Thursday, September 8, 2011

No Rights for Men

Two former gulag mates of mine divorced recently. The news came like a bolt of lightning, for there was no indication of their marriage being on the rocks. Nobody knows the reason for their spilt. SK tried to speculate, saying that the both of them are as stubborn as mules. Chicken lamented their failed marriage and felt their pain – and that of their kid’s – keenly, for he had been down a similar path. I don’t know how they intend to divide the house and other assets. There is a good chance that the female will be awarded custody rights to the child. While their spilt may be amicable – at least it appears to be! – there is no doubt that the man will be the worse off of the two. He has to pay maintenance to his ex-wife and he will suffer the inconvenience the burden brings.

Our alimony law is ridiculous to say the least. Originally set up to protect the interest of women who had little means to support themselves and their children, it has become a heinous punishment meted upon the man for his inability to maintain the monstrous institution that is marriage. The blame cannot be totally apportioned to the man, for it takes the collective effort of man and wife to maintain their relationship, and by penalizing only the men, it is a tacit condoning of the women who have been derelict in their wifely duties and rewarding them with passive income for their mistakes. When a marriage fails, the woman has to share the blame.

Women are always the first to condemn men for their extramarital affairs, but rarely have I heard women castigating their own sisters for having a bit of fun on the side. It is a crime against humanity that a man who divorces his unfaithful spouse is legally obliged to provide his ex-wife monthly payments which she can use to splurge on whatever and whomever she likes.

These days, it is not uncommon for a woman to command earning power that is at least the equal of her husband. Why are women who are successful in their careers not ordered by the law to pay alimonies to their ex-husbands, especially those who are worse off financially? Women like to think they are assertive. They go incessantly about ‘girl power’ and complain about non-existent glass ceilings in their careers, and in generally rave and rant about their rights and demand privileges befitting their esteemed sex. They want to be treated equally as the men, but when it comes to fulfilling the responsibilities which such equality demands, they shirk and make excuses. In this stupid shithole of a country, men have to waste two years of their youth serving in the armed or civil forces. Our women don’t appreciate the sacrifices we make. They think just because we are born with something dangling between our legs, it is our goddamn duty to protect them and this Gehennian shithole. They never consider the fact Israeli women have been in combat roles since the independence of their country and if they can pick up weapons and fight, why can’t they? Perhaps our women are lousy?

I was told that in China, a law which denies women the right to demand their share of their ex-husbands’ assets in the case of a divorce will come into effect soon. Say what you want about the Communist regime and their scant regard for human rights and their corrupted and draconian socio-economic practices, but they haven’t done anything wrong when it comes to marriage. Mao once said, “Women are capable of holding up half of the heavens.” True, he may be a mass murderer, but what he said about women (at least in this regard) is definitely spot on. I see China’s move to give equal rights to women a step ahead. I would even call this initiative The Great Leap Ahead. Equal rights for women should not come at the expense of unequal rights against men. Since our insignificant shithole is becoming increasingly a provincial city of China, I say we follow the Motherland’s example. In fact, I would even argue that women who are financially better off than their men should be legally obliged to give their poor ex-husbands alimony! The hyenas in AWARE should for once, support good sense and equal treatment between the sexes, instead of being shrieking terrorist thugs whose sole purpose in their miserable existence is to deny men their inalienable rights.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Mission Failed

On the last night of the fasting month, I met the Liang brothers for slop in GL. The Teacher was held up at his gulag and while waiting for him to get his ass down to the train station where we were meeting, the Scholar and I shot the shit. We hadn’t seen each other for months. From his rounded belly, it was obvious he’s put on a bit of weight. He said I got thinner, which was spot on. I soon narrated my horrible experience at my gulag and the harm it had inflicted upon my body and state of mind. He looked only slightly stunned at my vehemence and description of the inhumane environment I found myself in. He should work there; it would be an eye-opener for him.

The Teacher arrived and I led us out of the station. The air, dampened by humidity from the earlier showers and the coming of night, was heavy and cold. There were several cockroaches of the two-legged variety sitting or squatting on the muddy grass patches next to the station. I can never understand these blackamoors. It is bad enough as it is that they are dumb enough to worship cows. They have to go further and imitate their deities’ bovine behavior. Why stop at just resting their unwashed asses on the grass? Why not eat the grass, shit on the grass, and then die on the grass as well? India: seven thousand years of history, seven thousand years of bullshit.

As I led my companions to the Holy Land, I delivered an introduction of the night’s activities and expounded on the magnificence of the Holy Land. As we neared the Holy Land, my spirit soared and my body, wrecked by a nasty bout of flu, felt invigorated. We soon made our way to the bridge which served as an informal divider between this sacred piece of land and the mundane lands beyond, and onwards we went, to the first coffeeshop. They did not appear to sell frog leg porridge so the three of us moved on along the stretch. The Teacher looked half-starved. I assured him that we would surely find a good slop house. He should put his trust in me.

We finally found a slop house after crossing and recrossing the road. The hawker told us we had to wait 40 minutes for the frog leg porridge to be prepared. In the meantime, the Teacher and I ordered side dishes and drinks from other stalls. Over our appetizers and refreshments, we talked about stuff related to Sinkieland.

Inevitably, politics came up. As expected, the Scholar voted for Traitor Tan. The Teacher already told me he cast his vote for the ‘high five’ guy and it was really amusing to see three people who voted for different candidates at the Presidential Erections sit at the same table. I started to explain to the Scholar how despicable Traitor Tan was and how the regime is turning its back on the people by its ridiculous immigration policies. The Teacher expressed his unhappiness at our new immigrants and how they, especially the PRCs, bring their entire families here and take up our resources. The Scholar’s response was idiotic to say the least and would have infuriated Buddha and Gandhi to the point of raving and spluttering lunacy. This is a bloke who does not believe that (i) Sinkies, who have to waste two years serving this stupid cuntry and return for reslavery every year, are disadvantaged compared to FTrash, who have no such obligations; (ii) our regime are spending our taxpayers’ money to sponsor PRCs for their studies and accommodation here (he thinks that the foreign students who are here on scholarships are here on their own academic merit). Iii) citizens should have greater privileges than permanent residents, who in turn should enjoy greater privileges than foreigners. He had (and still has) absolutely no idea why common Sinkies are having so much difficulty owning a home and why wages are depressed. He did not see anything wrong with a regime that does not take care of its people. He clearly believed that if Sinkies lose out to foreigners, who have an unfair advantage, it is their own fault.

I could just about murder him and if he wasn’t my friend and a genuine nice guy, I would have given this particular Cantonese a lecture in our prestige dialect. If we ever go to war, I wouldn’t mind sharing a ditch with him, knowing he’d guard my back with the loyalty of a well-trained dog. But seriously, what is the point of studying to Masters degree level and having shit for common sense and a zero grasp of reality? The Teacher added that things are so bad now he knew university graduates who earn less than $2,500 despite already working for a few years. I got a bit fed up and asked the Scholar this: if one fine day, his wife and kids are in need of money and an ah tiong asks him for money, whom will he give the money to? He did say that citizens and foreigners are to be treated equally and no preferential treatment should be given to citizens. He just shrugged his shoulders and I pressed on, telling him how important it is for you to take care of your own people first. I used a football analogy: if I see my teammate get targeted by the opposing team, I would definitely stand up for him and return the opponent some ‘colour’, Again, from the half-blank look, he didn’t quite get what I was trying to say. This is the problem when you pursue individual sports like martial arts and never take up team sports. In a tournament, a match, a conflict, I don’t care what. I may have issues with the people next to me, I may think that they are scum, but come Saturday night when we square up against the other bastards out on the other side, the scum on my side are my best friends and as far as I am concerned, my side always wins. Fucking simple principle. Perfectly elegant. Elementary my dear Watson, elementary.

Thankfully, for my sanity and our groaning bellies, the eagerly awaited frog leg porridge finally arrived and we dug in with relish. By this time, my throat had gone coarse from arguing and I could barely muster a squeal. The slop was quite good, by the way. The best thing about frog leg porridge is the sauce, which has the extraordinary effort of turning what is otherwise plain congee into something sweet and appetizing. We discussed the Presidential Erections briefly. The Teacher and I were quite surprised that his brother did not know about the hullabaloo involving Traitor Tan and his ‘defence scientist’ son. We also briefed him on the five roles of the President.

In time we finished our slop and there commenced my tour of the Holy Land. Now, I was in my element and I was keen to demonstrate my familiarity with the area. On the way to Darlene Hotel (Central Business District), I pointed out to them shops they could not easily find elsewhere. It is late at night and you decide you need a haircut. Where do you go? The barbers in the Holy Land open for business until very late. You can also get a tattoo, find sex toys and cheap clothes and handphones. The Holy Land is a MBA graduate’s wet dream. It exemplifies the best of entrepreneurship and the unyielding spirit and character that are the drivers for this marvelous attribute.

We reached the CBD in no time and my heart soared at the sight of the $100 cnspecs standing in front of Darlene Hotel. A line of half a dozen beauties - pretty faces, slim figures, snowy white legs and proud breasts – stood in varying poses of defiance and wantonness. They regarded us with amusement as we walked past them. On the railings nearby, men sat, smoked, shot the shit, and stared, each wanting to sate his wicked needs with his favourite of the bevy of lovelies decked out for sale.

I decided not to accost any of them. Gut instinct told me to go behind the hotel and there we saw two brazen hussies, one with boobs the size of big papays and a slutty look, and the other with smaller but no less magnificent melons, with a seductive demeanor. Their conversation ceased as I walked up to them. I regarded them and inquired the former of her price. $100 for a shot, 40 minutes, she said. I was really tempted. I turned to my friends. They were standing six whole metres away from me, which did not improve my assessment of their manly courage. I asked them if they were interested. No. I thanked the ladies and moved off with my mates. I did not know what the Hell the Teacher was doing. He was supposed to help me push his brother forward, as close to the ladies as possible, so better to elicit his interest and boost his confidence of talking to beautiful specs. The poor sod needs to let go of his chivalrous mindset of putting women on a pedestal and falling so much forward at their delicate feet he falls on his own sword.

We walked one round back to the front of the hotel, where the cnspecs were now talking to their OKT (relations manager). We went up the ramp. A few lovelies smiled at us. I grinned in response. My two friends, one married but inexperienced man, the other a totally inexperienced man followed, probably in rapt fascination at the wonders before their eyes.

This intrepid trio soon crossed the small street to the other side, where more beauties awaited. I stopped at one cnspec, who flickered her long artificial eye lashes at me, smiled and let my gaze fall upon her white creamy and generous cleavage. I asked her for her rates, at the same time hoping the two jokers behind me would close up and openly ogle her. I was disappointed in more ways than one. She said she could only offer me 30 minutes. I tried to joke with her, arguing that ‘behind they were offering 40 minutes’. She said it made no difference. I said it did. A bit of argy bargy, done in good spirit. In our brief flirting, the Teacher still had not moved his ass and his brother’s forward. Diu! What in the Hells were they afraid of? Getting raped by the cnspecs? I thanked her and like obedient puppies my friends followed. I sighed and explained to them the areas and their boundaries. We passed from the CBD ($100 street) to the Indonesian street. The Teacher made some comment about whoring being against their religion. I was not so much concerned about their religious hypocrisy than I was at my inability to get my friend to muster their tiny bollocks and go up to a spec to ask about the price. He is way too Inhibited. He needs to get used to talking with specs before he even thinks of hitting on them. And whores are the best to boost your courage. You go to a disco, tries to get lucky, gets rejected, and your confidence shatters to smithereens. A bloke, even an unimpressive one, as a thumb of rule, does not get dismissed by a FL (freelancer) so he can build up his balls from there. Here I was, bringing the horse to the water. The Teacher, who is the stable boy, commits a dereliction of duty by not dragging the horse to the water, and the horse does not even dare go near the water, let alone drink from it. Frustrating!

After passing through the Indonesian street, we arrived at the $80 street. There were surprisingly no specs so we proceeded to the $60 street, which was perpendicular to it. Again, we saw no specs. I decided to lead my friends to the fish tanks. The fish tanks along the main stretch seemed to be doing a roaring business. I saw small hordes of potential customers roam around or enter the establishments. Continuing my tour, I explained to the Teacher and Scholar the price ranges set by the various establishments. Pointing to the fish tanks across the street, I told them that the services could cost $80, while most of the ones on our side were in the $50 bracket.

Of course, a tour of the Holy Land would not be complete without going into a fish tank for a look and I brought my two clueless friends to a relatively quiet establishment. There were only two Thai specs behind the glass enclosure and they looked like fuck. The Teacher was a bit hesitant in following me and the Scholar remained outside, not even daring to sneak peeks until the OKT helped me usher him in. We looked at the specs a bit, thanked the OKT, and departed.

We continued to walk and I showed them the stretches in which the fish tanks could be found. The Teacher wasn’t sure which nationality the specs we saw moments earlier belonged to, which was a surprise, considering he had been to Thailand. The Scholar was totally lost. I said that most of the specs in the fish tanks were from Thailand, although Chinese ones could be found. (The Chinese ones are naturally more expensive, due to their superior exterior.) I also ran through with them the procedure about whoring: step 1 – pick the spec, step 2 – go to the room with her (room charges may apply), step 3 – both go naked, step 4 – she will do an inspection of you and check for mushrooms, aliens, and foreign objects growing on your person, step 5 – she slips on protection for you, step 6 – conclude the business transaction.

I also showed her where the Grand Mistress could be found. This extraordinary, plump middle-age woman, who never goes without her shades, sat at her customary spot in the Indian district. I told the brothers she is a mainstay of the place, a living icon. They could not fully appreciate the significance of such a figurehead and the emotional appeal of familiarity she adds to the Holy Land. Sigh! Substandard philistines!

The Teacher kept messaging on his phone, which was frustrating to see because I wanted him as a ‘teaching assistant to help facilitate his brother’s education. I had to go and thankfully we came to a coffeeshop, where the Teacher took a dump. I talked to the Scholar while his brother was conducting ‘bombing’. He said he found the cnspecs lovely but he did not want to have them, Neither did he see the point of getting close up for a better view.

The Teacher soon emerged victorious from his ‘air raid’ and I said that I would show them the $60 street across the main road. Along the way, the three of us had a discussion. To cover up his fear of talking to the whores, the Scholar muttered something about catching diseases and other cock reason. I said I saw no point why he didn’t dare to ogle them openly. The Teacher argued that these days, there is no guarantee your girlfriend or the chick you pick up at some club is ‘clean’. Many people do sleep already and very few are virgins. I don’t know what dumb reason the Scholar gave next, although it was certainly enough for me to ‘jio’ him for a session with the $100 specs after I have found a job. He declined politely. I felt he needed to break his duck.

We reached the other side, and upon espying a busty spec standing by the roadside, proceeded to ask her about her price. For the third time and the lust of Asmodeus, the two fellows beside me stood a good distance away! I sighed inwardly and led them farther down the street and to the carpark, where more of the $60 merchandise could be found. As the hour was late, I decided to call it a night, but not before showing them where the cheap ‘open until very late’ salon and the famous soy bean shop were.

The mission could not be accorded a success. Despite the great conditions and my efforts, the horse could not be made to drink from the river because (i) the stable boy failed to drag the horse to the water, and (ii) in spite of his thirst, the horse could not overcome its fear to take even a sip or water. The Teacher later told me subsequent attempts are needed. I believe that if I had a competent teaching assistant at my side – Chicken, Wonderboy, and my xtian friend come to mind – the horse could at least be led close to the water to make it want to sip.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Just Talk

My friend and I shot the shot over kopi yesterday evening and the topic of housing came up.

It is common practice for couples in Shanghai to purchase two units when they marry. They will stay in one and the other is for their child. With housing prices skyrocketing in most cities in China, it makes financial sense (from an individual, selfish, and narrow-minded point of view) to buy houses before their prices become so inflated in the future to the point of unaffordability. They will even take up long term loans to finance their purchases. However, this practice, when done en masse, inevitably jacks up the already steep property prices and possibly lead to the burst of the property bubble in the not so distant future.

Females in China appreciate two things in their potential mates: a house and a car in that order. If a guy there does not have either of these, especially the former, he can basically forget about getting a wife. Such are the depressing circumstances that compel many mainland Chinese to leave their country to work for better wages abroad. For them it is a win-win situation, more so if they come to our cuntry, which like a whore spreading her legs to anyone who can pay.

Let me illustrate my point.

A civil servant in China earns 3,000 RMB and a three room flat there costs 300,000 SGD (roughly equivalent to 1,500,000 RMB. Assuming our friend the civil servant does not need to pay any bills save the mortgage on this pricey pigeon-hole and interest rates and other factors are negligible it would take him 500 months, or 41 years and 8 months to pay off the mortgage (1,500,000 / 300,000).

Now, suppose he comes to this cesspit and receives the same amount of wages in SGD - yes, our cuntpanies based in this cesspit are now paying good wages to foreigners – and buys the same three-room flat here (the price is the same as its equivalent in China), it would now take this ah tiong 100 months, or 8 years and 4 months to finish paying the mortgage (300,000 / 3,000). If he decides that he’s had enough of our shithole, he can easily sell the 300,0000 SGD flat he has, collect his CPF money (if he takes up permanent resident status) at a jacked-up price, makes a profit of maybe 50,000 to 100,000 SGD, and then fuck off back home loaded. True, he may not easily afford a house in China, but short of being a banker/crook, where in the Hells can an ah tiong, or for that matter anyone, make such a hefty profit in such a relatively short span of time?

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Why I Left My Gulag

Below is an account of my precious stint at a gulag in some godforsaken industrial area in an obscure corner of this cesspit and the circumstances that compelled me to liberate myself from this Hellhole.

Misused and abused talent

What is a highly intelligent individual like me doing in such a crap place? This is a question I asked myself every day. I have a bloody degree in business and I am doing something unrelated to what I studied. It does not take even a bloody diploma/’A’ levels holder to do the shit I was doing. I should be doing accounting, sales, human resource, or any other thing that is business-related. It infuriated me to no end to see less educated people doing these jobs and it was even more galling to see how much more competent I could have been if I were in their positions.

I was hired to help with the documentation and I was not even given a bloody computer to work with. I even had to share a desk with my pathetic *superior*. Any employee would reasonably expect to be given a proper place to wok and proper tools to do his job. I had to voice out my demands at a meeting a month later before they even gave me my own desk (by kicking out the guy who was using it) and a computer. Sadly, the computer was not working and the IT guy came, saw, did nothing and left, never to be seen in my room again. It was highly insulting. The computer gathered dust at my desk and was still gathering dust on the day I left. I bid good riddance to the damn piece of junk and I hope it catches fire and explodes in the face of the sod who tries to get it to work.

Obviously my talent was not being properly appreciated. I was just wasting my precious time, stuck in a lousy job with lousy wages, working with lousy people, using lousy things, and doing lousy things. There was only one way and that was out.

Low pay and non-existent perks
I am a degree holder and in my job (if you can call it that), I have to work five and a half days a week and the rates they were paying me simply did not justify my hard work and worth. In addition, for the abuse I suffer, they should be paying me more.

In most companies, the thirteenth month bonus is guaranteed. Not so for this one. You are allowed to take medical leave after you are ‘confirmed’ at the end of your probation period, but the amount you can claim is only $25. If you fall sick during your probation period, it’s unpaid leave and you have to fork out the medical bills from your own pocket.

Also, there are no short courses or people development programmes in the gulag. The bloody management only believe in working their employees to death, so better to profit themselves.

Sheer exhaustion
From the moment I started work to knock-off time I had had no respite. Tons and tons of documentation required my attention and I had to help out clearing other people’s rubbish. I don’t know whether they really didn’t know or just acting stupid, but I found myself having to help the older staff navigate their way through the documentation. I could never finish my work because shit kept piling up. I was once asked to stretch a diagram of a big engineering item. One part of it was partially obstructed and to get the dimensions, I had to remove the fucking cotter pin that fastened the bolt to the structure so that I could take the measurement. Can you imagine a fucking office worker being made to do an engineering task and one that requires him to stand in slippery ground and contort his body?! Bloody Hells! This is just one of the pieces of nonsense I had to put up with and I lost at least five pounds in my ten weeks at this accused gulag!

Saturdays burnt
Having to work on Saturdays when most of my peers are on five day work weeks is depressing as it is. Imagine having to stay past the working hours stipulated in your contract. Contractual terms stated that the end timing is 12.30 pm but I found myself working until around 1.30 pm due to last minute jobs. I didn’t get overtime pay for this extra hour and I was quite appalled at this exploitation.

Dysfunctional conflicts
Every day things screw up and when things screw up, people screw one another. There is little, if any, respect among gulag mates. Verbal violence is the norm. People use colourful language on one another without thought. They do not understand how what ‘I’ll get back to you' means. Every damn thing is urgent. When people rush jobs, things inevitably screw up, tempers flare, and conflicts arise. It is like a war zone in my gulag. It is every bit as volatile as the Gaza Strip. Once a gulag mate from China got so sick of one of my sales staff that he physically attacked the whoreson. I nearly attacked the same bastard after he got on my nerves one too many times and if I hadn’t left the premises for a ‘count to 10, breathe slow and easy’, I would have walloped him and found myself in the dock. Things are so horrific that even on my last day, two drivers almost came to blows. One guy told the other guy what he thought in no uncertain terms and the twit retaliated by asking after the guy’s mother. This is ridiculous. Even school kids learn not to insult their opponents’ families and to hear fifty year olds commit mistakes not even school children make is disturbing.

Mediocre people
Most of my former gulag mates (including the management) are just incompetent. My gulag mates in the technical department did not know how to convert pounds to kilos, tons to kilos and other elementary conversions until I taught them. I was shocked they didn't know. One would reasonably expect a technical person, especially one who has been educated in a vocational institute to be able to do the things required of their trade.

The joker whom I was hired to assist with the documentation was the most hopeless excuse of a leader I had had the misfortune to work with, and I certainly encountered more than my fair share of cretins during my years of working! He was the leader of his department only by virtue of his long years at the gulag. None of his men give a fuck about him. They can lecture him, use sarcastic remarks on him and all his does is to sit and bear the abuse. If I didn’t know, I would have thought he practically basked in the abuse! Already despised by his subordinates, he also suffers lectures from the sales people on a regular basis. What a hopeless specimen! If I were him, I would have committed suicide long ago.

My administrative cum sales cum human resource cum what-have-you staff is made up largely of functional retards. Every time I received a document from them, chances were that it was riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes and poor formatting. The ones who appeared to be more competent in this regard were the girls who graduated from poly not so long ago, which spoke volumes of the inability of the older staff to learn and improve. There was an incident when shit hit the fan and the customer was pissed off at us. My lousy *superior* did not dare to call the customer to explain for something which was basically our department’s fault and the sales personnel, after listening to my explanation of what the Hells went wrong, asked us to explain. I had to draft an apology letter on paper - my computer was unserviceable – and then explain to her the gist of the situation and how my letter was crafted. Bloody Hells. You are in sales and you don’t know how to write something as simple as an apology letter. Pathetic.

The management is just as hopeless. In most companies, the management will be sitting in corner offices or upper floors. Not so for my former gulag’s. Being typical traditional Chinese bosses, they are very paranoid and mistrustful of their staff. They think that if they do not keep tabs on their employees, they will slack away. Their solutions to their lack of confidence in people are simple: install cameras and sit among their employees so that they are always within sight.

While their paranoia can be tolerated, their sheer incompetence is not excusable. They want to upgrade the gulag’s accreditations and to achieve this, they need to attain a certain level of conformity and quality in their engineering standards. However, the engineering standards are non-existent and slipshod work is often produced. This is equivalent to getting a toddler to sprint before it has even learnt to walk. The depressing part is that they knew of this deficiency and showed no sign of getting their house in order. They told us to do this and then, to write up work processes when they don’t even know what kind of standards to meet for the accreditation agency’s approval! I had to resort to referring to previous records - by some miracle they met ISO standards a decade ago - and tried to conjure some write-up which was more stringent but not necessarily correct. Being educated and one of the rare few who are competent in writing in English, I was the only one who was capable of writing such documentation. My clueless *superior* has terrible English, like the rest of his fellows in the department. I had no managerial support at all and I decided that it would help preserve my sanity if I just packed it in and left them to their own stew, which I did.

Monday, August 1, 2011


News reports have it that a grenade exploded during a live firing exercise. The poor conscript who was caught in the explosion had shrapnel in his right cheek, arms, and shoulders – he got off very lightly. He is now warded in the hospital and should leave (hopefully with a generous medical leave) in a few days time. The army is launching an investigation into this incident. They shouldn’t bother because any inquiry is pointless.

First, the ammunitions used in training schools are nearing their expiry dates. You cannot expect all of the ammo to be in top condition, even though they are still certified serviceable. The gun from which the grenade was fired was probably poorly maintained. When I was in the army, I had a rifle that was quite unreliable, jamming roughly once for every 6 to 10 rounds fired. I took it to the armourer for repair, but to no avail. The armourer was not very good either – I know this because he was my friend. Furthermore, when you subject a weapon to over a decade of rough use, it is bound to be a bit cranky. In addition, American designed weapons, while precise in their engineering, aren’t very durable.

Second, Sinkieland’s quality in the engineering fields has never been world-class like the Germans’. While the maintenance is passable, the design aspect of engineering is substandard. Sinkieland’s military has always mistakenly believed that it can take an existing prototype from say, America or Israel, and improve on it. Never once have they succeeded in proving themselves right. There is a ground-to-air missile system they purchased from the Israelis and they proceeded to augment it with French, British, American, and the Hells know where technologies. Not only did they fail to enhance its combat effectively, they ended up lowering its combat efficiency, with an increased downtime. I wouldn’t be surprised if they modified the grenade launcher. No saboteur would have done better than our idiotic paper generals and incompetent engineers.

Third, it is a known fact that the military outsourced a great part of its operations to regime-linked firms. With the’ I spread legs come fuck my loose cunt’ immigration policies, these firms are hiring more and more foreigners. While some are skilled at what they do, many others are just functional retards. Would you trust a pinoy, ah-neh, or ah tiong (most of the whole lot having dodgy degrees and almost none having any kind of military experience) to design and maintain weapon systems? I have another accolade. A friend of mine, who is currently in a state-owned military contractor, described to me the sheer incompetence of its engineering processes. Imagine manufacturing a combat vehicle and before documenting its technical procedures, compiling its engineering manuals, testing its efficiency and finally commissioning it, you send it straight to the army units for use. Over the course of a few months, the damn thing was sent back with over hundreds of faults, some from misuse, and others caused by lousy design. Given that Sinkieland manufactures its small arms, I am pretty certain that along the lines, someone must have screwed up the inspection.

This is a sorry episode but until our regime and those in top management face up to the fact that things are truly fucked on the floor and make serious efforts to stop the rot, another incident like this will occur again and very soon, by my reckoning. They will, of course, abdicate their responsibility and perhaps their arrogance will be a cloud in silver lining, for it will undoubtedly hasten the dissolution of this wretched cesspit.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Good Work!

I should receive the Nobel Prize for Literature for this!

The Philistine 17 July at 22:55

Dear Pretentious Twat,

From the utter drivel you have painstakingly written, I am incited to inflict on you extreme violence, having inferred that you are begging to have your gob smashed in. I have consulted my friends and I am certain they are right to offer this piece of exceedingly necessary and righteous advice. Before I depart for
Denmark, I may yet do this cesspit a good turn by eliminating a pretentious twat like yourself from the face of this planet. In my esteemed opinion, you are without doubt a blight upon the land, a shrieking and howling popinjay and a muddied orifice into which all the scum of the multiverse defecate.

This very real knowledge, coupled with the compelling desire of wanting to meet you for the express and delightful purpose of rearranging your face, has put me in a state of anticipatory elation. The 'paradoxical predicament' of 'To Meet or Not To Meet' goaded the creation of this dreadfully long and perhaps unnecessary proclamation of violence.

I must admit that I have also taken the interpretation of your friend request quite seriously - and warily - and so have entertained for some time of deciding whether to hire a hit on you or do it myself and dirty my hands. But it so happens that our legislation does not tolerate violence in any form and until the moment comes when I see your unimpressive face I cannot be certain if I would do the deed myself.

This indecisiveness I suppose we can see enacted in the local attitude towards sex I find in you and I believe you have plenty of experience in this regard in that your manhood, insignificant as it is, cannot be trusted to deploy its head on when to stand, or indeed, if it can made to stand. Surely, you realize the wretchedness of your condition is of no cataclysmic proportion and the world will revolve, life will still go on, and pigs will continue to roll in the mud regardless of your ability to effect an erection and to sustain it.

Hearing that you have known of my plans to go to
Denmark is the final straw for me. I am absolutely horrified that you may want to follow me and hound me like a lapdog. And when push comes to shove, I would like to push my foot up your thin ass and shove it deep inside until tears stream from your vacant eyes and you beg me for mercy.

And I suppose part of the reason as to the severe trauma I suffer at this moment by just thinking of meeting with you is the horrific tension of degradation that I fear may be imprinted on my consciousness and which will resurface every time I visit the toilet. Your orifice of a skull, and a numbskull at that, would remind anyone of a glory hole in the seediest swill hole.

Of course, to understand your nonsense requires the patience of Gandhi, the insanity of Kim Jong Il, and the perverse imagination of Albert Fish. I am sure that you have a lot to contribute to abnormal psychology and I urge you to check in as a permanent resident at
Woodbridge Hospital and give your body to science.

I end this letter by asking after your mother.

The Brain.

Important Questions I

There are some important questions one must answer before he is deemed to have achieved intellectual maturity. Due to time constraints, I will only post two of such questions. Over the course of my existence and this blog’s, I will be posting more.

Why are Sinkies physically unimpressive? Sinkies, especially the males, are really quite short. Most of the Chinese in my gulag are at least 1.7m tall but I estimate that only around half of Sinkies are as tall as their Chinese counterparts. Why? We have no shortage of slop in this country and hardly anyone ever goes hungry. In fact, our national pastime is eating and surely, our lack of stature is not caused by some cultural fad to be as thin as a goal post.

What about genes? Are our genes poor? It is certainly a possibility until you look at the mainland Chinese, HongKies, and Taiwanese, with whom our forebears shared the same ancestral home. They are not certainly short as we are or particularly physically unappealing. Surely it is not genetic.

Having eliminated genetics and nutrition from our consideration, we now turn our attention to geography. One cannot help but notice that the population in the SEA region are rather physically poor. Although I have no official data to aid in verification, I daresay that people in this region are the shortest and physically undeveloped in the whole of the world (excluding special cases like North Koreans and Ethiopians, as well as those unfortunate enough to exist in regions devastated by war and famine). There must be something in the water here. I firmly believe that if you want to produce children, you should get out of this country, leave this region, and bring up your children in a civilized country like Canada or Germany.

Why are some specs trying to be weather stations? I am sure you have encountered the breed. On Monday, they are nearly or as busty as Denise Milani, and then on Tuesday they are as flat as Joanne Peh. They are like the weather in Sinkieland. One moment sunny, the next rainy, pretty much like the mood swings of a woman on PMS.

I understand that some of the specs who are no as well-endowed as they would have liked, but surely they are taking the aided support a bit too far. The key is consistency. If you are an A cup and want some ‘enhancement’, at least have the common sense to push it only a size up and not change sizes like it is nobody’s business. Don’t push it up two sizes or more and then deflate it. It is like cheating and blokes notice it very quickly and we don’t like it. Instead of using wonder bras and padding bras that are about as thick as a breastplate, please go for bust enhancement. The thousands of doilars you spend on the procedure would be cheaper, in the long run, than the exorbitant amount you accrue from buying artificial paddings. And best of all, your guy will appreciate it when you have your private moments and everything is off.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Existence gets worse at my gulag and the rot shows no sign of stopping. Today my sales staff went crazy and issued work orders to my severely undermanned department. By knockoff time, the sole China bloke and a couple of his overworked mates were faced with around 15 work orders, some of which have to be completed by tomorrow. Even if they work through the night, there is absolutely no way they can finish everything. Understandably, the Chinese bloke, who has had to deal with the bulk of the mess today, ranted at my useless ‘superior’ of the injustice. He works the hardest, he said, but among all his mates he is paid the lowest. My *superior*, being the incompetent leader that he is, had no response to his enraged subordinate’s outrage. Tomorrow things will spiral into the deepest Hell. If I were the Chinese guy, I would ‘fall sick’ and see how they deal with the mess themselves. People only realize your importance when you are not around.

The Presidential Erection is set to occur somewhere in August. A three-corner fight is expected, with all three candidates having some kind of ties to the regime. To someone like me, who absolutely hates the regime, it is like choosing one of the following: Gawd, the deep blue sea, and the Fukushima power plant. I am contemplating spoiling my vote, but that would mean that I would have lost the right to complain if I discover later on that our next President is as useless as his predecessor. However, if I vote for one of the three candidates, there is every chance my choice will end up being another Prataman who is only good for collecting millions of dollars in salaries and bonuses for doing nothing. I am feeling quite stressed already as it is. I don’t need hard choices.

The Brain, the Lass and I went out last Saturday. Over slop the subject of Sinkies being marginalized by our regime came up. The Lass made some comments including the exorbitant prices of flats and other forms of suffering we endure under the scum in white’s ‘mandate’. One remark she made is particularly interesting. She said that maybe only a war can change things, and after the war we can start all over again. I am not sure if she was thinking of the courageous Libyans when she said that, but she has a very good point. Many others, if they heard her say such a thing then, might have dismissed it as immature nonsense that stems from the remnants of a rebellious adolescence. They would be wrong. Our country is stuck in a state of limbo, in which a caged individual believes he is free to act as he pleases. In one of her recent lecture, Aung San Suu Kyi said that a delusional sense of freedom is worse than blatant tyranny. An oppressed people, long frustrated at being persecuted, can be trusted to take up arms against their overlords. When you fight, you have a chance, no matter how small. But when an oppressed people believe that they are free and despite the hardships and injustices they endure under their oppressors’ rule, refuse to exercise their right to freedom because ‘the alternative is worse’, what chance have they? What chance have we? The recent Erections have only served as a reminder of our stagnancy, of our crushed spirits, of our willingness to take things as they are and suffer things as they come. There is no hope for gradual change in this cuntry. Only sudden, brutal upheavals will serve as a catalyst for change, to shock people into realizing that they are alive, and that they are capable of having feelings and aspirations, of finding things long stashed away in some forgotten corners in our hearts, of elevating our soul, and to feel energized and be humans and cease being some cog in a machine, some mindless automation in a factory. I, for once, would welcome an invasion. In war there is love. In love there is freedom.