked like I totally agreed with what he said, and walked back to my station. All the way (10 metres) I called him many an impolite imbecile.

In shopping malls these days you’ll likely to encounter a helpful, sometimes annoying store help. I don’t like them. Starbucks employees have a proclivity to not say Hello! Good afternoon, sir! to me even though I’m dressed in my best singlet and shorts, but when a similarly dressed White Man who has a belly bigger than me, they’ll drop whatever and start complimenting the fellow with much aplomb. But I have to say that things are not as bad. Yes, there are still some rude bastards and even ruder mofos who think they are God’s gift to the masses out there and when you thank them they draw a blank look.

On a completely different note altogether:

I’m going back to studying next week. Woo. Pee.

Since currently my job as a freelance busybody which pays me a grand total of nothing, I reckon it was high time to go for an upgrade of sorts. The course is a five-week professional certification, which in theory, will make me highly marketable. (I hope so!) I’ve been at home for almost six months now. I have nothing but compunction for my ineptitude and the blameworthiness is entirely mine. But come next week, changes will be in order and hopefully, and I really do hope a lot, that everything will turn out according to my grand plan. Failure is not an option.

Wish me luck!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: My new haircut makes me look like a gangster of sorts. Nice.

Chris and the, um, insert your own witty Harry Potter reference here

If you didn’t know already (shame on thee!), my favourite authors are Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and J.R.R Tolkien. They’ve influenced me in some ways, more so in my writings; from the structure, narratives, stories and the enthusiasm to tell stories of my own. I’ve read and own most of their works and will continue to do so. (But not really Tolkien’s, there’s far too many books on why hobbits are hirsute.) Therefore, this brings me to my next statement:

I don’t have any favourite female author.

I’m a fan of both Enid Blyton and J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter 8?) works. Full stop. But their way of writing never did anything for me. Of course, their works are for children, and since I’m no longer a child (though I do act like a prat whenever someone scores against Manchester United) I find it difficult to ally myself with their brand of storytelling.

I remember my first boss telling me that women are the better writers while the men are better at coming up with ideas. Um. I’m not sure since I’m pretty good both. He he. But seriously speaking, there is some truth to it. It all depends on whatever it all depends on, I guess. I find women write best about life in general. Men, on the other hand, are more inclined to be technical and would gladly spew babble that is actually coherent to any man. We men can scrutinise every single facet of a fact, trying to find out if there’s anything wrong with it in the hopes of being called right. Women’s sarcasm and men’s sarcasm differ considerably in that women tend to poke fun at everything and are able to laugh at themselves while men poke fun at, well, women mostly.*

And something off topic but nonetheless something I need to get out of my system:

Who here thinks the last Harry Potter was a success or a failure?

Personally, I think Rowling manages to exonerate herself. Since HP6 was a gigantic WTF, the “repairing” she did here somehow placates the general dissatisfaction towards that unfortunate book. To be honest, the series started going downhill after the third. Subsequent books got longer, heavier (I reckon I can do a few quality arm curls), bloated and had unnecessary plotlines. Seeing as she had the ideas mapped out for all seven books as well as the eventual end being fait accompli, all this even before writing the first, it seems futile to discuss whether or not she could have done it better or differently.

Like in The Lord of the Rings, I was also left with a hole when I finished it. It made me rethink a lot of things, the majority of which I have completely forgotten about. But I do remember the feeling; it was sanguine and uplifting. And I felt it again with the last Harry Potter.

I wonder if reading a chick lit book would be as efficacious…

This is Chris, signing off.

* = Generalising to a certain extent, I know, but bear with me and ask me again what I think in 10 years’ time. Maybe it’ll be different.

PS: My favourite line from HP7 and quite possibly the entire series is definitely this one: “…thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every orifice.” Golden!

Me and my handkerchief

With my last post being an exercise in extreme abhorrence and basically a direct middle-finger to all hypocritical establishments and individuals, I’ve decided to tone things down a notch. Or two. I can’t count. Anyway, I would like to share with you fine people the third thing I can’t leave my house without. (The first is my brain and the second is, um, I forgot.)

My handkerchief.

I’ve always carried with me a handkerchief for as long I can remember. My mom would make sure I would bring one as I tended to sweat like a certain porky animal. In kindergarten, the others kids also brought their handkerchiefs, and no, we didn’t compare designs. It was normal and it still is, though, I must say that I have seen kids with face towels. Now that’s progress. I carried this habit well onto my years in college where I graduated from using old-man styled handkerchiefs to slightly more contemporary cotton hankies.

My brief tenure as a salesguy came up with this rather strange conversation:

Me wiping my hands with my handkerchief.

Colleague 1: Eh, I haven’t seen a fella carry a hanky in a long time.

Colleague 2: (he turned and looked at me) You gay, ah?

Colleague 1: Normally, only old fellas will carry one, right?

Colleague 2: Ya lor. You old man, ah?

Me: Go to hell.

I proceeded to bash them senseless and to add insult to injury, I wiped their blood with, yep, and you guessed it, my little pink hanky.

Okay, okay. I didn’t exactly bash them senseless. What I did do was to tell them that hey, so what if I have a handkerchief? You use your hand to wipe your mouth after eating. Don’t give me grief when you’ve been giving me yours in abundance.

You would to think that a guy in Slayer t-shirt doesn’t know much about personal hygiene but look again. I use my handkerchief to wipe sweat, um, more sweat and sometimes sauce on my cheek.

I hope that when I have a kid or two, (I still can’t count) this legacy of mine would be passed down to them. It’s a good legacy, don't you think so? You see, we all are sometimes guilty of negligence when it comes to hygiene and general cleanliness. When the urge becomes uncontrollable and unavoidable, my hand will act like a good stopper of sneezes and coughs whenever I am unable to reach for my dear handkerchief. Mercifully, I am mindful of the fact that there could be audience who may have seen me. It is precisely at this moment I shall whip out my beloved handkerchief. But most of the time I just wipe my hand on my pants.

So there you have it. A post where I don’t curse and swear and threaten to lop heads of idiots who cross me. Tata! *waves a little pink hanky...*

PS: I wonder if Rihanna wants me to write her next hit. The first draft of the lyrics is as follows:

I will wipe your sweat with my hand…ker…chief…chiefchief…chiefchiefchiefchief...

PPS: This is the oddest site dedicated to—what else?—handkerchiefs.

Live Pfftt

Last Saturday was all right. At 6:50 a.m. (I set the alarm), I woke up and switched all the lights off. Since there were no plans in the morning, I slept again. A few hours later, I finally woke up, brushed my teeth and a rumbling in my tummy signalled the need for food. Since it was almost noon, I had brunch with the family. After brunch at the nearby restaurant and narrowly avoiding hitting an old lady, I turned on my laptop, put in the new Dream Theater in my stereo and throughout the whole day did nothing but entertain myself. The rest of the family were downstairs watching the telly. All this seem innocuous enough, yes? But guess what:

We just contributed to global warming which in turn leads to the imminent extirpation of the Earth.

But mostly we just contributed to a higher electric bill.

It would seem them celebrities and their fame and their celebrityness can somehow miraculously manufacture feelings of affection for the Big Guy’s Green Earth. And that was what Live Earth tried to achieve. Seeing Jennifer Garner using a filter for her coffee will make everyone make a mad dash for filters. Um, nope. Let’s not forget there’s Esther, Madonna, the singer who looks like a transvestite, who tried to pull the wool over somebody’s eyes people but has justly been vilified.

Do you care what a celebrity has to say about protecting the Earth? These are the same people who earn millions and most of the time they spend it on themselves. Would Snoop Dogg clear weed out of his garden as opposed to smoking it? What the fuck does that scumbag, lowlife, useless Kanye West and the rest of the sordid ilk known as rappers know anything about saving the planet? They have entourages the size of a small village! Does singing about a Gold Digger make you want to stop driving and ride a bicycle? Before you think I’m a prejudiced metalhead, what the hell does Metallica’s Enter Sandman hope to accomplish? Will it help impoverished and destitute children in war-torn countries? And don’t get me started with Rihanna and her god-awful brainless Umbrella and its even more meaningless lyric. Mainstream music entertains, not elucidates.

As I went for a quick jog in the evening around my neighbourhood, I saw children running around, chasing each other, laughing. But tell them that the empty packet of junk food they just ate will make the Earth sick they’ll just smile and continue chasing each other. Or better yet, why not go up to their parents and tell them that their child was just seen littering. Since apathy is intrinsic to most people’s nature, they’ll just laugh it off and tell you to mind your business. I had a friend once who kept throwing garbage in the parking lot of our college. When admonished, he simply laughed. My smoker friends chuck empty cigarette packets onto the ground. I’ve seen men with their chunky rings and necks the width of small trees in their Mercedes and BMWs throw stuff out in plain view of everyone. Women so immaculately dressed in their designer clothing don’t bother to pick up their tissue paper when they miss the bin. I could list out more but I’ll just be wasting anger.

Sometimes I feel as though I have enmity coursing through my veins, which makes me act like a bitter old man. Again, I don’t know how many times I’ve said this but I’ll keep on saying it: education is the key to a better future. Teach a kid that it’s wrong to litter and he’ll remember it. It’s that simple. Having concerts that promote global issues and such does nothing to change a person’s habit. “But if one out of a thousand changes, then, that’s good, right?” I hear you say. Yes and no. It’s good that one person has changed but what about the 999 others who had a great time and is looking forward to another entertaining extravaganza. It is precisely because of their indifference that makes it ineffectual.

Simply put: just being alive contributes to global warming, and ultimately, the Earth’s end. Think of all the things you do; the baths that you take; the food that you eat; the place where you go to hang out; the shows that you watch on TV, and so on. But we also have the power to make things right and well (Al Gore would be so proud of me). We fete people who entertain us, make us laugh, who make us wish we were like them. But they aren’t heroes. The real heroes are the ones who make it their life’s work to make the world a better place. They are the ones we should be lending a helping hand. We don’t know them. But we can help them.

The world doesn’t need any more concerts. It needs our immediate attention.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: During the course of writing this piece, the author did not rush out to buy a paper filter for his tea. He used a teabag.

Happy Birthday to Me!

This is a continuation of last week’s, “Why a guy named Chris is blogging and why the heck is he so annoying?”

Early incarnations of my blog were—to put it mildly—bloody pathetic. The reason being was that I thought, “Hey, my English’s excellent. I can write fairly well. I think I’ll give this blogging thing a go.”

Boy oh boy was I darn wrong. Darn bloody wrong, if truth be told!

I started blogging roughly four years ago. I don’t remember what it was called then but it was something to do with wantonly slaughtering rabbits. Just kidding, kids. I just skinned them. The early days of my blog could prove to be about as embarrassing as finding out that I actually like cute things. I’m not ashamed about my blog’s early days but damnit, I get red in the face just reading the past posts. Thankfully, this period of ignominy lasted about a year before I closed the blog and took a leave of absence.

A year or so later, came the time where a new blog was born. It was to be jointly written and updated almost daily. And there was no-one better time to share it with my then girlfriend. Granted, I’ve always told my friends that I was the better writer but in actuality, it was her. She* (* = Thank you. You know who you are.) really put in a lot of effort to make it look cool. In my attempts at trying to be the rather witty and at times sardonic boyfriend, I took it upon me to say things only a dingbat could say to impress everyone, from her friends to mine. I don’t quite remember what was written, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t anything that garnered any meritorious acclaim.

After some time, I reverted back to the “What I did today” style of blogging. The writing was marginally better, if I may be so bold to say. It was still entrenched in juvenile meanderings but at least it didn’t sound as though a 10-year-old was writing it. The word count certainly got higher to the point where it was simply me saying the same things repeatedly albeit in different ways. Don’t believe me? Just read the 2004 posts and you’ll see what I mean.

Over-confidence tends to triumph over lack of creativity.

After much thought, a makeover was in order and as a result Whacker Inc was born. This present incarnation is where I write about topics where I have an opinion on or whatever I’ve experienced in my incredibly dull life. There are, naturally, some topics I wish I could write about but at present, I don’t feel that I’m properly equipped or learned enough to convey my true thoughts. I try my best to write in a manner that is both satirical and thoughtful at the same time. I want people who read my blog to smile, mull things over and to ultimately feel that they’ve read something worth their 5 minutes. I strive for perfection but I know that it is the imperfections that give my writing that certain chutzpah. (I sincerely hope so otherwise my licence to use “chutzpah” will be revoked indefinitely.)

As you all know, I am never satisfied with any of my writings. Granted, I’ve used some pretty fancy words in my posts but that’s all thanks to the thesaurus. I always think they’re not up to par or worse, not interesting enough. This is good in some way I suppose. It drives me clinically insane now and again but at least it drives me mad to better myself as a writer and storyteller. I intend to write for a very long time (GASP!).

I give thanks to all my family members, friends, idiots, Karma and Life for providing me with the inspiration to write. Without their (voluntary and involuntary) contribution, my blog would be as dull as watching paint dry on a wet Sunday. I raise my glass of milk and salute those who take the time to read and to those who leave comments.

Till the next time, happy blogging everyone!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I don’t remember exactly when my blog was unleashed unto the cyber world, so I’m going to make it today. Happy Anniversary to Whacker Inc!

So you think you can write?

I’m going to the root of it all. You’ll know what I mean.

Every single time report card day came my teacher would praise me endless, saying that, oh, he’s such a good boy. A bit on the cheeky side, too. Each year had the same comments, just differently phrased. But the one thing that was always the same with all my teachers, both primary and secondary, from Standard 1 all the way to Form 5, was that I talked too much. I also answered back at my teachers, in a sarcastic manner and sometimes without realising that I should have kept my witty remarks to myself.

And the blame falls squarely on Enid Blyton and Television.

Hold your horses and before you throw rotten tomatoes at me, hear me out first. When I was a child I would watch Baja Hitam (translated literally as Black Fertiliser), Ultraman, He-Man, G.I. Joe, and other cartoons on TV1 at 7 p.m. When they were done I would be transported to a world where I was the brave hero (without the fancy costume consisting of a hairy chest and impossibly tight spandex trousers). When faced with adversity I would call upon my faithful comrades and wage bloody war against the forces of eeeeeevil.

Enid Blyton is the reason why I read as much as I do. Her tales of Golliwogs, the Famous Five and other interesting characters took my already vivid and at times abnormal imaginations to a whole new level.

This may sound weird but I don’t think I wouldn’t be as warped as I am without those things.

So, what’s with the fact that I have a motor mouth that tends to spew forth sarcastic remarks at remarkable speeds and accuracy to do with writing anyway? It is essentially the reason why I love to write. I doubt my writing would be as half as what it is.

Blogging enables me to be myself but without having to reveal my true self. You read my thoughts and opinions yet you don’t know anymore what I choose to write. For all you know I’m a sadistic mutilator of souls with a fetish for blueberry ice-cream.

I never once thought of my writing as excellent. At the very most I would call it readable. Heck, I even annoy myself at the way I construct my sentences. They either have too many commas, incongruous usage of big words, oft going off tangent and so forth. But I’m constantly on the lookout for ways to improve the way I tell a story. I still feel I have loads more to learn and try out. My writing style may not be the best there is but I’m proud to say that the style I write is my way.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: This post is dedicated to my friends and fellow bloggers you see on your right side of the screen. You guys keep me inspired to write, sometimes think till my head hurts, wishing that I could write just as good as you beautiful people and am truly grateful for all the wonderful comments to my posts. I used to think that if no one commented, I’d still be happy but now not so. Call me a drama queen but every time I see just even one comment, a smile will be etched on my face for a good half day. I kid you not.

Have a nice day everyone!

Proof that I am not a sadistic metalhead with a bullet belt and a thirst for blood

I wanted to post something really thought-provoking but I wasn't provoked enough. So I decided to do this instead. One word summary: Wow.

And one of the funniest spoofs I've seen in a long time.

Hope you all enjoyed them as much as I did.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: That little girl can really sing, eh?

I’m gay to be gay!

The two men were immaculately dressed: their shirts were pressed and ironed to perfection, their sandals were from the trendy bohemian store in the trendy bohemian enclave of the city, and they had sunglasses that could be classified as tinted windshields due to the size and depth. Each one of them had a scarf wrapped around their neck and snaked all around their person. This was a strange sight considering the sun was murderously hot that day. Their talk was highly animated, what with flailing arms and wide-eyed looks whenever one of them sees a shirt that while it looks pretty good to the normal and straight man, is really and undeniably cute to them. Some of the men just passed on by them, as if the world was already too weird for them to give a crap about two men shopping but there were some of the more male men who gave them cockeyed, deriding smirks—when they weren’t within range, naturally. The contented gay men carried on their shopping spree, not giving a damn about what other people thought of them. Their happiness is all that matters.

Being gay seems to be catching up these days. I’ve noticed that there are more and more gays and I’m not talking about the ones who work in salons and at the perfume counters. Stick your head into any high-end clothing boutique and voila! gay man looking at a pink shirt. Generalising and slightly offensive, but that’s the case these days, isn’t it?

I posed a rather controversial question once to two of my good friends. It was, “What if your child is gay? What would you do?” They both had the same initial reaction: they didn’t know what to do. When prodded further, one of them was left speechless while the other tried to come up with a perfectly reasonable and rational answer. He didn’t. Suffice it to say, it really is the sort of question that will only be answered when the time comes.

If ever, my son or daughter was to come up to me and say that they’re gay and they’ve know about it for a long time, I would at first be shocked, then sit down, have a chat with the missus and then throw my son or daughter out. Just kidding, folks. I guess I would probably ask my child whether they are who they say they are, and hopefully, try to accept the fact. Because, honestly, life is something that has to be experienced, and there are times where things happen for a reason even though you’ve been planning your life since they day you saw that accounting journal. It'll be difficult, yes, but I'll be damned if I let my family crumble just because my son loves football and the footballers.

I personally don’t give a damn whether or not you’re gay, bisexual, straight, occasionally gay, sometimes not that straight or whatever. I don’t give a shit and neither should you. But if you are, please don’t smack my butt. I might take it the wrong way.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Scissor Sisters’ songs are cool. I’d rather listen to them than to any of today’s so-called “music”. Mika is starting to annoy me, though.

Let’s see, what to ban next? I know! Let’s just ban everything!

When the controversial The Da Vinci Code opened across the globe, people were once again questioning what was right and what was wrong. To me, it’s just a movie adapted from a highly popular and somewhat absurd novel. Which I think is what Mr. Brown intended all along; a book that entertains first, pose questions much, much later. If your faith is strong, then why should you let a writer’s imagination—especially one that writes fiction—to tell you otherwise?

I remember clearly the hullabaloo surrounding Sepet (Slit Eyes or Sloe Eyes or -,-). The story as most of us know is about an inter-racial relationship that manages to transcend boundaries between what is normal and what is deemed shouldn’t be taking place. Yes, there were some scenes that left me slightly wide-eyed but not entirely surprised. At its core it was a love story that involves inter-racial elements and it was done not in a judgemental way.

I strongly believe that with overzealous censoring what is deemed inappropriate would only make things much worse. And by they way, to the people who think they know best: I present to you one word that will make every single one of your remarks about “that you know what’s right” null and void—Google.

I do agree that, yes, there are certain forms of entertainment that glorifies violence, sex, drugs, women and gold teeth to the point that it’s all a means for them to make as much money as they can from unsuspecting people. What I don’t agree is the double standards. Why it is that rock is given a bad rep while The Pussycat Dolls are free to strut, pose and sluttify Sway in front of young and adoring adolescent girls?

I could list a million and one things that could be banned from our society. Each will mostly likely take the piss out of every one of you. Like, for some example, if we really want to stop smoking then all we have to do is just ban cigarettes, cigars and pipes. While we’re at it, let’s throw in shisha as well. Especially the mixed fruit flavour.

*we interrupt this article to bring you this important announcement: Google rules supreme! MUAHAHA!

*we now return to our regular programming*

If we’re serious about things then we should be educating our children just as soon as they know their ABCs. Build their knowledge from young, show them that it is wrong to do some of the things that us idiot adults commit. Would you rather your son learn how to smoke and drink from his friends or would you rather tell him that doing those are bad?

Curiosity killed the cat and you don’t even have to be like CSI to find out who the killer is. Maybe we should ban that next? It does give would-be killers and rapist ways in which to pull their crime and getting away with it. But then again, which stupid fellow would copy what they see on TV?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Only the first CSI matters. Grissom and co rule!

Let’s put back the ear in fear!

Booyaka!

They are everywhere. When you look up, you can see their black, beady eyes staring at you. But wait. You look to your right. To your left. Everywhere. No matter where you look, you can feel their piercing stare even when you try to avert from their baleful gaze. They smack their tongues, as though they were contemplating licking you. Maybe, even eating you. Alive. Then, all of a sudden, one of them unleashes a sickening sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. You run away, desperate. Desperate to get away before they can catch you. You scream. You shout. Like in the movies, you flail your arms, run aimlessly and somehow manage, inexplicably, to trip on your own feet. And then you hear it. Unmistakeably, it’s the sound of laughter. You turn to see your friends clutching their stomachs, tears stream down their cheeks.

After all, it was only a small house lizard.

I wish I could say that this really happened, but sadly, it didn’t. The terror bit is true, though. On my last holiday trip with my friends, Sardine, was terrified by the plenteous amount of the sticky blighters. When we had to head back to our room she would grab the railing, stick her body to it and walk ramrod straight and wouldn’t look anyway but ahead. Of course, me and Fillit being the not-so-gentlemen, decided to tease her incessantly. “Ooo, it’s looking at yooooooooooouu!” “Methinks the cute bugger is in lurrrrrrrrrrve with youuuuu.” “Wakaka! You be liked by lizzzzards!” You know, the sort of moronic jokes we guys love to pull. It was fun for awhile, but when she turned white (actually whiter, she’s quite fair) and was close to tears, so, we being the ever chivalrous gentlemen, immediately stopped.

On my side, I’m not exactly afraid of lizards but I’m also not fond of them either. It’s when the lizards just pop out, literally out of nowhere, i.e. me wanting to brush my teeth that sort of scares me. And I use sort of very loosely.

Heights don’t really scare me, too. I do get vertiginous but at the same time I feel attracted to it. Odd, isn’t it? It’s like swimming with sharks. I’ve never done it but I would love to. Sharks scared the crap out of me when I was young, no thanks to the monumental and “there’s gonna be some dead fishes by the end of this” movie, Jaws.

My sister always asks me, after watching shows like Fear Factor and The Amazing Race, “Would you do those things?” My response would always be an immediate one: “Hell Yeah!” I want to bungee jump. I want to eat live octopus in a South Korean wet market. I want to chase cheese in Gloucestershire. I’ll eat anything in order to win anything. I want to go mountain trekking with the locals and discover weird plants that may or may not be fatal if I were to touch it.

What’s the point of going through life without taking risks? Wouldn’t it be nice to look back when you’re old and slightly paunchy and go,”Damn, was I stupid! But it was darn good fun!” ‘You only live once,’ so goes the saying and I fully intend to do so. But most importantly, I want to live life to the fullest and have fun while doing it.

Now, would you care to join me for some grub soup? I’ll let you keep the teddy bear. I promise.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There are some things I won’t do, naturally. For instance:

1. Have multiple hooks pierce my back and be suspended in the air. I’m sorry but looking like a roasted duck doesn’t work for me.

2. Race on the highway with some potty-faced dimwit.

3. Go on a date with the Williams sisters. They really do scare me.

PPS: To Lady Elastic: I'm back and so's the fresh produce!

Guess what, you’re obsolete

Quick! My arm hurts!

Back in the 90’s, the big thing that was happening was the advent of the personal computer. As a not-quite-precocious child, the computer was something alien, a box that displayed a myriad of colours and most importantly, I can play games on it! It helped office people become lazier still by punching in keys as opposed to writing them on paper then cursing your bad luck because you spelt Happy as “Hippy”. The first computer my dad bought was a speedy 100MHz PC from then technology giant, IBM. I remember installing games like Duke Nukem 3D (“Shake it baby!”) and the most influential game of all-time, Quake. It wasn’t a learning tool, no sirree, there was nothing educational in it. It was a mean, gaming machine.

Do you remember when mobile phones used to be of the military-like variant, with its antenna as long as your arm and the whole caboodle weighed more than your two-year-old brother? Now go back and try to remember the days of pay-phones. Ah, yes, I can you see trying to quash that memory out of your mind. I used to carry with me pocketfuls of coins whenever I went out which led many to believe I had elephantiasis. Half the time the bloody phones have their receivers missing and when you do find one it says, “Out of Order.”

Gosh, I so don’t miss those days.

As we march forwards into the indefinite future armed only with our wits and a clean pair of socks, the world that we used to know is slowly but surely getting a makeover. Everywhere you go you’ll see a giant screen that flashes radiant colours advocating the benefits of using Colgate’s teeth whitener. Before this all you got was a drab-looking lady with white teeth on a billboard. All you needed when you’re about to embark on a journey was just your keys and a sense of direction. Now you’ve got satellites guiding you all the way through with a voice that resembles a sultry old maid (if I had one, I’d go for the German man, he’s wunderbar). The humble camera, once the domain of serious professionals in jackets with a million compartments, can now be seen wielded by an able person with just a push of a button. Things that used to take ages in some red room with various viscous liquids labelled “Dangerous” can now be done in seconds. And let’s not forget the times when you had to hold your smile while your dad set the timer and by the time he gets in frame, the camera would have gone off. Another roll of film wasted. Ah, the wonders of the “Delete” button.

Now we have refrigerators that tell us if you’re about to run out of low-fat yoghurt, wristwatches that can tell you where you in the world, even now as we breathe and eat our food we have. Not long now there’ll be digital books. Now, this is something I’m not too keen on. I grew up reading books that have been dog-eared, turned a shade of brown much like mushrooms, and had the name of the owner in illegible handwriting. If the future of reading lies in the digital world then it’s not a future I’d very much like to be a part of. There’s nothing like reading a real book. A real book that has pages that you can flip to create wind on a hot day. A real book that you can read in the train on the way to work and have people craning to see the title.

I love technology, make no mistake about that. Progress is good. But there comes a time when a cold box is nothing compared to a warm voice.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There are some things I love about technology, like, for instance, the ability to write and publish my thoughts and on top of that actually have an audience, albeit a tiny one. Here's to World Domination!

If men had periods…

1. Burping would be made a national sport. The Olympics will never be the same again.
2. We’ll try to ignite our farts.
3. Everything would taste like chicken.
4. If we’re depressed we’ll drink tea. And eat popcorn. Then burgers. Potato chips. Then some more tea.
5. Nothing in the world—not even an apocalyptic raid of demons—can make us stop watching the World Cup.
6. The entire period of the World Cup will be made a holiday.
7. Road rage? Nah, it’ll be Armageddon for that punk who cut in front of us.
8. We’ll ban women drivers. All of them. Even our Mothers.
9. We’ll get into a brawl every time someone pokes fun at us. And don’t ever mess with our Mothers.
10. We’ll go on an electronic spree which means new TV, DVD player, MP3 player, speaker system, etc.
11. We’ll laugh during horror flicks.
12. We’ll play Counterstrike until we can’t get up just to settle a dispute over who can kill the fastest using a butter knife.
13. We think that saying “chicken breast” is funny.
14. We’ll turn up at work wearing our favourite sports attire and proclaim that work sucks and we’re going home at 5 to walk the dog (or cat).
15. We’ll watch reruns of Baywatch all day. Particularly for the bouncy life saver’s…beach balls.
16. We’ll weep to Celine Dion songs…
17. …and when we finally realise it, we’ll weep because we’re actually listening to Celine Dion.
18. We’ll whine about the weather report being too dramatic.
19. We’ll arm wrestle all day.
20. Never, ever, say that we have man-period. It'll probably be the last thing you say...

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: The author chose to write this under the influence of heavy-duty painkillers which resulted in a distinct lack of humour in his system. He currently does not suffer from any form of man-period.

Maybe next week.

Silence of the Clams*

* = I know, bad, bad title.

You know the saying, “Silence is golden?” It’s a farce. More often than not, silence can be the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Take for example, these situations:

Lavatory (I love saying this word, it makes me sound posh and rather lumberjack-ish, all at the same time.)

Guys pee side-by-side. We all know that. But what happens when you have to pee next to your boss who’s urinal is only a mere centimetres away? I remember during my days of sitting in a room the size of a—ironically—toilet cubicle, I made it compulsory to get up once every half-hour or so and wash my face with cold water in an effort to stay awake. (Mostly I did it to get away from the annoying colleague of mine who was terribly dreadful to work with.) One day, after clearing a batch of the day’s workload, I went off to the loo for my customary face-drenching, some pushups to keep the bones all fresh, discharging of the wastes, when in comes my big boss, and I mean, the big boss with his suit and tie and thick blazer, discharging his own wastes. Me and him. Him and me, peeing. At the same time. Side by side. I turn my head slightly, his head does the same, and we exchange the briefest of nods and cracked the smallest smile ever known to humanity. It lasted no more than 30-seconds but, by golly, was it awkward as heck.

Elevators/Escalators

When there are a number of people on the escalator, it can make for some truly awkward moments. If the person in front of you is of considerable height, you may be staring straight at their lovely (most of the time, not lovely) derriere. Malaysian escalators are about as fast as making a tiramisu without the tira and misu. They’re agonisingly slow. So slow, in fact, that sometimes I forsake my vow of never climbing the steps just to get it over with quickly. And I particularly hate it when couples, especially the ones who looked like they only got together the day before hence the big silly grins on their faces start cuddling each other (their hands oddly straying down south from time to time), stroke each other’s hair as though it was some ritual to delouse themselves and not wanting to let each other’s hand go even when they’re about to disembark the escalator. And I’m just one rung down on the escalator, which gives me full coverage of all the sordidness. If you think that’s bad enough, then you haven’t experienced amorous displays in an elevator before.

Taxis

Taxi drivers can sometimes be the most entertaining people in the world. And they can also be the most annoying people in the world, too. I’ve had my fair share of drivers and their asking me one too many personal questions and why can’t I speak my mother tongue. But when you get into a taxi these days you’ll say the destination, swap head nods signalling yes, I’ll take you there. No chitchat. If the radio is on the driver will most likely leave it at a channel which sucks.

What about you? Are you just as whacko as I am or do you have no problems in the above areas?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I don’t know why, but I feel like eating clams.

I’m having a .23 life crisis

I wanted to post a picture of me when I was just a babe. But this pic rocks, don't you think?

For many, turning 21 is a momentous occasion. It’s a badge of honour of sorts, it means that you can vote, legally step into a bar, pub or casino without having to resort to using fake moustaches and ugly Hawaiian shirts that were made in Hanoi. You are now fully responsible for your actions. Whatever you do now will reflect on you till the day you die.

In short, turning 21 is grossly over-rated. But it sure is loads of fun.

It was only last Friday that it dawned on me how much I’ve grown as a person. Or rather, how old I’ve become. My friend, who was celebrating her 21^st birthday, had her close friends and family invited by her boyfriend to her surprise birthday bash. I along with Fillit made our way to the swanky and expensive-as-heck Japanese restaurant located at the most haughty and poor-feeling inducing mall in the country with high hopes of having a great time. After almost being strip-searched by the rather overzealous Laotian waiter at the entrance, we were escorted to the booked room, where on the way the smell of awfully fresh seafood was making Fillit and me queasy. When we finally reached the room, the first thing that came to my mind was: who are these young boys and this rather large girl with a rubella mark that resembles a splattered egg? Providentially, I saw the birthday girl otherwise I would have stormed right out. With a plateful of oysters, no less—after all, I was hungry. After the party, we then left to have drinks (read: drinks to make birthday girl drunk) at a more fitting location (read: away from the parents).

Located at Sri Hartamas, once a terrific place to hangout and be seen, it is now a haven for wannabes and pretentious show-offs. It never fails to leave me with a smile on my face. On this occasion however, it also made me chuckle derisively. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that if you were there, you would have thought that this was an outing for wide-eyed, pimply kids who have not seen the city at night, led by three (yours truly, Fillit and the boyfriend) nonchalant, booze-crazy child-minders. And we aren’t even booze-crazy. The birthday girl’s friends, to put it mildly, were so nerdy and innocent-looking it made me look like a seasoned pompous git. And I’m no more than 3 years older than them! The way they handled themselves; the grating, raucous laughter; the childish banter; it all brought back fond memories of when I was their age. I looked at Fillit and said, “Damn, we were exactly like them albeit with much better looks.” He nodded sagely and continued looking at the pretty girl wearing the cowgirl getup.

I used to think I was cool when I was 15. Monstrously wrong. At 18, I thought I was king of the hill. Horribly, ghastly wrong. When I turned 21, damnit, I’m the Supreme Emperor of the Universe! But with a few days remaining as a 22-year-old, I feel lucky. Lucky to have a great family, wonderful friends and a future that doesn’t have Celine Dion songs in it.

This year marks the first time in my life where if I could care less about my birthday, I would. By the way, have I already mentioned that this Saturday is my birthday? Anyway, I was never one to celebrate the day I came into this world. If I had known how crappy the world would turn out I think I would have stayed inside my mom’s uterus. He. He.

Rather gross joke aside, the last 5 years have been a real ride. The day I turned 18 was the day the Chris that you now know was beginning to blossom like a pretty flower. Before this, I was just any other ordinary kid who liked nothing better to do than to laze around and be with my friends. Heck, I’m still am that kid albeit with a much better vocabulary, sense of direction, fashion sense (I think), and just as parsimonious as ever.

Plus, I’m also much handsomer now.

This is a 22-year-old, soon-to-be 23-year-old Chris, signing off.

PS: I welcome presents in the shape of metal CDs, jazz CDs, books (none of that feel-good books, thank you!), supermodels and of course, wishes.