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…

Like, oh my gosh, I likes pink!

Caveat: this is my attempt at writing a girly girly post. Sue me if I get it wrong. Actually, please don’t.

A day that sucked. I hates that!

Fcuk! I broke a nail. And it wasn’t even long! WTF! The stress, TEH STRESS!!!LOL

Alright, I went to the mall with mai gurls and we just saw the latest handbag collection from Coach and I must say this:

IT’S SUCKS!

Like, c’mon, who’s gonna buy that shizz huh? It’s so gawddarn fugly! The colours are all out man. Black and pink was sooooooooooo yesterweek.

But on a different note, I saw that cute guy again. Man, he makes making coffee an art for true aficionados such as me (ooo, so modest I am!). He’s oh so cute and yummy. He’s a godsend. And what a name too.

His name is Chris.

PS: Rihanna rwks!

Phew! Enough already!

I was going to try and come up with a whole girly post but the more I kept thinking like a girly girl, the more my never-had-before-migraine kept bugging me. And my manness started to take a big hit in the clothing department. Seriously, some of these girls are so ditzy, it actually surprises me sometimes that they’re actually Malaysian and not a blonde American girl called Britaney.

The last few days have been pretty much slacktastic. (Boss, if you’re reading this, I’m doing the report right now. Really.) Been doing my work lightning fast; I’ll get my reports done in the morning and solve any ad-hoc issues with as much pace as a tennis ball aimed at your head. The days go by really quick when I’m busy and they go even quicker when I’m trying to be busy. Hmm…Anyway, I’ve stalked checked numerous blogs by girls (aged between neurotic and silly), and by Jove, they are sickeningly saccharine, the colours are epilepsy attacks waiting to happen.

And they all feature bountiful amounts of pictures!!!

Topics vary from boys to food, bitchin’ to booze to whatever a girl does. It’s really interesting. Like this one blog I chanced upon: the girl’s about 20 and she goes to a party, and she gets hammered. She laughs about it by writing a million LOLs, saying she shouldn’t have eaten so much chicken wings. And laughs again, this time with ROFLs and a couple of profanities. Then I click on her friend’s blog and guess what? She’s drunk as well! And is laughing with the same three letters!

Okay, this post is starting to sound like a diatribe on crack. A blog is a personal thing and people blog about things that are true to them. That I get. But what I don’t get is how can these girls rehash the same thing over and over again yet still make it—I’m going to regret this later—interesting? Hmph. I’m just being my cranky, irascible self, aren’t I?

I started this blog as a means to let loose my inner thoughts. The writing then—if you are willing to read drivel of the highest order—does not reflect the current incarnation’s leanings. Which is good, if I may so.

LOL.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: To lose is one thing, but to lose because someone gifts you the winning blow, it’s something that’s really hard to stomach. Much like green tea-flavoured steaks.

The day Chris went to court and the week of oddity and non-torment

No, I wasn’t under arrest because I accidentally pushed an old lady down a flight stairs.

It was an old man. Hah!

Jokes aside, I went to court for the first time in my life to settle a few family matters last Tuesday. (On Monday, I went to the dentist’s five years since my last visit. The dentist said my teeth were nice!) Again, nope, none of my relatives are dishonest enough to commit CBU. It’s funny that when you say you have to go to court, people would either assume you’re going there to:

a) Free an incarcerated cousin who was at the wrong place and time or

b) You’ve been charged with possession of some funny-looking toys. And I don’t mean the children variety.

Funny how much Law & Order re-runs can affect the mind.

Located at the other side of the world where I live, the journey to court took approximately an hour. My family and I arrived two and a half hour early. The case itself? Let’s just say that my warm-ups take longer (read: not that long at all!). It was that short! Only my sister was required to be present in front of the assistant to the judge person, and there I was with my mom, all dressed up nicely and smelling of food (the cafeteria food was horrendously pungent). All the worry, all the doubt and all the sleepiness (we all woke up at 5 a.m. to beat the dreadful morning rush) was gone in three minutes. By then I was hungry and strangely craving for a burger.

While waiting for our lawyer, I dozed off. In a really small and smelly chair. If you must know, I’m training myself to doze on command. I did wake up sporadically to shift my position lest I want my neck to be in a 44 degree angle for the rest of the day. I also saw my first prisoners. They were chained with the police were escorting them. Behind them all, were the families of the accused, solemn and silent. It was at that point that I said to myself, luckily I have a job.

As were heading home, when things look like they were getting brighter, (the weather certainly did) we got into a massive traffic jam. Fate sure does have a wicked sense a humour.

Went back to work on Wednesday, and while everything seemed familiar, they also seemed out of place. For example, the laptop where I do my work. The keys were all there, none of them missing (why would they go missing in the first place?) but hitting them felt weird. I’ve been working almost non-stop since the New Year, covering all the public holidays since. So to take two days off and coming back felt irregular.

Thursday came and just as I was about to finally settle down and get back into the (torturous) groove of work, I was hastily called into training. As one by one the initial participants pulled out, others (the ones with not much work, hehe) were called into the board room to replace them. Since the training lasted two days, out of 3 days I was in the office, I only did a day’s worth of work. Those who attended got free lunch (read: fast food, urghs) and two days of non-work. Our 10-minute breaks were actually 15-minute breaks. We laughed and joked even though the trainer was a very nice old woman but I knew that if we were overly enthusiastic we would suffer the wrath of a nefarious sorceress. I must lay off the fantasy books, I know.

And what was the training all about?

Professionalism.

It was a very tiring week, what with me driving all over the damn country and then getting work done and clearing some more family matters. The only thing that could make it better would be a date with Kristen Bell.

Yeah, right! Have a great weekend, y’all!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Manchester United better win it tonight. Or else I’m going to be really, really upset next week.

They’re out there. Somewhere. Hopefully not there.

Space Kitty will invade your world!!!

George Lucas must’ve been an odd little fella growing up. And I don’t mean his goitre. Was he a typical geek who would be in a world of his own during class? Did he make all the noises of a Deathstar destroying a planet? Actually, who cares? I certainly don't!

Ever wondered what lies beyond the stars? Are we alone in this cosmic universe or is there an invisible spacecraft encircling the Earth as we eat our roti canai? (Something like a tortilla, only tastier. And a lot more fattening.) What if we are attacked by aliens seeking to destroy Earth because it’s in their way and that they want to build an intergalactic highway like in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Do they have huge bulging black eyes, a slit for a mouth and when they speak, they do it directly to your brain? Are they humanoid and share the same look as us but are much smarter than that average know-it-all you’ve always wanted to push down a flight of stairs? Or do they resemble Jeri Ryan from Star Trek: Voyager? (I so wish that.)

I wasn’t one of those kids who grew up wishing he were an astronaut or a space traveller of sorts. I’m not sure why, I mean, I grew up watching Star Wars, Star Trek, and many other space-themed shows (Mork and Mindy bored me to tears). Heck, I was even the youngest member of the local chapter of Geeks United Star Trek before it sadly got decommissioned. Yet, I never developed a strong fascination for it. I was more into fantasy (and still very much am): knights in shining armour, princesses with big bosoms (ahhh), wizards with grey beards who spoke in riddles and in cryptic tones, smarmy dragons with jewellery fetishism, and liberal doses of magick to save the day. It’s no wonder why I quite fancy women with pointy ears (damn elves, why do they have to be so sexy?).

Movies like Independence Day (Jeff Goldblum once again rocks as the intelligent and witty geek who helps to save the world from aliens nowhere smart as he) and Signs (the buildup was immense, the ending a total shitfest), whilst highly entertaining, merely perpetrate the notion that, if aliens were to launch an all-out assault in the hopes in of annihilating the human race, we would be able to defeat them with the power of our imbecility and ignorance. Look, they travelled all the way here from God knows where, therefore I think their technology is definitely better than Intel’s. Sometimes hope won’t save the world, you know!

To me, there’s definitely something more to the stars, planets and the Milky Way. We can’t be the only “intelligent” (for want of a better, more appropriate word) beings. Do aliens have religion? Do they have their own pontiffs? Do they have currency? Do they have Alien Idol? Do they *GASP!* have intercourse? These are questions with no straightforward (heck, I think there are even crooked ones) answers or at least ones that won’t be discovered at least in my lifetime.

Is the cosmic universe governed by aliens in fancy dresses? As long as it’s not sequin.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I do not doubt the existence of life outside our world I just doubt them aliens are prettier than us. An alien equivalent to Angelina Jolie with two extra eyes and arms and legs? Yikes!

I am not good. Or so my 5 vices tell me.

This post is a meme that was bequeathed to me by a dear friend who shall remain anonymous to my regular readers but will always be remembered fondly as the most exuberant person (trapped) on a tiny island that has the worst Hokkien Mee EVER.

Here they are, in no particular order except by overall badness:

• Diffidence and flatulence are a deadly combination

I am my own worse enemy. If you don’t talk to me, I won’t talk to you. If you don’t smile at me, I’ll deny your existence. Simple, no? Does that make me an arrogant git? I hope not.

• I worry too much it should be illegal. I think it is a crime in Mongolia.

I have this habit of wanting to do things right the first time. Like, for instance, brushing your teeth. No one in their right mind wants to brush their molars twice in a space of 3 minutes, yes? I’d bite my nails (well, lick them since I don’t want ugly fingers), pull my hair (none to begin with), shout some incoherent ramble before I realise that I didn’t have to worry at all. Shit. I will excogitate (excellent word!) over and over again until my brain hurts so badly that when the splendid rays of wake up, foo! hits me, I would’ve wallowed in a swamp of self-loathing so deep, I would be now one with the Swamp Thing.

• I can be quite mean. Meaner than you would imagine.

Under the guise of a dim-witted yet rather strapping young lad, hides a guy with a sinister streak. Yes, I have the predilection to be rather nasty—sometimes bordering on the uncouth. I, for the most part, do it to illicit giggles. I do know when to draw the line. It’ll be a bit off tangent sometimes, but I do try my best to keep it as straight as possible. I’ve always been nippy when it comes to unleashing witty retorts. Have I gotten into trouble for being a potty mouth? I don’t remember getting walloped by a mob so the answer is no. I really hope not. I just combed my hair. Wait, I don’t have any. Drats.

• Thanks to the Big Dude, I’m Pedantic and not Panicky.

Situation: Sticking my head into a hole which is so obviously not meant for me. This is something I have to work on. Really work on. Composing emails is one of many, many foibles. A simple one sometimes would suffice, but not for me. Oh no sirree. My emails are like friggin’ dossiers for sanity’s sake! Subscribing to pedantry has led me to some pretty awkward moments not withstanding the fact that it also has gotten me into trouble. Need I elaborate? Not this time!

• Vindication against those who have wronged me. Yes, I’m talking about you, you old fat bat of a woman.

I think this vice is a ‘nuff said one. All right. Maybe a short description will do. Scene: crowded bus stop. A sea of stinky, mostly fat women are sitting on impossibly comfortable “seats,” waiting for the bus to arrive. Me: standing upright whilst trying to look cooler than cool but failing miserably because my fly is down. Bus arrives, stinky fat women rush. In the process, they try to push me. I’m a head taller and built like a (small) bull. Bus door opens and BAM! I push them stinky fat women aside.

And a bonus one, which is not so much a vice but more of a transgression, if I may say so:

• Intolerance towards blatant rudeness and its ilk

If you’re going to use the F-word or any other profanity, make absolutely sure you mean it. Don’t just say it just because it’ll make you cooler. I’m no stranger to being profane but to do it in the office? C’mon, let civility reign for 7 and a half hours then you can cuss all you want.

To be absolutely frank, this was difficult. It really took me awhile to come up with this post. Not because I think I’m angel (I am, ask my grandmother) but trying to find something bad about yourself is like trying to get a politician to say sorry.

I hope I don’t end up as a politician. Have a great weekend, people!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: This post is open to any one if they have the guts to write about their vices.

Duffy – Rockferry

I am, by and large, not one of those people who say, “Oh, I listen to everything.”

It’s utter bollocks.

No one listens to everything. Because if someone actually did, they would list polka as music that is Nice to Listen to Whilst in the Company of Old Folk with IBS. I am first and foremost a metalhead that is (somewhat) open to other genres. Polka is definitely not one of them.

What we have here is Duffy. Nope, this is not Sean Combs consolidating his previous moniker of Puff Daddy into a simpler one but still outright inane. And if he did, he wouldn’t use this. Duffy is apparently the winner, oops, sorry, runner-up to the Welsh version of Pop Idol. Yes, no one I know watches it, so I can’t vouchsafe anything. But she must’ve impressed Jools Holland enough for him to let her sing on his (rotten) show.

Distant Dreamer is a nice ditty that shows the softer side of Duffy. What am I yammering about, they are all slow! It’s not Corrine Bailey Rae slow, thank God. It’s one of those songs about dreams that actually work, because the music doesn’t annoy me with annoying accompaniments like saxophones and xylophones.

By now, you would have heard Mercy. This is a song that evokes 70’s soul set in a modern tone. Well, any song in this day and age that tries to sound like the past sounds modern but not that modern. Kind of like Joss Stone without the excessive Yeahs and Oohs.

The title track is reminiscent of Distant Dreamer, in terms of speed and overall atmosphere. Nothing new here, really.

Serious could have been released in the 70’s and it would’ve been a hit. Add in some Bee Gees runs and falsetto, this would’ve exploded the scene. But the only people who would like this would probably serious people. Get it? I certainly didn’t.

Warwick Avenue speaks of love lost. That’s what I think. Still, it’s a nice song with some soulful runs.

I love the fact that she doesn’t try to hit high notes higher than the Petronas Twin Towers. There’s control and a real sense of optimism. Duffy is of the same breed as one Amy Winehouse. Both possess distinct voices. Both sing with a certain swagger only heard in 70’s soul music. Both are actually worth listening to.

At least until the next girl with that certain 70’s swagger comes along. Hopefully she won’t polka-fy anything!

If you’re gonna strut, ya might as well strut with panache

Picture this: maybe not-so-slim dude drops his towel. Oops then turns to ewww.

The only time a guy is fine with seeing another guy’s nekkid bottom is in the locker room of the gym. I can see the crack of a smile on your face. Pardon the pun. Thank you.

Anyhow, I’ve been going to the gym for almost a month and half. I feel and look good. I keep telling myself that because no one does. I wonder why. I go to the gym every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Or more easily known as The Entire Damn Week ‘cept on Wednesdays. It sounds excessive. It is. But I’ll tell you why I do it. Because I want to, and theoretically speaking, I pay about RM11 for every one of them 4 days. So far, I’ve only used the machines and the weights. I haven’t used the spa or have partaken in any of the classes. I’d love to join the yoga ones, though. Very flexible the women are, and their outfits seem awfully tight. Hmm.

The parsimony is strong in me, I know.

A typical 1-hour-or-so workout session:

First 10 minutes: Treadmill. I would normally scan my surroundings while jogging at about 10km/h for any pretty lass and at the same time trying to not fall on my face. Burns loads of calories, it does.

Next 5 minutes: Some machine that supposedly tones your thighs. It makes me look I’m giving birth to an elephant.

Short break: It’s “Strike a pose whenever mirror is in view” time!

Next 5 minutes: Another machine with strange handles designed to sculpt your shoulders without the need for 80’s shoulder pads. Its seat is normally warm at this point. People have warm bottoms. Hmm…

Next 5 minutes (what’s with 5 minutes?): I would probably be gasping for air now.

Next whatever minutes: I’d finally go up to the weights section. Over here I do a couple exercises where the emphasis is not on working out, but rather, trying to not embarrass myself. For instance: not dropping the bench press bar on me. Or someone’s toes.

Last minute or so: I do a few stretches, stalk a couple of cute girls and then leave.

For those with better math, you would have noticed that it all doesn’t add up to an hour.

If you’ve been as regular as I, you will notice the other, um, regulars. First up, there’s Dork, who for some strange reason, wants to challenge me. Of all people, he had to pick me. Compared to the trainers, I am but a clown fish swimming in a school of barracudas. But whence compared to me, Dork is nothing more than fish fry.

Next we arrive at Ms. Gawddamn Cute. I swear, I nearly dropped the weights I was at when she passed by. But I haven’t seen her lately, could be because I’ve changed my time. Or she’s stopped coming altogether. I think I creeped her out.

Finally, we come to my favourite: The Clothes Hanger Man. He struts with about as much grace as a hyena eating with a knife with no fork. He keeps doing the same exercises over and over again. And over again. While I’m one to talk about muscle definition (I have nothing), the dude is pretty small considering he pumps weights twice mine. More power to him, though. Whoopee.

So that’s that. I’ve always maintained that to workout effectively and consistently, you must firstly be dedicated and have the discipline of a bald monk with nice trousers. Working out is for yourself.

Happy exercising, people!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: No gay men were hurt in the writing process of this piece.

And...?

The banners have been taken down. Some of the luckier ones (the “losers’” banners) can still be seen gently flopping blithely whenever there’s a cool breeze. Numerous gasped at the results (read: Samy Vellu and friends @ Semi Value), left in shock, some of them were. A good number were overjoyed with the results (read: people not supporting Samy Vellu @ Semi Value). Others felt something more. The people have celebrated in their own quiet way while some have done so in various ways that I don’t even want to repeat it here.

The ruling party has been dealt a big blow. A blow so crushing it left the cockier ones ashamed, their tails tucked underneath their bums and the not so smarmy ones despondent and in disbelief. They knew they were going to go up the opposition, the same opposition that had been gathering massive support right up to the final second of elections. Even I, Nonchalant Chris, was busy refreshing the webpage of one of the country’s premier no bullshit news site. Even my family were flipping the channels for the latest news of any kind. Friends were sending SMSes advising to not go out for fear of riots and the occasional Festival of Throwing Teargas into Illegal Gatherings.

Things have slowed down considerably. The fervour that once gripped the nation has been replaced with more a calm and collected vibe. It is now time for action. The opposition are making a difference. Or so I’ve been informed. The papers these days…

Passion for whichever fascination is an intrinsic essence of a person’s being. You either are born with it or you have to cultivate it. In any case, like all good things, having too much passion for something can be bad. It can blind you. I’m not saying that if you had a fervid fixation of knitting it will blind you (careful now with the giant needle thingy), I’m just saying that you need to relax and see if YOU like it if someone comes up to you and says that your passion stinks and that you stink and that you should get deodorant while you’re at it. And it hurts more if it came from someone you know, respect, love and all that jazz.

I will exercise my right to vote one day. Maybe the next one I will do so. Maybe the one after it. I don’t know. I do know this: I didn’t vote this year because I just didn’t want to. It’s as simple as that. It wasn’t because I didn’t like this politician (I don’t like any of them) or that one, I just decided that my time was better spent at home with my family.

Yeah, maybe some of us are wusses (hmm? why exactly ah? I honestly don’t get it). You could say that Father Apathy got the better of us.

I must say this, though : apathy feels like eating pancakes. I’m hungry already.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: To those who voted, good on ya. To those who didn’t, there’s always the next time…

C’mon y’all! Let us be votin’! For nothin’!

There’s a strong profundity in the air. It smells vaguely like lies. This is, of course, only natural when the general election is around the corner. A very sharp corner, if I may add.

Malaysians have a very emphatic, often bordering on the inane outlook when it comes to the elections.

I am not one of them.

Make no mistake about my insouciance; it’s not that I don’t care at all, I just could not give a shit whatsoever. Not right now, anyway. I’ve got facials to go to. But seriously, this would be the first election that I will “miss” and it will certainly continue well into my later years. You see, I was brought up to respect people, to treat them as equals. Politicians treating people fairly is like asking a lion to treat a young gazelle with a bit more care. Maybe it could gently pat its tiny head before ripping it to burger-sized young gazelle. Yum.

Promises and politicians go hand in hand like butter on margarine. Let’s take a look at Barrack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Both are excellent orators. Both seem genuine. Both are minority of sorts (Barrack’s black and Hillary’s a woman, in case you’ve stuck your head under a rock in Timbuktu). Both are salespeople of the highest order. This is something none of the politicians here in Malaysia have:

The ability to charm the Victoria’s Secret undies off you.

They can talk, all right, but can they convince? Can they convince me, an irascible poser of a strapping young lad, that what they say is nothing but the absolute truth? I’ve watched lots of Law & Order so I think I have a pretty good radar for detecting liars. Maybe our politicians should Youtube the American presidential elections. They could do with a bit more improvement. Especially in the clothing department. I’m sure the pantsuit will ignite the inner pantsuit-wearing makcik’s senses.

The newspapers have nothing but elections, elections and sometimes erections of a non-sexual nature, in their daily content. This has been going on for the last two weeks or so. What happened to good ole cops and robbers? Or some poor kid, who after repeatedly told to not play with matches, burns down not only his house, but also his friend’s house and a few more neighbours within the vicinity of his stupidity. And my personal favourite: a “boyfriend” who was so nice to a girl, bought her nice things and all, and has decided to circulate naughty naughty pictures of them eating ice-cream with nothing more than the wrapper on the World Wide Sordid Web.

Everyone knows the current majority will win. The opposition know it. Even my grandmother knows it. Yours might, too. But it has to be said that this year’s elections has a different atmosphere from previous outings. It’s hard to explain exactly what it is but I’ll try to make it as simple as possible. The people are no longer stupid (some are still stupider than germ, but, hey, no one’s perfect, right?), and they want results. Real, tangible results. They’re tired of the same speech about bringing equality to all. They want it realised.

As for me, I have a facial to go to. All this election talk is making my face tight around the cheeks.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Vote wisely, people. Don’t vote for someone who promises the stars but ends up getting you Starbucks. (Horrible joke, I know! Bleh!)

Give me a cuppa any time

I wish you could smell it.

Not my fart, duh!

Mmm. It is the unmistakeable smell of freshly brewed coffee. There is nothing quite like it. I also love the smell of anything that is tea. I am Asian and my forbearers enjoyed colonialism by the British, after all. (I thought I’d stir up some uncomfortable sentiments. I think I failed miserably.) It is said that if coffee were to completely be wiped out from the face of the planet, life as we knot it would plunge into bloody pandemonium and ultimately, Hell on earth would come true. Tea, while it contains caffeine, has such a trifle amount compared to coffee that people would end killing each other over green tea.

Most purists would scoff at the idea of having coffee at Starbucks or Coffee Bean (I thoroughly dislike Coffee Bean, though) because these are the “fast food” versions as opposed to sitting in a dinky, dingy coffee house or tea parlour. I stick my tongue at them. I love coffee, and good coffee is good coffee no matter where it’s from. While coffee is premium business here— a small cup of coffee costs about RM7.16 (give or take the odd cent)—people are still bonkers over the delectable bean.

I grew up drinking coffee. I attribute my affinity for blacker than black coffee to my father. Every Sunday morning, my mom would make a pot full of the tar-like liquid for breakfast. A faint whiff alone would make me stop whatever I was doing, be it running with scissors or drenching my neighbour’s cat with hot water, I would grab my mug and fill it with the rich, dark liquid.

But as much as I love coffee, I’m not one of those people who must need their fix. I can go days on end, maybe weeks, without ever even thinking about it. I’ve also developed a taste for coffee without sugar. It took a while getting used to the bitterness but when I got used to it when I try to drink coffee with sugar now I feel that I’m drinking black sugar instead. The last week or so, I’ve felt really crappy. It was because I didn’t drink any form of coffee!

However, I do have the rare cravings for a nice cold mug of beer. Heck, even the occasional Baileys would do me good on a hot, sweaty day. But when I think about the cost of a single mug of beer or the unholy price of a single bottle of Chivas Regal, it is enough to put the idea out of my head before you can say, “Intoxicated you are!”

If I were to be stranded on a deserted island and the only drink of choice is a toss up between the most expensive liquor and instant coffee, I’ll take the coffee in a flash.

I’d rather be awake and hyper from all the caffeine than be drunk and eating my own vomit!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Starbucks all the way!

PPS: I’d like to take this opportunity (what do you mean “opportunity”, you moron! this is your damn blog!) and congratulate Syar for following her dreams. Good on ya, mate!

Be right back, folks...

Every time I try to blog, something else comes up and I lose completely my train of thought.

My train sucks.

I so want to write more but I just can't. I'm not going to give lame excuses, but I am going to give one anyway:

My blogging mind is under serious deconstruction. Hopefully the reconstruction will come soon.

I miss blogging.

This is Chris, signing off. For now...

PS: Tricep exercises are the bomb, yo!

If you think you’ve had a bad week, mine’s badder.

The weather here in Malaysia is so hot; I’m naked most of the time.

Yeah, right!

Wipe those salacious thoughts right away and let me treat you to a work of fiction. The story you are about to read is nothing more than someone’s imagination put into word.

There was this boy, right, who was really handsome. But his looks bear nothing to the story. Stop dreaming, pay attention. Anyway, this boy (handsome, many have said) is pretty much new to the job. Heck, he is new to the working world, having only worked a combined four months (2 and a half jobs, don’t ask, he won’t answer.) prior to this. He’s a happy-go-lucky kind of guy who prefers to be in a jocular (his word, not mine) mood as opposed to being in a foul mood only seen during mediaeval times. Which, coincidentally, didn’t have clean underwear. Or any for that matter.

The first month on the job was spent trying to understand what the job is all about; what to do right and what not to do wrong. In short, he learned the ways to not screw up badly. You can screw, all right, but you can’t screw too much. This was also the month where he was exceptionally busy. Busy trying to look busy, that is!

Second month proved to be the turning point in his blossoming career. Turned so much his head spun a 360 and came back a 359. This month saw him undertake one task after another, with nary a complaint except for the times when his tummy was faintly vexed by the lack of attention it was not receiving from its (dim) master. He picked up work where work needed and it proved to be a great month. It went so well; he didn’t feel like resigning the next day.

The third and fourth months were all about speed. As soon as a problem came about, he was always there, ready to pounce. But it was all for nothing, really. He may have been on the scene of the crime first, but the culprit would be too cunning, thus avoiding capture early. But make no mistake, justice prevails and the culprit would eventually be apprehended. After lunch, normally. You can’t fight crime on an empty stomach!

As 2007 was about to draw its curtain, many people decided to have their breaks. Long ones. It proved highly challenging to the young one (with a surprisingly matured (and very handsome) face, as many have testified) yet he reigned over his mistakes and whatnots. Christmas was spent with loved ones minus the presents from Ole Nick. Yes, my dear children of the cornflakes, the boy still believes in Santa’s naughty helpers.

And now we come to the end of the 5^th week. This particular week was significantly mellow. There was the occasional request to do slave work, but it was nothing the (handsome) boy couldn’t handle. Did I forget to mention that he’s the youngest in the office? And handsome, too. He’s finally going to get a short reprieve, which is something he desperately needs and deserves. After all, he has no plans to throw in his resignation. Not the month after this, anyway.

What a story. None of it is true, unless you choose to believe it, which still doesn’t make it true.

The handsome part, though, is absolutely accurate.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I love my new camera.

If my employer finds out I'm blogging in the office, I'll be fired...

But, at this moment, if I could care less, I'd win a Gold medal in the "I Couldn't Give a Shit" category.

I'm finding it increasingly difficult in coming up with Chris-worthy sentences, let alone whole blog posts. I blame work. It hasn't reached Stressdom level, yet, but if I don't manage my day-to-day work schedule now, I'll be—to put it mildly—righteously fucked.

And I thought life, for me, was going pretty well. I even bought meself some Hugo Boss cologne, too.

Fate/Karma/Whatever, you're a spoilsport.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Happy Thaipusam to all. Don’t throw coconut husks indiscriminately, yes.

It’s not even the end of January but I feel that 2008 has been a pretty long year...

Hmm.

Is it just me or does 2008 feel like the year of the hurricane?

Forgive me of my potentially portent opener, but gosh darnit, don’t you feel the same? The first week of January has gone by without as much as a hello. Work is slowly, surely and painfully starting to pile up. What was once hard is now easy and what was once easy I am now trying to make it as hard as possible.

I am, of course, kidding! I will try to explain as best as I can about what goes on during a typical work day.

Time	Activity/Things that make me look busy but I’m actually on Facebook!*
06:15	Wake up. I wish I didn’t have to.
06:24	Wake up. Again. Damnit, I love/hate the snooze function!
06:37	Eat my breakfast. And more often than not, I would take a dump soon after. Indeed, that was way too much information for you.
07:23	Get the feeder bus to the LRT (Light Rail Transit @ Stuck in a moving box with many other corporate slaves all trying to get to work without falling asleep) station without punching some poor sod’s face in.
07:58	Reach office. At this point I am by and large completely exasperated. Some people from the train really do stink.
08:00	I take yet another dump. Too much stinky tofu the night before really screws up the bowel system.
08:10	I officially start work at 9 but I like to start early. I would check my emails and try to resolve any outstanding calls (incidents, issues, problems, things that make me do work) before I begin doing my reports.
09:37	Short break. Which loosely translates to: snack time!
12:15	Lunch! Argh! Hungry!
13:15	Come back from lunch. By this time the mood for work is as strong as a spider’s web. In a class 5 typhoon!
14:00	Brush teeth. Yes, I brush my teeth at the office after lunch. So?
15:00	Try to stay awake. Seriously, I’m so sleepy by this time, it’s a miracle my head isn’t on the keyboard. Or on the floor.
16:00	Send out the last of my reports and look up SAP Developer Network or whatever for the latest in the world SAP (Slow And Painful).
17:26	Pack up. In four minutes, I’m gonna head back home and get into the bloody LRT again. ARGH! Stinky armpits! And not forgetting, fat women and their fat boobies on me!

That’s me during a weekday.

Pretty boring, huh?

I don’t go onsite, yet, seeing that my experience is only enough to do the basics and slightly more intermediate works. Work, in general, is good but tiresome, especially at around 3 p.m. onwards. That is when the people from the UK get up and decide, hey, let’s torture some poor Malaysian! For some strange, otherworldly reason, the English have difficulty in getting basic grammar and spelling correct. Yes, the English have English problems. How quaint. Bah, it’s bloody annoying! I have this OCD-ish habit of writing proper emails. I judiciously use the spell-check; I’m not shy to admit. I patiently check my grammar. I peruse over my paragraphs. But most importantly, I ensure that my English sounds superior.

Muahaha! Ha!

On a lighter note:

I’ve been on the job for four months! And counting!

This is the longest job I’ve had and I’m not even thinking of quitting come next Monday! I love it here; the people are nice and ever willing to help this dolt. I know I won’t be here forever, no way. But until the day where I part company, I’m going to savour every moment.

At least this beats me selling Canadian land!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Updates are sluggish, I know. A combination of work and lack of ideas is contributing to the slowness. I sincerely apologise. That’s why I need you guys to update your own blogs instead!